The Time Roads

“It implies nothing of the sort. You can change a man’s potential after all. The future is nothing more than potential until it becomes our past—”

The argument broke out, louder and more strident than before. Ó Cuilinn scowled. My father shook his head, but made no effort to quash the debate. He beckoned Ó Cuilinn to one side. They stood within a half dozen steps from my alcove. One glance upward, and the man would see me, or at least my dim outline, but his attention was wholly upon my father.

“Tell me truthfully,” my father said, “how you believe to breach the walls of time.” And as Ó Cuilinn looked about to launch into a longer speech, he held up a hand. “In simple terms, please. I have dabbled in science in my youth, but I am no scholar.”

Ó Cuilinn offered my father a polite bow. “You undervalue yourself, Your Majesty. I know your reputation. Well, then, my research and my methods depend on time fractures. These are—”

“I know what time fractures are. Most scholars believe them to be a myth.”

“They are not. Or rather, I have uncovered certain historical documents that support their existence. My theory is that they cluster around specific events. If you provide me with funding, I can map the largest of these clusters and use them to send forward items. Of course I would also need to refine my calibrations for how far into the future…”

My father nodded, his expression noncommittal. By now, the noisy debate had died off. Clearly the demonstration was over. My father spoke a few final words to Ó Cuilinn, so softly I could not make them out. Then with a signal, he and his Court departed.

From my alcove, I watched Ó Cuilinn disassemble his machine into pieces and pack them into the same five crates. Though I knew he must be frustrated, or angry, he worked without hurry, carefully wrapping each item into paper sleeves, then packing them into straw and cotton. His were strong, deft hands, pale and beautiful in the fading November sunlight. A faint flush lingered on his cheeks. Now that I had the leisure, I could examine him freely. He was long limbed and graceful. His complexion was fair, his hair the color of pale straw, and fine. His eyes were of a blue so dark, they reminded me of thunderclouds. Not precisely handsome, but pleasing to look upon. I wondered if he had had many lovers.

Doubtful, I thought. A man like that—a scientist—could have only one obsession in his life, and usually that was his craft, not a woman.

He had done with his packing. Still he had not detected my presence, but then I had placed myself outside of anyone’s casual notice. It was a trick my mother had taught me, back when I was a young child. Watch first, she said, and then you will know how to act.

One by one, the crates vanished from the room—no doubt going back to the same hired van. Ó Cuilinn returned a final time and scanned the empty chamber, as though checking for forgotten items. The sunlight fell across his face, but his expression was hard to read. Discouraged? Or merely preoccupied?

The door swung shut. I counted to ten before I left my hiding place.

Only a half hour had passed since Ó Cuilinn had begun his demonstration, and yet the sun already dipped below the windows. The fire burned low; the air felt chill. Soon servants would come to sweep the floor and carry away the worktable. Soon my father would send for me, to ask me my impressions. Still, I lingered. I made a slow circuit of the room, sniffing. The burning odor had faded, but traces of it remained. The closer I approached the table, the stronger the traces were. The prickling sensation returned, as though tiny pins ran over my arms and neck.

Intrigued, I held my hands a few inches above the table. Where the octopus had sat, the wood felt pleasantly warm.

His demonstration was exactly like that of an illusionist. One moment, you saw the apple on his palm, the next it had disappeared. Hardly proof of a scientific discovery.

But he was so certain. And I am certain he could not lie, even if it meant his death.

Then I saw it—a shadow on the table. A clear, dark shadow, in spite of the fading afternoon light. I bent closer. Not a shadow, but a thin layer of ashes on the tabletop. Exactly where the bar had sat inside the machine.

My pulse beating faster, I touched a fingertip to the shadow. A film of dust clung to my skin. I tasted it. (A rash move, since several of my recent ancestors had been poisoned.)

The dust had the texture of fine grit, and a sour metallic flavor.

Was it rust?

Cold washed over my skin as I realized what I had consumed. This was not mere rust, but the remnants of a metal bar, corroded.

Very quietly, I brushed the iron flakes into my palm and closed my fingers around them. I felt as though I held the future.

* * *

A year and a month passed before I saw Doctor Ó Cuilinn’s name again.

My father had approved a grant for his research, and from time to time the King’s Constabulary sent reports on his work, but these went directly to my father. My own days had lately been consumed with preparations for my formal presentation to the Congress of Éire. I had appeared before them five years ago, after my elder brother had died, and my father named me the presumptive heir—more a formality than any real change in status. Now that I was eighteen, almost nineteen, this ceremony signaled I would take my place at my father’s side in ruling the kingdom.

This morning, however, one of those reports lay on top of the stack of documents handed to me by my father’s secretary. Memory shivered through me as I scanned the first page. Only after a moment did I understand its import.

“He has given up his post,” I said. “I wonder why?”

“Who has?” my father said.

We sat at the breakfast table, both of us reading feverishly in prepar

ation for another long day. Lately, my father spent more time reading than consuming his breakfast, which worried me, and his face had taken on a gaunt and harried look. He seemed older—much older—than his fifty-seven years. One could almost see the shadow of bones beneath his skin.