The Time Roads

A FLIGHT OF NUMBERS FANTASTIQUE STRANGE

SEPTEMBER 1902

Like every other visitation room in Aonach Sanitarium—and Síomón Madóc knew them all—this one was painfully bare. No chairs. No carpet. The plaster walls scrubbed clean of any character, their blank expanse interrupted only by a single metal door and a row of narrow windows. In spite of the brilliant sunlight, a rare thing this September day, the air felt chilled, as though the thick glass had leached away the sun’s vitality, and a faint astringent smell lingered, a hospital smell that Síomón associated with having his tonsils removed when he was twelve. He shivered and wished he had kept his frock coat with him.

Across the room, his sister sat cross-legged on the floor, her gaze fixed upon a corner of the ceiling. “141955329,” she said. “Times two. Exponent 25267. Add one.”

Gwen spoke slowly, enunciating each syllable with painful care. Even so, her voice sounded furry—a side effect of the drugs, Síomón knew.

“1031980281. Times two. Exponent 25625. Subtract one.” She paused a heartbeat and her normally tense mouth relaxed, as if savoring the number, before she started the next.

The bleating of a motorcar horn filtered through the windows from the avenues bordering the sanitarium grounds. Síomón rubbed his forehead, trying to massage away an incipient headache. When his sister had first begun these litanies, he had immediately recognized the numbers for simple primes. As the months and years passed, however, the numbers had swelled to fantastical lengths, surpassing all the known tables. Síomón could only guess, but he suspected these were primes as well.

Gwen Madóc. Twenty-three. Her age too was a prime number, as was his.

Sit quietly with her, the doctors had advised. Your presence serves to heal.

He saw no sign of it, however. Four years had passed since Gwen first came to this sanitarium in Awveline City. Four years of weekly visits, in between his studies at the university. He could barely remember Gwen outside this whitewashed room, where even the floors were sanded to eliminate splinters. Formerly, they had allowed him a stool, but one day his sister had seized the stool and flung it at Síomón’s head.

“1031980281. Times two exponent 25625 add one, Síomón. Add one.”

Síomón snapped up his head. Had she really said his name?

“353665707. Times two. 25814. Minus 1. 353665707*225814+1. 1958349*231415–1. 1958349*231415+1.”

The numbers poured out so fast that Síomón could barely distinguish between them.

“1958349 times two exponent—”

Gwen broke off, her face stricken as she groped for the next number. A moment’s hush followed, so profound Síomón could almost hear the sunlight beating against the windows.

“Gwen?” he whispered, hoping she might hear him today.

His sister’s eyes went blank, and she began to rock back and forth, keening. That too fit the pattern of their visits—numbers, confusion, grief, then anger.

Still keening, Gwen lifted her hands toward the barred windows, which cast blue shadows over the floor. In the sunlight, the silvery scars on her wrists and palms stood out against her pale skin. There wa

s a theory associating particular numbers with certain colors. So far there were no practical applications, but several recent papers from Lîvod University in Eastern Europe claimed to support the theory—

Without warning, Gwen launched herself at Síomón. They crashed against the wall and rolled over, he grappling for her wrists while she tore at his face with her fingernails, shrieking, “Síomón Síomón Síomón Síomón.”

The door banged open, and five attendants burst into the room. Four of them dragged Gwen away. The fifth helped Síomón to his feet, murmuring in concern, “You’ve taken a cut, sir.”

He dabbed at Síomón’s forehead with a cloth, but Síomón pushed the man’s hand away. “It’s nothing. Just a scratch. No need to trouble yourself about me.”

“It’s no trouble at all, sir.”

Meanwhile, Gwen shrieked and cursed and sobbed as the other attendants wrestled her into submission. Her pale blonde hair fell in snarls over her face, ugly red blotches stained her cheeks, and her mouth looked swollen. Síomón could not tell if one of the attendants had struck her, or if she had injured herself in the fight.

I was right here. I should have heard a slap.

Before Síomón could say anything, the four attendants bundled Gwen out the door. The remaining man gave one last dab to Síomón’s forehead before he too departed. Síomón drew a long breath. He flexed his hands, which ached as though he’d been clenching them.

“Mr. Madóc.”

Doctor Loisg stood in the doorway. Unlike the other doctors, he wore a plain tweed suit and not the white jacket they so often favored. His placid gaze took in Síomón’s bleeding forehead and rumpled clothes. “A difficult session,” he observed. “But not unexpected.”

“I should not have come. We were too optimistic.”