The Time Roads

Seven. Thirteen. Seventeen. Nineteen. Twenty-nine. Thirty-one. Thirty-seven. Forty-one. Forty-three.

Now I remember.

* * *

The summer they turned seven, an unusual heat wave muffled County Laingford. Every breeze had died off. Even the messenger balloons appeared stranded, and the buzz from their engines set the air vibrating, as though from gargantuan mosquitoes. Síomón and Gwen spent their hours in their playroom, or in subdued conversation with their aunt and uncle, who had come to supervise them while their parents traveled on holiday on the Continent.

The news came on a Monday. That day, the skies were empty of balloons; the sun was a dull smudge against the sheets of clouds. Síomón and Gwen had retreated to the mansion’s cool cellars with boxes of colored chalk. Síomón drew a series of squares, then rectangles, then circles. Whatever came to mind.

Gwen worked more deliberately. She brushed the wall clear of grit, then laid out her pieces of chalk with care. Síomón paused from his drawing to watch as she sketched the gardens surrounding their house. It was more than just a picture—woven in between the lush foliage and graceful trees, he could pick out a three curling between the branches like a snake, a six that also looked like a ripple in the pond, a seven disguised as the gardener’s scythe.

“Síomón. Gwen.”

Gwen paused, her chalk poised above the next number. Síomón, always obedient, called back, “Down h

ere, Bríghid.”

Bríghid clattered down the stairs, her face pale and her eyes wet with tears. “Come quick, master and miss,” was all she said. With gentle hands, she laid aside Gwen’s chalk, brushed down their clothes, and smoothed their tousled hair. No time for washing their faces. It didn’t matter, she said as she led them upstairs and into the grand front parlor, before retreating with a final whispered encouragement.

Their aunt and uncle sat on the magnificent sofa where their parents so often entertained guests. With a twinge of dread, Síomón took in his uncle’s black suit, his aunt’s black veil and dress, unrelieved by any jewels.

Uncle Liam stood and held out his arms. “Síomón. Gwen. Come here.”

Síomón felt a sudden heaviness in his chest. He glanced to Gwen at his side. She too had turned immobile, and there was a frightened, frozen look on her face. Síomón fumbled for his sister’s hand. She clasped him tightly, her fingers unnaturally cold in the summer heat.

Their uncle glanced at his wife, as though puzzled how to proceed. Aunt Eilín swept her veil to one side and knelt. “Síomón. Gwen, love. I have terrible news.”

Their parents had died, she told them. The cause had been a freak accident—two balloons colliding in midair had scattered their wreckage over the train rails in the remote Italian countryside. Moments later, a train had rounded a curve, and despite the engineer’s efforts, the engine had derailed and plunged into a ravine, taking all the passenger cars with it. There had been no survivors.

“You’ll stay here, in your own home,” Aunt Eilín said. “We’ll take care of you, I promise. Your mama and papa made every provision for your upbringing.”

Síomón tried to speak, but his throat and chest hurt too much. Gwen let go of his hand and took one step forward, her pale blue eyes bright with fury. “No,” she whispered. “That’s not true. Not true. Not true. Not—”

With a smothered sob, she turned and fled. That night, Síomón heard her whispering the same words as they both pretended to sleep.

* * *

Síomón flung the cocaine out the window and went to bed. He had no dreams, for which he was grateful, but when he awoke, a strange lethargy enveloped him. He washed his face, shaved, and ordered a hearty breakfast. Coffee and eggs revived him, and he set to work at once.

The greatest purification of all is disinterested science, Pythagoras said. The man who devotes himself to that cause is the true philosopher.

He worked from midmorning to midnight and later, drinking pot after pot of strong tea brewed by the faithful Garret, while searching for the key to Gwen’s numbers. Seven, thirteen, seventeen, nineteen. So many of the clues seemed obvious, but when he applied his formulae, they led into a wilderness of confusion. Over and over, he scribbled down calculations, scratched them out, and started over fresh.

Late on the third morning, a loud knocking broke into his concentration. Síomón paused, his pencil poised to finish off an equation, expecting Garret to attend to the visitor.

But Garret did not appear, and another series of knocks rattled the door. “Síomón! Síomón! Open up, man.”

Evan. He sounded panicked. Síomón rose, unsteady from sitting so long. He had the strange impression of doubled voices, and though the hour bells were just ringing, he was convinced they’d rung not five minutes ago. He smoothed back his hair, arranged his pencils, and hastily covered up his worksheets.

And stopped, his heart racing.

A snowy white pyramid, the size of his thumbnail, occupied the center of his desk.

“Síomón! Open the door, or I’ll get the key from Mrs. Drogha.”

Síomón covered his eyes with his palms, willing himself to see nothing but blackness. No cocaine. No numbers. No dizziness after which the day had mysteriously dissolved into night. Evan showered more knocks against his door, yanking him back to the present. “I hear you, Evan. Give me just a moment.”

He swept the cocaine into an old envelope and shoved it into his desk drawer. With a damp rag, he wiped his desktop clean, then tossed the rag into the waste bin and stirred up the contents. A glance into the mirror showed that his face was pale but otherwise ordinary. He brushed his hands over his trousers, then opened the door.