The Time Roads

He was a tall man, with pale blond hair escaping from underneath a knitted cap, and his light blue eyes glittered in the moonlight. He could almost be Evan’s brother. In his left hand, he held a butcher’s knife, the point angled upward. Blood stained the blade.

Síomón’s stomach lurched. He stumbled forward, hardly knowing what he did. To his surprise, the stranger gave a muffled cry and ran.

“Stop!” Síomón cried.

“Stop!” cried another voice.

Ó Deághaidh. In relief, he swung around. “Commander. Thank the Lord and Lady—”

Ó Deághaidh stepped over the threshold, his gun aimed at Síomón’s chest. “Síomón Madóc, I order you to yield. Give me the knife, sir. I promise that it will go better if you cooperate. Come, lay the knife down. You know you have not a chance.”

Síomón edged away. “What are you talking about? Didn’t you see the man? He’s the one who killed—”

With a shock, he realized he gripped a knife in his left hand.

He flung the knife away in horror. It clattered to the floor and bounced toward Ó Deághaidh, who dropped to one knee and fired. Síomón twisted away, but not in time. Pain blossomed in his shoulder. In panic, he stumbled down the hall and made it through the back door a few steps ahead of Ó Deághaidh.

A garda loomed to his right. Síomón swung a punch and connected. The pain in his shoulder nearly brought him to his knees. Ahead, he saw another figure darting through the gate and into the alley. Síomón drew a sobbing breath and ran.

* * *

Dawn came as a dark red haze.

Síomón pressed his hands against his eyes, trying to contain the pressure inside. He’d spent half the night chasing and being chased. Twice he had spotted the murderer, and twice Ó Deághaidh’s men had nearly captured Síomón. Finally he’d taken refuge in a derelict stable, deep in Awveline’s slums.

He tilted his head back and breathed in the dusty air. His shoulder ached fiercely where Ó Deághaidh had shot him, and dried blood pulled at his skin. It would be only a matter of hours before Ó Deághaidh and his patrols located Síomón. They would charge him with murder, try him, and execute him. And why not? The proof lay at his feet—the bloody knife that killed Evan and the professor—even though he clearly remembered dropping it inside Ó Dónaill’s house. He also remembered a stranger fleeing with the same knife in his hand. Two memories, equally vivid. Which one was true?

“Seven,” he whispered. “Thirteen. Seventeen.” He paused and listened a moment. A pattering against the doors and broken shutters told him that rain was falling. A faint silver light seeped around the shutters. Day had arrived.

“Nineteen. Twenty-nine. Thirty-one—Fuck! Damnable fucking numbers!”

A coughing fit overtook him. Síomón fumbled in his jacket pocket for his handkerchief. His fingers met a square packet.

“No,” he whispered. “That’s not possible.”

Síomón pulled out the packet and ripped off one corner. He poured the contents into his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, he tipped back his head and poured the cocaine into his mouth.

A bittersweet taste filled his mouth. His stomach heaved in protest. Choking, he managed to force the powder down his throat.

His tongue went numb. Next came the tremors, which shook him so hard that his fist knocked against his teeth, and he tasted blood. His chest felt tight, as though a vise gripped him. Hard to breathe, hard to—

* * *

I had trouble finding you.

Midnight in the orchard. A bright half-moon illuminated the trees with clouds of light. Síomón held Gwen tight against his chest to quiet her trembling. Her hair smelled of new apple blossoms. Underneath, however, lay the distinct scent of fear.

What is wrong, Gwen? What happened?

I can’t sleep, thinking about numbers. Remember what Pythagoras said, about numbers and the soul. What the mystics said about the paths our lives take.

One memory blurred into the next. Memories of comforting Gwen after her nightmares. Memories of rigorous arguments, where each delivered their reasoning in dispassionate tones. Memories of a life shared so completely that Síomón often wondered if their separate bodies were just an illusion.

Look, Síomón.

* * *

Images of the moonlit orchard overlaid those of the stable. Even as he watched, the silver-dappled leaves faded into stone, and the moonlight dulled to a rain-soaked dawn.