The Time Roads

“Your Majesty!”

I must know what has happened first.

“It was nothing,” I called out. “A nightmare.”

From the other side came a muttering. I waited until I heard their footsteps withdraw, then closed my eyes and leaned against the door’s solid expanse, shivering.

I cannot believe he came to me, only to die.

Fragments of lessons from years ago, from a tutor who had schooled me and my siblings in philosophy. Mankind’s arrogance shows itself in the belief that all our acts are deliberate, he told us. However much we plot our lives, we too are overtaken by chance, by misfortune, by the errant path of a great storm.

It took me many long moments before I expelled a breath and hurried to Breandan’s side. He was so still, so unnaturally still. My throat drew tight as I fumbled to find the pulse at his neck. No success, and when I attempted to find the one at his wrist, his arm was heavy and lifeless, the skin already cooling to my touch.

I rocked back on my heels. Stared down at my ghost, now become flesh.

He had changed, utterly changed. The gold of his hair was entirely silver now, and thinned to almost nothing over his skull, and the faint lines around his eyes and mouth cut much deeper now. His clothing too was strange—ill fitting and worn, the cut and cloth like nothing I had seen before. I had to shift and rearrange all the images from my memory, which had fixed Breandan Ó Cuilinn as I knew him, all those years ago.

Where have you been? Why—How did you come back to me?

Underneath those thoughts was the idea that he had spent the past twelve years trapped in the cracks and fissures of time itself. No, impossible. The peculiar clothing itself was proof that Breandan Ó Cuilinn had launched himself—if not into the future, then into a different time altogether. But where? And when?

I hesitated a moment, then felt inside one jacket pocket, then another.

The results were odd—odd and mundane and unsettling, all at once. A wad of paper currency, which I tossed to one side. The torn token from a streetcar. A pocket watch. My heart gave an uncomfortable lurch at the sight of the watch, which I recognized at once from our days together, but I continued to search albeit with unsteady hands. I found a packet of cigarettes, mostly empty, the stub of a pencil, a much-folded clipping from a newspaper with the date of February 1, 1943.

1943?

I read through the article, growing colder and colder. A new curfew had been enacted by the government. Citizens without the necessary papers would be fined and imprisoned for the week. Repeated offenses meant transportation to the eastern front. Manufactories would issue proper identification cards to those laborers working the night shift.

No, no, no. This was impossible. I thrust away the newspaper clipping and unfolded the crumpled wad of paper currency. There were six banknotes in various small denominations. All bore the portrait of a thickset man in military dress against a patterned background on one side. On the other was an eagle drawn in stark black lines

, its wings outspread, and the words Empire of Prussia engraved in Éireann and German.

The bills fell from my hands. I covered my face, not to weep, because I was beyond grief now. Éire lost. Its borders overrun and its people conquered. My Union no more, or perhaps it never came to be.

Is that why you came back, my love? To warn me?

The breath fled my body. A warning. Yes, yes. Oh please let that be true. Only how to find out the message?

Hurriedly, I reexamined the other objects. The equations meant nothing to me. The cigarette packet contained only a few cigarettes, several of them broken. If I were any sort of spy, I thought bitterly, I could read these puzzle pieces myself. That Éire faced disaster was obvious enough, but what had taken place in our future …

I stood—unsteadily—and wrapped myself in a robe. On impulse, I dragged a blanket from my bed to cover Breandan’s body and switched off the electric light. My dressing room was dark and empty, but as I expected, a lamp was lit in the sitting room beyond, and a sleepy maidservant kept watch. “Your Majesty,” she said, rising to her feet.

“Have the kitchen brew me a pot of tisane,” I told her. “And send a runner to fetch Doctor Gwen Madóc to me. Tell her … tell her I want her advice about a mathematical problem.”

Soon enough, the tisane arrived. At my request, the maid built up the fire, then retired to her bed. The moment she had gone, I returned to my bedchamber to lock the door, then paced the sitting room for the next quarter hour. I had just determined to send a second runner, when the first man arrived with Gwen Madóc close behind.

“Your Majesty.”

“Doctor Madóc. Thank you for indulging me.”

I poured her a cup of tisane and one for myself. Her eyes narrowed as she scanned the room, taking in the state of my dress, the newly built fire, and the tray with cups and a silver pot. However, she kept silent until the runner had withdrawn and we were alone.

“I cannot change the past,” she said immediately. “I cannot bring the dead of Osraighe and Belfast back to life. Nor can I undo your Commander Ó Deághaidh’s injuries.”

“I did not ask you to,” I replied. “Sit. Drink your tea and listen.”

She sat, but ignored the cup of tisane. I took the seat opposite her and sipped, observing the marks of exhaustion, the tense lines of her mouth, or perhaps it was more impatience. Judging from the state of her dress, I had once more interrupted her work.