Eyes of Time - 3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Enigma

I’m sitting at the back of the bus, my eyes on the scenery passing by through the window. It’s all so familiar, the streets that I’ve travelled so many times, yet I can’t suppress the feeling of strangeness that curls inside myself. I was restless when I woke up this morning and I’m restless now.

Sam tried to make me feel as comfortable as possible, and were it any other time I am sure I would have been, I was in Sam’s company after all. But as much as I try I can’t fight the feeling that everything is forever changed. I wish fervently to be proven wrong, but if I am to be honest with myself, I somehow know that the events from the last two days are connected and mark a turning point in my life.

I’m trying to compile a list of clues, of what to look for on my research, during the bus ride that will take me to the public library. So far I don’t have much to go with. From the desolated madness I was given witness, the bare land left me little clues about its location.

Only the people could possibly give me some pointers, but even those were individuals, mostly dirty, stripped of all life and pride in any singularity I could have noticed. So far I have only the guns of the soldiers, such dignified weapons. Disgust crawls around my stomach as glimpses of what they were used for crosses my mind. I try to make them go away, but this a nightmare I don’t believe I’ll be able to avoid recalling through the rest of my days.

I remind myself to focus on the guns. Logically, cold examination of how unusual they were.

There are kids playing on the city park. The bus stopped a moment and their laughing and squeals reach me, in a dizzying wave of happiness. Memories of summer afternoons, and water sprinklers and blonde hair accompany it. Followed by the bright shinny eyes of those smudged faces, shaved scalps, colour marked foreheads, moments before the culling. Bugs squashed under the boots of those robot like men. No human being, worth the noun, could have gone ahead, even with the clean killing.

I wonder if that is the reason those weapons were developed in the first place. Less blood helps the forces morale. It looks so much more with a video game or a war simulation. It makes the targets less real for sure. Their passive corpses can almost pass for sleeping homeless in the middle of the sidewalk. That is if you’re capable of ignoring the obvious black marks of the skin. The smell of boiling flesh when the dose is too much, or even the stark contrast of burst blood vessels inside the skin. Lovely picture really, perfect to keep the guilt at bay.

They were indeed unusual those weapons, as were the soldiers clothes. The symbol that they proudly displayed on their chests was shared with the one on the signet of the hard faced man that had tried to kill me. A shudder crosses my spine in cold remembrance, waking me from the drowning of sounds the city around me provides. Everywhere lays danger and I must be alert, on top of my game. Running ahead is still my best defence at the moment. I have my backpack and my rollerblades with me, just in case.

Again a cap is covering my head and colourful hair. I’m wearing some of my jeans, those Tina had brought me to the hospital, and a black hoodie from Sam covering my regular top. As the bus approaches my exit I make a point of keeping my head down, still I try to appear as natural as possible, just some brooding teen.

I leave the bus and head to cross the street, trying to be as inconspicuous as everyday life. As I await for the light to turn green so I can cross to the library entry, the worried look on Sam’s eyes this morning crosses my mind. His worry was for me of course, my welfare, but I cannot stop feeling like I’m endangering him. The more reason for me to quickly get to the bottom of this, get it over with, even though I have no idea what that entails and whether I’m up for the job or not.

I try to shake these thoughts of my head, brought to alert by the people around me that had started crossing the street. Go for it Rhina, keep your head in the clouds and you’ll see. Startled out of reverie I look around, making sure no one is following me, no maniac gleam on someone’s eyes, someone with a gun in sight more importantly.

I’m about to start moving myself when my eyes meet his. Another pair, those of a young teenage boy, with light brown hair, arranged in a wavy way across his forehead, a bit longish, a few strands curling around his ears. He has what looks like caramel eyes set behind a metal frame of glasses. His complexion is very pale, and his expression very serious, staring intently at me, locking our eyes with a look of struggle marring his features, like if he blinked he would lose me in the crowd.

All this takes but a moment, I blink my eyes and he is gone. I blink again, frowning, looking around, but there is no one on the opposite sidewalk staring back, no wavy brown hair nearby. Oh great! Now I’m hallucinating. For a chilling moment I wonder whether I had imagined everything, that I was actually crazy after all. But I remember the nurse had seen the man on my room too. I take a deep breath, attribute my sighting a momentaneous impression, a trick of the brain, induced by all the stress I’ve been under. It was a fraction of a second after all. I hurry up on my way to the public entrance of the library.

The cursor is blinking on the screen a bit later, after I have settled my laptop on a free table and connected it to the available wireless. This is always the tricky part: How to look for what I need to know? This time is even more tricky than the others. It was usually some sort of public place, with recognizable characteristics. Or a natural catastrophe that could be tracked. A flood because the river dams were open too late, an earthquake, an explosion that resulted in a landslide. This gratuitous deliver of carnage, in insipid ground was a new variable that unbalanced all I had come to believe.

It makes me wonder why I was witness to that particular event. What strings all the events together? Is there a connection to begin with? And if so, is it related to the events of the past few days? This was obviously a different kind of vision, the entire feeling of it had been wrong to begin with, and it was more murky, less defined, painful. But I remain set on my idea that it must have already happened. It must have, or else I’ll... I shudder in waves of despair. Or else I’ll have to stop it.

Focus! You can do this, research of the facts will lead to proof and understanding of the event, that’s what Mr. Shore always says in World History class. I decide to start with the symbol, but I struggle to come up with a sensible description of it. I draw the symbol on a piece of paper, in a bold size, I look at it, turn the sheet around on different angles. «Horizontal Eight» will have to do. As expected my search turns out blank, apart from what looks like a very complex kamasutra inspired definition of intercourse. I’m quick to close that window, not wanting to be expelled from the public library for using the free wireless to look at porn.

I stare at the symbol on the page, head supported on my left hand, absently tracing its shape with my pen, over and over, in a continuous flow of far and near curves. I’m trying to understand what it is, the idiotic part it being somewhat familiar, I just can’t recall where I’ve seen it before.

“Are you studying Maths as well?” The voice is right beside me, startling me of my musings. I look in that direction, eyes popping wide open, muscles straining for a quick run. A college looking guy, carrying a load of big fats books had approached my table, and was now pointing at the sheet of paper I had been tracing.

He caught me so off guard that I keep staring at him, trying to decipher is words. “I’m sorry, what did you say?” He seems harmless enough, what with the librarian look he sports, but I scold myself for not being more aware. What if it had been one of the killers? I repress a shudder and try to focus on the words of this guy.

“Sorry to have startled you. I just thought you were studying Maths too and I was wondering if you wanted a study partner. I was a bit bored to be honest.” He looks sheepishly at me, fidgeting a little bit, not so sure anymore. He must have realised he made some mistake by approaching me. I try to be more welcoming by smiling at him a little.

“I’m not, but what made you think I was?”

“Well, you were tracing de infinite symbol over and over on that page.” He said this as if I was the dumbest person alive for asking him this.

“The Infinite symbol?” And it hits me. Of course. Maths class at High School. My mother had been so sick by then that when I managed to attend class, during the lethargic periods that took place between chemo sessions, I barely could register a thing spoken by any teacher, much less the raspy, dragging voice of that particular one. Thank you whoever made it possible to enter a History course with a miserable Math’s grade.

“I’m not studying Maths per se, but I’m interested in finding more about the symbol. Do you know anything about it?”

He stares at me, eyes sharp. “Of course.” He says it so matter-of-factly that the Duh! Part in that sentence does not even have to be imagined, it’s all there.

He must have realized his rudeness because he makes a fast change of demeanour. Teaching is obviously his passion, that or giving a show of his great intelligence. “I should introduce myself,” he says as he sits down beside me, getting himself comfortable and ready to begin his show, “I’m Xander, and I’m a Math major.”

It’s impossible not to smile at his posture change, at least he seems to have some manners after all. “I’m R... Rita. Nice to meet you.” Better be safe than sorry, just in case he’s actually trying to kill me after all.

“Well, it goes beyond Maths, really, it’s a concept common to Theology and several currents in Philosophy as well.” His tone is a well practised one, with clear words and an intonation that makes sure you get all the concepts, just like if you were in a conversation about your favourite subject. I guess he is.

“It’s used in Maths because it’s an almost numeric representation. Like a number. It’s applied when there is need the represent something only our imagination can conceive, because it’s larger than our physical senses can encompass. It refers to a lack of limits, to no borders or end in whether it is size, quantity or extension.”

He moves is hands along, helping at his emphasis, making it all look so blasé. I can’t help but smile a little at his demeanour.

“It’s like counting, you can go forever and never stop having numbers to count. That concept is quite easy to grasp, the one that isn’t as easy is the possibility that some believe in, of an entity that is complete in itself but still of infinite proportions.

Like if I draw a point zero, a beginning, and from there lines that went to opposite sides,” as he says this he’s drawing a line that crossed the back of the paper I had been drawing on, from one side to the other, passing point zero right in the middle of it. “and if I imagine that these lines don’t stop at the margins of the paper, that they keep going ad eternum, then I have the concept of potential infinite. If I can conceive that, although they extend to said infinite, having therefore no end, but that at some point they meet each other, locking in a closed figure, then I would have what is called the Real Infinite, the entity that even though is complete, is also endless. Some believe the only possible shape for it is a circle, an endless circle, an infinite circle, where you never reach the end, yet it meets its own beginning.”

He pauses while I’m struggling to grasp all his words. Some of these notions are returning to me, from some of my previous studies or readings, I can’t be sure. But it is starting to make some sense, like that gotcha! feeling you have when you finally can see the picture that needs to be looked at in a certain way to be visible.

“Have I lost you already?” I smile at him, shaking my head a little to imply I have grasped it all, I hope, and telling him to continue.

“Now, as for the origin of said symbol, the one you were looking for, its shape is inspired in another rather curious property of a geometrical surface, called the Moebius strip, which is nothing more than a strip of paper with a half twist to it.” As he says this he grabs the sheet of paper, folds one side so he can rip a straight strip of paper and proceeds to show me its magic properties. It is absolutely amazing to a laic in all mathematical truths like myself.

He joined the two ends of the strip, like you would join them to form a circle, but he gave a twist to it first, making it look in perspective like the shape of the number eight instead. He asks for my finger, and to start tracing the paper surface, starting next to his fingers, that were holding the paper together. As I trace the surface I feel a little silly, until I reach the end of the path. When my finger again touches his, something is odd, and it takes me a moment to realize my finger is on the other side of where it started, yet, I never crossed to the other side of that surface. He insists on me to go on, and at the end of the second lap I find myself where I had begun the journey in the first place.

“See? Over and over again, you can trace all its existence, without lifting your finger, and never stopping. It’s an infinite, one faced entity. Hence the infinite symbol looking like this.” He makes it sound so easy, smiling at me because it is to him so obvious, and having done it myself, I guess it actually is.

“Some have even proven the existence of a God, by showing the mathematical proof of the existence of the infinite concept. Time itself is often viewed as its proof.”At these words my eyes widen a little, lifting them to stare at him with even more interest. The concept of time is involved? Is it why this symbol is connected with me? It seems so farfetched, yet...

“The age of the universe as we know it can be counted and measured to some extent, but what about before it’s birth, what about before the realms of what we can conceive and measure? And what about when we are no longer here? The world ceases to exist just because there are no more humans to witness and measure it? Surely not. It is expected to last forever. Even if it was to explode in a big show of goodbye fireworks, there still would be time while the ashes settled, and calmed, and a whole new universe was created out of this one, different, yet the same principles applying. When you think about it, it’s clearly a rush to the head, a sense of vertigo.”

He has a gleam in his eyes as he says it, the subject has his total interest, it is obvious, and as he speaks I get that sense of vertigo he speaks of. The concept of nothingness, and yet it still being something because it is time passing, endless time, over and over, never ending but meeting its own start. A rush to the head indeed.

He is quick to say goodbye after that, our lesson had already stolen him more time than he could spare, his equations were anxiously waiting his passionate return. Some time later I find myself drumming my fingers on the table, eyes staring past the computer screen, trying to make sense of all that I heard. So, it’s an idea of infinitum, of endless possibilities, an interminable path, which ending point some believe is actually its own beginning.

That is the frustrating part. It can be about anything. But the image of my finger sliding through that slip of paper, in an endless race to arrive at the same place, over and over again. That concept holds something that I feel has the answer to my enigma. Yet, it slips past my recognition. It’s so familiar, yet so foreign.

My musings get interrupted over a strange noise emitted by my laptop. It’s an annoying and weird sound that accompanies the screen going blank. Oh no, this is NOT happening. I tap the side of it, trying not to hit it too hard, but make it do something. It must have worked some because white text appears in a cryptic message. ‘He who looks at the sun shall not see the stars.’

Huh?! “What the hell?” I look around, trying to figure out if this bizarre event is happening to anyone else. No, all computers seem to be working fine. Just great, now I got some virus. I sigh, my head dropping to my hands, thinking what I should do over this mishap, if my little baby is even salvageable. Damn, all my school work is in here.

A new bip sound calls for my attention, and looking up I’m aware that the message changed. Although that is not the intriguing, mind-boggling part. It’s the contents of the message shown.

‘Hello Rhina.’

I’m aware of all my muscles tensing up. All my instincts are yelling at me to run, to bolt from the chair and not stop until I felt safe again. I’m staring at the screen, with the creeping feeling of being watched, it is not a good feeling.

‘They are looking for you.

They are getting close.’

They? This reminds me of some archaic kind of chatting service. My fingers hitch to type my questions, try to get some answers, but before I can try it the screen blinks again and new text appears.

‘You have only a few minutes.

We can help you escape.

Get you safe.’

Ok, I’m freaking out. Deep breaths Rhina, comm’on, you can do this. I look everywhere around me, trying to find out if I’m indeed being watched, or if this is some sick joke from one of the kids at the computers. But no one is paying me any particular attention, and there is no way I am going to risk it like this. When I again look at the screen more text has appeared.

‘We are the Community.’

I decide I need to get the hell out of here. I’m too exposed and this silly game of cat and mouse can easily get me killed, offer of help or not there’s no way I am going to trust my life to anyone. I’m already getting my things into my backpack, getting out my rollerblades to put on, (sliding is faster than running, and less tiring) when the new and last message appears. I’m quick to turn off the laptop and go for the exit.

‘They’re here, RUN!’

I’m heading to the main exit of the building when I look down the balcony, glancing at the stairs bellow. My heart seems to stop beating, zeroing in on that particular sight, waiting for the dreamlike quality to break for it to start pumping blood in my chest again. There, entering the building, with a cold and empty look in his eyes, starting to climb the stairs, is the driver, the one of the beautiful clear eyes. I force myself to snap to attention, try to wake from my dazzlement, because the handsome dark man with the dreadlocks, that close by I know to be home to a rainbow of glimpses of colour, is accompanied by another man. A man with broad shoulders and a hard face. A man that tried to kill me.