Messing With Time - 1. Story

Messing with Time

Deep down I knew it’d be bad – one shouldn’t mess with time; one shouldn’t try to look into the future. But we didn’t think of that then.

It was Midsummer’s Eve, one of the four magic nights of the year, and we’d decided to spend the night at a crossroads where four roads met and thus get to see into the future. People used to do that a long time ago; we’d heard about it, and one of us had read about it in a book. It was like one of those ghost story sessions, you sit by the fire, huddled in blankets, telling each other stories; no one believes in them, but in the end all are secretly shivering nonetheless.

We’d met again by chance, the twelve of us; it was six years since we’d finished school, and we hadn’t seen much of each other since then – it was funny how far we had drifted apart already, yet we had common memories that united us in a way we’d never be united with anyone else. This year we were all in the same place at the same time – in our old homes, in our home town, at the beginning of summer. We’d met on the beach and in the shops, and then we’d decided to spend Midsummer Eve together, just as we had back when we were at school when it was all about getting plastered and bragging about it afterwards.

But now we had decided that we were going to perform this ancient rite. Okay, it wasn’t ancient, it probably originated some time back in the 1800s, but that felt pretty ancient to us right then. It had to be from the time when crossroads where four roads met were still a bit of a rarity, and that mere fact was awe-inspiring if nothing else.

We made sure we knew exactly how to do it. You had to go there at dusk, all the people who were to take part, and then you had to wait there in silence. If one of us talked, laughed, or even whispered something to someone else, it’d fail. Of course, dusk was late, since it was Midsummer. But at eleven it was time, and we marched down the dusty country road a little bit in advance, all of us quiet already although we didn’t have to be until it actually began to get dark.

From the onset of dusk until midnight, no noise should be heard from any of the participants. Then, if all had gone well, and nobody had messed up, we would see the future. According to the books we would each see our own future, and after that the spell would be broken and we’d be able to talk again. The legend didn’t tell how far into the future this went, or what part of it we would see, but I think we wanted to see whom we were going to marry and perhaps find out what jobs we’d get (though most of us had a rather clear idea about that already) or simply how successful we would be – not that we believed in it, of course. Not that we believed any of it would happen.

We walked until we reached the crossroads. This wasn’t in the centre of our little town, it was on the outskirts, by the deserted nightly beach where the forest began. As we got to the actual spot – the North East corner of the crossroads, which also happened to be the darkest corner – we looked at each other but didn’t say a word. We suddenly took this rather seriously, all of us. One by one, we sat down on the gravel, close together to keep warm in the damp, chilly Midsummer’s night.

I looked around. Everybody looked solemn and a little frightened. There were no smiles in our eyes as we sat down, we were all dead serious.

Huddling close together we listened to the sounds of the forest. The darkness seems darker when it doesn’t get completely dark: the shadows grow enormous and unpredictable, and the black shapes of the trees loom threateningly on the edge of the forest. The sky looks almost white on a night like this, but a dark, spooky kind of white, like shadows on snow.

An elk strode past in quiet, ugly dignity; an owl hooted. The church bell far away in the town rang the half hour. We waited. We listened, we watched, we breathed. Then came the stroke of twelve. And then – nothing.

What disappointment.

After a few minutes, maybe seven, ten, we began to stir. Someone laughed, people said things to each other. I think many of us secretly drew a breath of relief; we hadn’t really wanted to see ourselves in the future. Of course, we hadn’t thought we would – but then again… maybe we had.

But now it was over and we could go, and tell our other friends that it hadn’t worked, and laugh at our solemnness and our fear. And off we went – we were hungry now, we wanted food, coffee to wake us up, a drink – someone had pulled a bottle of cheap aquavit out of his pocket already and now took a sip, then passed it around. Miraculously, we found a café that was open at this ungodly hour, after midnight on Midsummer’s Eve. I couldn’t remember having seen it before; it certainly hadn’t been there back when I lived here. We went inside and sat down at three small, round tables which we pushed together so that all twelve of us could sit.

By now we were rather loud, laughing and talking. I sat next to one of my oldest friends, Oscar, who had been my neighbour when we were kids and with whom I’d done everything. We’d been inseparable, our names always heard together: Oscar and Patrick, Patrick and Oscar. We went skating and skiing in winter, and in the summer we went bathing and fishing, and we loved to play on a rather big, almost impossible-to-climb boulder which had a young birch growing on it, big enough for us to hold on to while playing, but not so big as to lose its grip on the huge rock. (I’d gone past that place just a few days ago, but the tree hadn’t grown and become too large for the boulder – instead, it had snapped in half, and was now dead. The upper half still hung on to it, like a skeleton, lifeless.)

Around the table were other old friends. I looked at them and smiled, I shared happy memories with most of them even though I didn’t necessarily have much in common with them other than that. We ordered coffee and joked about how we’d have loved to see ourselves rich and famous but had sadly missed out on it, and how someone, one of us, must have been to blame for it – an unheard word, maybe, or some other no-no that perhaps we didn’t even know of. The bottle of aquavit went around the table as the coffee came so we could each help ourselves to a drop in the steaming coffee. The church bell rang the half hour again, this time for half past midnight. The witching hour. I smiled at the thought.

‘I asked Jenny to come,’ Oscar told me after a few sips of the sugary, alcoholic coffee. ‘But she wouldn’t – I got the impression it was because you were coming along.’ He looked at me inquiringly.

Jenny and I had been a couple for quite a while at school, and some time after we’d graduated as well. It had been a stormy affair; Jenny was both possessive and jealous. I wasn’t sad that it ended, although I sometimes thought about Jenny, and had even dreamed about her now and then – some rather interesting dreams, actually, sometimes about us making love, and sometimes very detailed dreams about her taking a violent revenge on my future girlfriends, whom I had yet to meet, and who were usually faceless. I shrugged. ‘I haven’t seen her for a long time,’ I said to Oscar, ‘and she hasn’t tried to get in touch or anything… I’m sure you’re imagining things.’

‘I’m… we’re lovers now, Jenny and I.’ Oscar looked at me with an expression that I couldn’t quite decipher. Was he afraid that I’d mind? I didn’t, certainly not for Jenny’s sake at any rate – if anything, I was worried about Oscar and how he’d be able to handle her possessiveness. But maybe he was jealous, or worried that Jenny might be?

‘Oh, really? Well… that’s nice.’ I didn’t know Oscar anymore, I realised, he wasn’t the same as he had been, and so I didn’t quite know what to say – he seemed as distant as my childhood, and as safely comfortable. The thought that he’d have a girlfriend was absurd, and the thought that it was Jenny, completely unrealistic. Jenny was adulthood personified, or rather, loss of innocence personified. She didn’t go with Oscar at all. She suited me much better than she’d ever suit him, but I didn’t want her either. I was glad that she hadn’t come tonight.

Oscar turned away. I could feel the alcohol spreading through my body to my limbs, making my legs tingle and my head feel dizzy. It also warmed me and made me forget the talk about Jenny. I could see that the others were in the same state, affected by the alcohol but not drunk, and rather sleepy. The noise around the table subsided; a few of the others still talked in low voices, but half of them sat there quietly, looking at each other and sipping their coffee.

It was almost completely quiet as the church bell struck one. It was one single, spooky tone; it lingered for a long time – almost as long as it took us to realise that something wasn’t quite right. The lights in the café flickered; the power must have gone for a second. I looked at my cup. Then I looked again – it looked different than it just had, and it was empty – completely empty, and clean.

The others around the table seemed to have noticed something, too – but – who were they? I blinked, rubbed my eyes, and some of the others did the same. Sitting around the table was a group of people in their forties or possibly in their early fifties. I stared at them, mouth wide open.

Straight across from where I sat was a rather fat, balding man with a ruddy complexion and an ill-fitting suit. His nose was red from many days of too much wine, and he kept coughing, anxiously clutching his cup, looking first at the rest of us, then, in disbelief, at his own suit-clad paunch. Michael, now a rather thin, quiet fellow – I could hardly recognise him… was this what he was to become?

Next to him, an elegant woman with expensive clothes and black, shiny, dyed hair – a lot of make-up, a pearl necklace, very chic, and long, dark-red nails – but she had wrinkles of discontentment around her mouth and between her eyebrows, and she looked sternly around her, eyeing her handbag as if it somehow wasn’t elegant enough for her. Emma. I wasn’t surprised; she had tendencies in that direction already.

I glanced at the others, one by one. Some of them weren’t too unlike themselves as I knew them, but many were… failed, pathetic middle-aged people, clearly not happy with their lives.

I gave a slight gasp, suddenly realising I had yet to look at myself. I felt my hair – I hadn’t gone bald, thank God; it was rather short and still thick; my right hand was smooth and tanned as I held it in front of me to look; I was wearing jeans and a clean, rather nice-looking shirt. I gave Michael a glance where he sat with his ill-fitting suit and drew a breath of relief. Then I looked further down, to my left – and there was my left hand, holding Oscar’s, fingers intertwined. A surge of surprise, at once uncomfortable and thrilling.

I looked up and found that Oscar was already looking at me and apparently had been for a while. He was smiling, and now he squeezed my hand. His hand was soft and firm and warm. Again, I felt my legs tingle, but not from the alcohol this time. Oscar had aged well, he looked happy, and the wrinkles he had came mostly from laughter and suited him.

‘Are – are we …?’ I stammered.

He gave a little laugh that made his eyes narrow at the corners. ‘A couple?’ he said in a low voice. ‘It would seem that we are.’

‘But… since when?’ I spluttered. ‘Did you know? Did you – er – what about Jenny?’

‘I never loved Jenny – did you?’

I hadn’t, of course. I had admired her, found her amazing and elegant and sexy, but loved her, no. And of course Oscar hadn’t, either. Besides, that must have been years ago. But… this? I looked at Oscar, squeezed his hand back, and suddenly wanted to know if his lips felt as nicely warm and firm and wonderful as his fingers.

I looked around the table, at the other faces – it didn’t seem like any of the others were talking to each other; most of them just looked startled or worried or both. Only a few looked happy or smug. I heard the door to the café open and close, but didn’t turn to see who it was. I looked back at Oscar, smiled, and leaned forward; I wanted to kiss him – why wait? Oscar met my gaze, smiled back, then leaned towards me with his lips parted, and –

Three quick, loud steps of high-heeled shoes cut through the silence, and suddenly there was a gush of bright, red blood, spraying my face as Oscar’s, which had just touched mine, fell away. I gave a shout, a scream – and then a roar; I stared at Oscar’s whitening face which hung limply at his half-severed neck, his blood still coming in hot, bright spurts and spraying me, the table, the floor. Behind him stood Jenny, her hair tousled and the knife still in her hand, wet with Oscar’s blood.

I got up, ready to strangle her, smash her head with the bottle of aquavit – anything! as long as she died or suffered – but then turned back to Oscar. Could I still save him? Would it be possible? His face was ashen, yellowish – dead.

Then, suddenly, my head swam; the lights flickered; there was a communal sigh of relief. The café, again, looked slightly different. My old cup was there, half-full of now cold coffee. I turned to look at Oscar, quickly – and there he was, sitting beside me, a confused smile on his face. Alive! I gasped for breath, panting as if I’d run a marathon.

‘Where’s Jenny?’ I asked, looking behind Oscar.

‘Jenny? But she wasn’t here to begin with…’

‘But – she – I mean, she came, and…’ What had Oscar seen?

‘Wow,’ said Oscar, taking no heed of me. ‘That was unexpected…’ He didn’t sound worried at all, nor did he look it – had he seen the same vision as I had? I looked at the others – Michael sat there with a dazed look on his face, Emma looked displeased as usual, and the others showed a mixed array of feelings, some of them happy, others confused or scared or worried.

‘Wow, it worked after all!’ I heard someone’s voice. ‘It wasn’t midnight until now! Summer time…’ A few of the others laughed, some of them nervously, others sounded relaxed. We hadn’t thought of the fact that there was a one-hour difference. Midnight had come at the stroke of one. I turned back to Oscar.

‘I wouldn’t have thought…’ Oscar looked at me, happy until he realised I wasn’t. ‘Did you see what I saw?’

What had he seen? Me, us, our hands? Jenny? Something else? I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. Presumably he hadn’t died at the end of his vision, or he wouldn’t be sitting here chatting happily.

‘Uh, I saw… Jenny,’ I said, and immediately asked myself why I’d been so crazy as to mention that terrible woman. But then I saw what I had to do – then I knew. I had to save Oscar, and I would.

‘Oh,’ said Oscar, disappointed. Ah, well… interesting. Jenny?’

‘Yeah, we were holding hands and we kissed – Jenny and I.’ I looked at Oscar’s tanned face, his blue eyes, his almost-white eyelashes. He was beautiful. I remembered all those times when we had sat next to each other on that boulder, beside our little tree, close together, talking. I remembered the two of us on our skis, carrying in our rucksacks sandwiches and a thermos of hot cocoa my mother had made for us, which we then ate together on a sunny, bare cliff beside the frozen lake. I was aching to stroke his cheek and his hair. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said to him, ‘I know you two are going out…’

‘Ah, no, don’t worry, he said quickly. ‘Don’t worry… I don’t – I don’t think it’ll last. Really – I kind of fancy someone else.’

I smiled shakily at him. Oh God how I wanted to kiss those lips of his, I’d almost gotten that far in the vision and suddenly wished that we’d at least have gotten a little further before the deathly interruption. ‘Well, one never knows what’s going to happen. It doesn’t have to be Jenny and me in the end.’

‘No, that’s true. One never does know.’ His smile had faded and his eyes didn’t meet mine now; instead he turned away and began to talk to the people sitting to his left.

His fingers brushed my hand as he turned, a little too long for it to be an accident. Then he took his hand away, quickly.

My other story: Hot Lips

© Copyright 2008 Procyon White

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