The cottage at the edge of time

THE COTTAGE AT THE EDGE OF TIME

He ran. He ran like he hadn’t in years, in all those years since Traimdal, since running from the broken and mangled body of that little boy. His muscles cramped, his breath came harder and harder until the very act of breathing became a labor, and still he ran, not allowing himself rest, not allowing himself to catch a breath, not allowing himself peace.

He ran from the memory of that morning and from the memory of that other morning so long ago. He ran as hard, as fast as he could, but the memory wouldn’t leave him be, wouldn’t go, wouldn’t, for the Goddess’s sake, die.


The young man points his gun at him and he drops the newspaper that had been hiding his own gun, pulling the trigger even as he raises his arm.
It comes from behind, a crash and sudden pain in his shoulder that sends him reeling to the left, the muzzle of his gun pulled off-course to the right and the wayward bullet slamming into the clear blue eyes of a little boy whose only crime was going for a walk with his mom.

The world stops in the scream of a mother looking at the spot her baby had stood only seconds before.

He was alone. The city was far behind him. He was mildly surprised at this. Unused to any exercise more strenuous than crossing the length of his apartment these days, he had run for what must have been half a day. He had to smile at that. Guess all those years of training really did pay off after all. Who’d have thought?

From the far recesses of his memory, the voice of his old drill sergeant emerged, shouting at him. “Rogers, you move that fat butt of yours before I have it mounted on my wall with all the other wannabee asses I’ve skinned and gutted, understood?”

Eric smiled again, a smile that turned into a grimace. His muscles were like water. His lungs burned as if the fires of Hell were lit in them for him to roast in. The darkness around him was complete, and he was by this time drenched to the bone.

For a moment, one brief moment, he was terrified, close to panic. He was alone, in the fast approaching dark outside the city. Dark things prowled at night; dark, dangerous things. Just the other day he had read about the mangled corpse of what had once been a woman found beyond the city walls, in the wilderness. No one knew what killed her, but whatever it was, it was huge, mean and had enormous teeth. He shivered, and not just from the cold. Suddenly the dawning twilight held too many shadows that moved too much for comfort.

In the city, the police kept them all relatively safe, but now, out here, there was only the night, the rain, the thunder and him. Where would he go? He couldn’t go back to the city. His over-abused muscles cried out at the mere thought. Besides, he had no idea where he was, no idea even in which direction the city lay. There was certainly nothing he could recognize from the little he could see through the torrential rain that looked even remotely familiar. He couldn’t spend the night, or whatever time he needed to recover, out in this rain and lightning, out of the city.

Eric knew he had a problem and a large one, but he also knew that there had to be a solution. There had to be. There always was a solution to any difficulty, if one just applied the right frame of mind and an open eye to the situation. A lifetime on the Force had taught him that, if little else.

Of course, part of the problem was that he could see next to nothing. He squinted his eyes, protecting it from the onslaught of the rain with a trembling hand and looked around, really looked around, looking for some kind of shelter, maybe even an abandoned house. A sudden flare of lighting lit up the landscape and he was surprised to see that he was on a hilltop. For a moment, he saw a small house a ways off to his left, but the sight had been so brief he wasn’t sure that he did see it at all. Hunching his shoulders against the rain and wind, Eric started down the hill. He had nothing to lose, and that brief sight had been the only indication of anything, as far as he was able to see.

Then, straight ahead, he saw a flicker of light. Faint to be sure, but there.  Stumbling, almost crawling, he made his way over there. Time ceased as he stumbled on, his eyes never leaving the light, struggling for hours, it seemed, while Nature raged and moaned around him, her trees uprooted by lightning, the very heavens weeping. And then, oh then, the lights were everywhere, the lights were everything, and he was there.

*  *  *  *

He had no memory of going inside. He remembered standing stupefied, as at last he was staring at the door to sanctuary, but the next thing he knew he was sitting, shivering like a leaf, in front of a fire, a blanket around his shoulders and a glass of… something… in his hands. At first he was shaking too much to bring it to his lips but after a while in the heat of the fire and the blissful silence of the house, his trembling subsided and he was able to drink.

The drink burned its way inside him, down his throat and into his belly, spreading warmth to his chilled bones. For a while, he could only sit there, revelling in the warmth, the quiet, and oh light, oh bliss, the absence of thought or memory. As if from a very great distance he could hear the rain, hear the wind, but even their fury seemed muted and vague in this place.

Perhaps it was because of the sound of the still-raging storm outside, perhaps it was because of the drink, but there was no noise to alert him to her presence, no shuffling of feet, no sound of breath. Nothing. One moment he was alone with his quiet, listening to the drumming rain, and the next a voice, soft and cut like a melody, said:

“Are you feeling any better?”

Startled he spun around, and there she was. In the doorway she stood, her hand resting lightly on the doorpost, her tiny frame clothed in a flowing robe of the purest black Eric had ever seen. Her feet were bare and the little he could see of her leg, her arm, her neck, was white; the luminescent, radiant white of the moon. Her hair was flowing over her shoulders and down her back, a silver waterfall running past her waist, almost glowing against the black of her attire.

But it was her eyes, so large in her small face that captured him and held him. Her eyes were fixed straight upon him, reflecting and magnifying the soft smile playing on her lips.

Somewhere, in the deep recesses of the mind, it dawned on him that she had asked a question, a question that needed an answer. He strained to recall it and finally managed a little nod. He was feeling better indeed. In fact, he was feeling a lot better.

She smiled at him then, and the smile nearly ripped his heart out with its beauty. Surely, he thought, surely there cannot be anyone as fair as she in any of the worlds. Surely.

His heart was racing as he saw her approaching, that magnificent smile still lighting up her face. Her movements seemed liquid, seamless. He had never seen such perfect grace.

Whoa there, boy, the part of his mind that could still function said. Let’s not loose our head completely here. This almost brought on a fit of giggles, realizing that it was already completely and irrevocably too late for that.

Her hand was cool when she laid it to his forehead, and he thought his heart would explode.  He thought she must have noticed something, it must have been impossible to miss, but she just smiled at him again, her gray eyes smiling right into his this time and said:

“You do look better. I am preparing something in the kitchen. Join me there, if you wish.”

It was not until her words that he realized that he was ravenous. He hadn’t eaten all day, not since…

But his mind shied away from that thought, and he was more than happy to let it. Still stunned, but more in control of himself by now, Eric followed her into the kitchen where she gestured to one of the chairs. Obediently he sank down into it and she turned to the fire.

“Thank you,” he managed, with some difficulty, “for what you’ve done.” Speaking seemed harder than he remembered it to be. Maybe it was the drink, he thought.

She shot him an amused look over her shoulder and once more those eyes, those large gray eyes with so much words, so much feelings in them, impaled him.

“You looked like you needed help. I had the means to provide it. It’s nothing much, I assure you,” she said, and he wanted to say  “Oh, but it is, Lady, it is so much…” but somehow he could only manage another gruff “Thank you.”

She was stirring some sort of stew in a cauldron that filled the small kitchen with flavours and aroma. His mouth was watering quite eloquently.

“Almost done,” she said, a note of satisfaction in her voice. Holding out her small hand, she said:

“How unforgivably rude of me. Please excuse my lack of manners. My name is Sylvia.”

“Eric,” he managed to say, taking her hand in his. The feel of it was pure velvet; cool but soft, and he felt his heart lurch.

“Well, Eric,” Sylvia said, her smile once again amused, “if you would get us some bowls from that cupboard over there, I’ll prepare the table and we can eat.”

That sounded better than wonderful to him, and he rushed over to the cupboard she pointed out. There were only two bowls in the cupboard, and he handed them to Sylvia. The aroma of her cooking, combined with his hunger was making him light-headed. Or maybe it was the drink. It didn’t matter.

The stew, as its smell promised, was heavenly and for a long time he was incapable of speech as he ate first one, then two bowls. Sylvia, he noticed, seemed pleased at his appetite.

“Do you always eat this much, or only when you’re invading young, defenceless women’s hearth and home?” she asked, her eyes crinkling at the corner with unsuppressed mirth.

His first reaction was to blush furiously, and she chuckled softly, laying her hand over his for the briefest of seconds. He gave an embarrassed grin.

“I try to make a habit of not doing that, actually. Invading defenceless women’s hearth and homes, that is.”

She laughed again and nodded. “I’m sure you don’t, at that.”

He raised an eyebrow. “If you don’t mind me asking, how do you defend yourself?”

She stared at him, her eyes questioning. “Why would I need to defend myself? You’re not going to hurt me.”

He was a bit startled by the complete confidence in her tone.

“How do you know that? I could.”

She looked at him intently, her grey eyes looking through his own brown ones, it
seemed. Then she smiled and shook her head.

“No. You wouldn’t. You’re a man of blood, but not of cruelty. That’s why you could find this place. Find me.”

He was startled by that, but let it go. Something in her tone said that she didn’t feel like talking about it, so he changed direction.

“Where are we? I’ve never seen your cottage marked on any map. Did you set it up recently?”

She smiled at that, the same amused smile he remembered from earlier. It made her seem wiser, somehow, like a small child that knows too much.

“Oh, I’ve been here since practically forever. We’re quite a way away from the city, you know. Quite a way.”

He frowned, spooning another mouthful of broth into his mouth and thinking about what she had said.

“But, if we’re that far away, how do you get to work?”

She smiled again.

“I don’t work. Well, unless you want to call helping people work.” She threw back her hair and laughed, a silvery sound of tinkling bells. “I sure don’t.”

Eric smiled, a smile quickly replaced by a frown.  “Why did you?” he asked, casually dragging his spoon through the remainder of broth in his bowl but watching her from under his eyelids. She seemed startled at the question.

“Why did I what?”

“Why did you help me?”

Sylvia frowned, her expression bewildered.

“You were in pain. Something was haunting you. I can help.” She shrugged. “It’s what I do.”

What can you say to that? Eric nodded and finished the last of his supper mulling over Sylvia’s words. There was something that he missed, he just knew it. What was it she said earlier? He wouldn’t have been able to find the place if he wasn’t…

“You can give your dish to me when you’re done,” Sylvia said. Eric looked up in surprise to see her on the other side of the room, cleaning the bowl she had used.

He hadn’t heard her get up. For some reason this bothered him, but he shoved the feeling away. He’d quit being a cop more than five years ago. He wasn’t about to start playing detective all over again. Besides, his head was… fuzzy. Like his thoughts have all been wrapped in some kind of cotton. So he merely nodded and took his bowl over to her. After cleaning up the dishes, she took his hand and led him back to the other room, to the fire.

“Now, I must read your cards,” she said somehow solemnly, a strange expression on her face and a light in her eyes.

“My cards?”
She nodded. “If I am to help you, I must know the cause of your pain. I’m afraid it will not be easy for you.”

Eric frowned.

“But you have already helped me. You fed me, you gave me shelter… if you’d tell me roughly where the city is, I…”

Sylvia was shaking her head.

“No, I’m afraid you can’t, Eric. You cannot go back to the city you knew from here.”

“But…”

Sylvia shook her head again, her eyes never leaving his.

“I’m going to say it again, Eric. You can never go back to the city you knew from here. There is a magic in this place, which will allow me to help you, but that magic will also prevent you from returning to the world you know. You must trust me, and you must let me read your cards.”

He still had a hundred questions but her face was so serious he said nothing, only nodded as she disappeared briefly into the adjacent room, to reappear with something dark in her hands a few seconds later.  With great care, she unwrapped the silken material and took out a pack of worn cards. He was holding his breath but she was breathing steadily, her hands sure as she handed  the cards to him to shuffle.

They were taller than ordinary playing cards, with intricate golden and silver patterns on the back. The deck looked battered and very, very old.
He looked into her eyes while he shuffled until he could stand it no more, and then he looked at his hands. His bloodstained hands.

Like a brick wall, memory hit him and he could once again smell the blood, the death, see the glorious gold of his hair matted and red, feel his little broken body as he cradled it against him but too late, too late for those blue eyes.

The young gang leader  points his gun at him and he drops the newspaper that had been hiding his own gun, pulling the trigger even as he raises his arm.
It comes from behind, a crash and sudden pain in his shoulder that sends him reeling to the left, the muzzle of his gun pulled off-course to the right and the wayward bullet slamming into the clear blue eyes of a little boy whose only crime was going for a walk with his mom.

The world stops in the scream of the mother looking at the spot her baby had stood only seconds before.

“You killed him.” The mother of the dead boy, her voice accusing. “You killed my baby.”

Her eyes were old and dead, and Eric’s heart shuddered. The life of that little boy was not the only life that he had taken that day.

“I’m sorry,” he said, knowing that it wasn’t nearly enough, could never be enough. “I’m so sorry.”

He was surprised to find his voice breaking.

“I’ve been searching years for you, you know,” the mother said. Sunlight streamed through the window, right into her face, coaxing strands of gold out of her dark hair.

She did not notice the sunlight. For some reason, that bothered him immensely. Someone that young must notice the sunlight playing with her face, transforming it into something of beautiful. Carefully, he searched her face, her eyes for some sign that she felt the sun. She was oblivious, though, as she continued.

“Ever since they told me your name that day, I have been looking for you. It cost me everything, but I had to find you. I had to look into the face of the man who killed my baby once more.”

Eric swallowed. Her eyes were glassy and she was swaying. Something was not right. Her accusations stung him, though, ripped open the wound he thought he had buried.

“I didn’t mean it,” Eric said. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to kill him.”

The mother looked up, looking him full in the eye.

“But you did.”

The words hung between them, heavying the air. Desperately Eric searched for words, but there was nothing to say. She was right. He knew she was right, but there had to be something he could say, something to make her see…

She crumpled to the floor, and on instinct and reflex, he reached out. He barely caught her. Without the light of the sun to hide it, he could see that her face was pasty and clammy and he felt fear engulf him. The clammy skin. The glazed, dead eyes. The swaying. He cursed himself. He should have known. He should have done something. He should have…

By the time the ambulance arrived, she was dead. An overdose of sleeping pills, the coroner’s report said, taken about half an hour before she knocked on his door.

A nice and tidy suicide. Case closed.


“When you’re done, you may hand them to me.”

Sylvia’s voice shattered the images, and he nodded. Looking down at the cards in his hands, he could still see the dead woman’s grey eyes staring at him, accusing. With a shake of the head to dispel the images, he handed the cards to her. For a moment, their hands touched, and the world stood still as wave after wave of what felt like electricity currented through his body.

Then the cards were in her hands and the feeling was gone. He blinked, trying for a few moments to discern what the hell had happened, but the room was reeling –it must have been that drink; what the hell did she put in there? - and the thought flittered away.

He watched her hands as she preformed the last parts of the ritual, entranced by its fine bones, its slender fingers, its white, almost silver color.

She laid the cards down one by one, counting them out but saying nothing else until there were seven of them, laying face up on the table, accusing, condemning, saving him. She looked at them for a long time, her eyes half-closed and her breathing slow and regular, before looking up to him.

Her eyes were so large. He remembered that later, in half-forgotten dreams and in unguarded moments. Her eyes seemed to engulf the entire universe, seemed to encompass all of his soul. And they were swimming in tears, great big drops that gathered and spilled over the bottom lid onto her pale cheek where they rolled down her face. For a long time it seemed they stared at each other, Eric lost in the flood of her tears.

When finally the tears dried, she spoke one sentence, before she gathered up her cards and left to put them away, leaving him stunned and gasping, staring at where the cards where, trying to understand, mind spinning violently.

He didn’t notice her return until he felt her hand on his cheek, sending floods of alternating cold and heat through his body. She lifted his face to hers and once more, he found himself lost in the calm tranquillity of her eyes. She spoke again, repeating the same six words, and then she lowered her head.

She tasted sweet and light, somehow, like moonlight on dark midnight pools. He was lost instantly. With a soft groan, he pulled her closer, pressed her soft body to his as their lips met and parted, met and parted.

Her hands undid her dress until she stood naked before him, and there was the feeling of flesh on flesh, heat on heat, and then the night exploded into a million stars.

It should not be this way.

Darkness finally fell, bringing with it the old, dreaded dream.

The young gang leader points his gun at him and he drops the newspaper that had been hiding his own gun, pulling the trigger even as he raises his arm.
It comes from behind, a crash and sudden pain in his shoulder that sends him reeling to the left, the muzzle of his gun pulled off-course to the right and the wayward bullet slamming into the clear blue eyes of a little boy whose only crime was going for a walk with his mom.

The world stops in the scream of the mother looking at the spot her baby had stood only seconds before.

*  *  *  *

He folds the freshly delivered newspaper under his arm, setting out on a brisk walk, hoping to return to his apartment in time to catch the early morning news report, and maybe even a cup of coffee. It is still dark, dawn had not yet broken, and it had been a long shift.

They come from the shadowed buildings to his left, the clinking of their chains preceding them. He feels his heart beating faster, and he quickens his pace, hoping to avoid them. The last thing he wants is to be waylaid by one of the numerous gangs in the city. However, of course, it is too late. Three young men step from the shadows, one of the ones in the back muttering something to the leader.

The young leader nods grimly and takes a shiny black object from his pocket. With a trembling hand Eric draws his own firearm, concealing it with the newspaper, not stopping or even slowing his pace, his heart thundering like a drummer gone mad but his mind startlingly clear.

The leader points his gun, shouting something about killing all cops and Eric drops the newspaper. Light and understanding, the ghost of a memory, flashes through his mind and he spins to his left where he knows one of them is sneaking up on him, where he knows that one of them would cause a tragedy. Lowering the muzzle of the gun, he pulls the trigger before the young man can pull his, the bullet slamming into the leg of the youth that had been creeping up behind him.

A scream rises from the shot youth as the gangster hits the ground, but Eric pays it little heed.

He will live.

He turns back to where the young leader is staring with an expression of horror at the boy writhing and moaning, his gun dangling at his side. He doesn’t even notice the handcuffs or the words Eric speaks, and Eric realizes: This young man, this young gang leader, had never seen anyone shot before. 

The sirens wail their approach as Eric smiles at the little boy holding the hand of his mother; his eyes clear as the blue sky and his hair golden. He smiles back at Eric, shyly, as they start to move away, and in the recesses of his mind, Eric hears her words, her eyes red-rimmed as she looked up from the cards she had lain out.

It should not be this way.

As he watches the police cars and the ambulance approach, Eric is shaking with the tragedy of what had almost, so almost happened. Of what had happened, his memory insisted. What had happened, in another world, another life.

Of what had been set right now.

Fin.