Chapter 13
Encounter

Sarah lay shivering wet on the edge of the shore and looked dimly outward without recognition. She had spent the better part of the day lying prone on the rocky beach just east of the cliff’s edge where she had materialized, unable to focus her attention or give any thought to what she would do or how to get away from this place. Reasoning that the lighthouse’s ruins were her best bet, she had swum down to them, but upon arriving she discovered that the panes of glass lay inert and powerless during the day. Dejected, she had simply given up momentarily, and stayed on the rocks trying to warm up and thinking of nothing but cold.

After a long time in the sun, the heat returned to her limbs and her mind began to function clearly again. It was clear that the glass had been her mode of transportation, but how had its portal come to rest in the place where it had? She did not know of anything particularly unique about the site, nor its history, but surely something must have caused this artifact to be situated in that precise place.

She had long since ceased to wonder if she were dreaming or not. Regardless of the fantastic events which were happening around her, the experiences she was having bore the mark of genuine occurrences. The famous old saying about the sage who was not sure whether he was a man dreaming he was a butterfly or vice versa came to her readily; the consequences of her actions were effectively the same either way, so she had decided to act as though these circumstances were real until she had considerable evidence to the contrary.

Convinced for the moment of the reality of her surroundings, she was struck by the notion that the occurrences of these days in her life could be the source of a countless number of inspired and individual creative works in which she was trapped. Her mind, as per its mandate, constantly tried to organize the things which she saw into convenient two-dimensional models. This effort was confounded by the addition of another dimension: time. Sarah’s trip through the pane of glass had caused her perception of time to change; rather than a linear progression of events, she began to see through to the fluid and dynamic structure of their passage, and their connection traversed a plethora of universes in her mind. Flickers of the future and past of this place would catch in her peripheral vision; at times, it seemed that the whole area where she lay was submerged in water, while in others it was barely touched during low tide and the cliff had not yet risen out of its rocky base. Her pupils contracted with the sudden arrival of sunrise with light that seemed to oscillate wildly and then steady out, before another abrupt interruption of the normal stream would bring darkness for a moment ere switching back to the ordinary realm’s ways.

Despite these momentary dilations in the passage of time, in due course night fell again with a fair degree of security, and the stars became visible in the chill, foggy air. The members of various constellations and asterisms drizzled their way into Sarah’s brain, their beautiful flux made apparent in the form of glowing orbs which were lights spreading through the mist and refracting off the tiny droplets therein, gathering halos about themselves and waiting just out of reach to be cradled and cupped like fireflies in the hands. Absorbed in this luminous storm, she did not make the connection and note the source of another marvelous light which was sparking below, the auroral glow which spread outward from the wrecked lamp and started the renewal of the windowpanes’ potency. It was several moments, or perhaps days, that she spent hypnotized by the lustrous display above before she even noticed that something else was going on. Tearing away her gaze from the heavens, she realized that the light faintly visible under the water must signal the start of some new marvel. Hastily, she rose to her feet and dove once again to the ruined lighthouse in order to see what she might find.

Opening her eyes beneath the waves, she noted several scenes, but found one that resembled to an alarming degree her vision of the Library of Alexandria, yet this image was of a place undamaged by water and apparently still functional as an institution. Against her better judgment, she yielded to her desire for exploration, and touched her finger to the plate.

At once she found herself stumbling as though from a fall, in the midst of a host of bookshelves housing thousands of papyrus scrolls that must have comprised one of the earliest forms of historical documentation. She noted a scribe working at a desk with his back turned to her, busy copying one of the manuscripts which he had at his left hand. Moving quietly so as not to attract his notice, she crept to the shelf and pulled out one of the scrolls, unrolling it carefully. Within, a technical drawing of one of the Greeks’ prized inventions, the Archimedean screw, captured her fancy with its elegance and supreme sense of utility and proportion. How attractive and simple this idea remained, even long after she first had been exposed to it! The creator’s own touch had a certain almost frightening aura of power about it, with its ability to compel over the centuries.

Her senses were suddenly overcome by the sheer volume of intimidating intellect by which she felt herself surrounded. The inventiveness of so many, even those who had built the Library itself, resonated in a place deep within, such that it felt like awakening from a long sleep to discover that one had lived one’s entire life with eyes closed and mind distinctly shut. On a level deeper than she could fathom, at the very ocean floor within her, the bedrock was riven and beginning to fissure, permitting a modicum of intense heat to escape, and she knew that the erosion would only increase. It was enough to almost make her forget that she still had the obligation to avoid detection by the unwitting scribe, who had just stood up and was in the middle of turning around when she hastily took a deep breath and touched the pane again.

Confused, the scholar looked about and shook his head. Clearly, his imagination was producing curiously young and female tricks of the eye.

Back in the lighthouse, Sarah cast about quickly for some other locale that promised some kind of passage, when she noticed that one of the panels closely resembled the place from which she had left, in terms of the greenery and topography if not in the presence of the concrete structures. Running out of air and hard-pressed to think of alternatives, she touched the pane without a second thought and found herself standing on the grassy bank and looking about in bewilderment.

Suddenly, she saw standing before her a tall African man, who seemed just as surprised to see her as she was to notice him. Noting his curiously altered, asymmetric way of dress, she quickly surmised that he was not a local individual, and made a cautious greeting while she tried to size him up.

“Hello?”

“Hello,” he responded, in a somewhat clipped and very neutral accent. Neutral was perhaps not the right word; it was indeed average, but seemed to correspond to some mean that was a little apart from that which lay within her own experience.

“What’s your name, if I may ask?”

“Bernard. And yours?”

“Sarah. Tell me, do you happen to know where we are?”

“I believe this is San Francisco, although I am not certain. I trust you have used the lighthouse gate to come here.”

Then he, too, believed it to be part of the Bay Area. But where were the concrete buildings and skyscrapers with which she was acquainted? Where was the Golden Gate in its vermillion majesty? “Yes, I did. Are you its creator?”

“No, no,” he replied. “I am, I believe, as much in the dark about it as you are. If I may ask, what century are you from?”

Sarah found this question extremely strange, but answered nonetheless. “The 21st, of course. I live in the San Francisco of that time, although this city does not resemble it very closely.”

“Ah, I see. Then the lighthouse truly is anchored with respect to the main timeline... but why a portal here, and at this time?”

“I couldn’t say. Tell me, do you mean to say you aren’t? From my century, I mean.”

“I live in the 22nd century. In any case, through a cursory examination of the city’s buildings and layout, this appears to be a manifestation of the region as it appeared in the early 1900’s. While I cannot be sure, I feel confident that this particular site, also, is to be near to the location of an event of some importance, either presently or in the future. Still, I have reached no definite conclusions, and have not received no indication of what form this event may take.“

“Why are you here all alone?”

“Not alone. I have brought along with me a companion, Alice, who is currently doing some investigation about ways to travel to the mainland. Originally, I thought I would be trapped here, fearing the disappearance of the panes during the day, but it became evident that they reappeared each night with the same power as before. I therefore invited her to accompany me, and being a historian, she jumped at the opportunity to have a first-hand look at the past. Our own vessels, however, have had no success in making the trip with us, and so we have been forced to seek other means to transport ourselves while in the past. This time period, as you see, predates the construction of your marvelous Golden Gate Bridge, so we’re obliged to either swim or construct a raft of some kind, if we wish to avoid asking for direct assistance from the locals who may be somewhat... perturbed by our strange manner and inability to explain how we arrived.”

“Then what do you propose to do for the moment?”

“Simply wait. Alice is even now preparing to complete a small craft using tried-and-true methods from her studies, and it will certainly be enough to accommodate you as well, if not more. Her skill is quite remarkable, since the rest of us mostly rely on the simplicity of matter generation to deal with all of our construction needs.”

The sky had an expectant and oppressive brightness about it, with directionless searing light pouring out of every centimeter of its area that made it seem a continuous fabric set ablaze and descending to envelop the world. Falling on the ocean’s surface, its blossoming light turned the waves alternately rusty and golden, creating a gently flowing protective quilt atop the bay. Sarah was mesmerized by the display for a moment, until she realized suddenly that there was a figure floating in the midst of the water, a man’s head bobbing listlessly as though dead. Shocked, she cried out and ran down to the water’s edge. Steeling herself, she leapt into the water despite her dread and hurried out to reach the person and carry him onto shore.

She laid down the heavy burden and looked more closely at the one whom she had rescued. There were barely any signs of life; it was a Japanese man in the prime of youth, considerably worse for wear from long immersion in the ocean water, but nevertheless revealing a certain handsomeness that belied his haggard appearance. Bernard had come running after her, and regarded the man gravely, kneeling to check his pulse and listen for his breath. Although he was alive, it was not at all certain that he would remain so.

“He’s severely dehydrated, first of all. Help me carry him up to the stream where we can get him some fresh water,” Bernard said.

Hoisting him on their shoulders, the two walked up the paths to the small brook and eased him down by the edge. All around were bright wildflowers that reflected in the water with a heartbreaking air of melancholy about them, as though they had been frozen in place like hundreds of tragic Narcissuses, unwittingly trapped in place and cursed to stare in the liquid mirror forever. The instant he was set down, they seemed to wilt around him, apparently crushed by the weight and the sudden heat that emanated from the sleeping body. Sarah moved forward to touch him, but soon found that his skin was unbelievably hot upon any contact, and withdrew her fingers as though burned; she realized that he had been this feverish before, but she had hardly noticed in the adrenaline rush of her initial rescue. Cupping her hands to gather some water, she brought a small amount close to his lips and forced him to drink with as much tenderness as her concern and haste could allow. He coughed slightly, and the others were pleased but noted that he remained prone and unconscious, his temperature remaining alarmingly high. Since there was no other treatment available to them, the pair continued gently pouring cool water on his burning temples at intervals, hoping to break the fever that had possessed his body.

An hour passed, then another; there was a slight decrease in temperature, but their charge remained as unconscious as ever. Bernard, satisfied that his condition had stabilized enough to leave him be, went off to retrieve Alice and procure her help in treating their unexpected patient. Sarah peered at the man again, noting that his appearance had drastically improved with the decrease in fever, until he seemed to have almost returned to his former state. Maybe it was only an illusion created by his vulnerability and unconscious mannerisms, but she felt a certain undeniable attraction to his contemplative features and knit brow as if he lay in silent meditation rather than a strange and impenetrable oblivion. She pushed this thought to the back of her mind, in light of its definite impropriety, but the suggestion had been present and she was powerless to avoid it now. It was best to consider the more immediate problem of how he was to be broken out of his coma rather than give audience to any such thoughts at this time.

Seeking some example from her own past, Sarah dimly remembered how her father had once talked her out of a delirious fever with only a single cold compress and his words. She tried to recall the precise things which he had said, but they were lost; she only knew the tone of voice which had been used, a calm intonation as smooth and tranquil as water. She dipped her hand into the stream, and laying it against his forehead, began to tell him a story though she knew that he could not hear her. The flowers around them seemed to lean in to listen to her tale, as if they were interested in what she had to say.

“Once upon a time, a man named Dalton came from far away to visit the village of a peasant woman who was renowned far and wide for her beauty. He went to her with high expectations, believing that he would find her, overcome all the other suitors with his superior ability in fighting and rhetoric, and win her to be his wife. On a horse he had come, a friendly mare with a dun coat that had always been particularly well-mannered and calm. Although she was not as magnificent to see as some equines could be, her placid eyes reflected the light of the sun, moon, and stars in their deep pools, and he was grateful for her excellent service and modest but quite sufficient speed.

“The man finally arrived at dawn one day, fully expecting to find the girl easily, for she was said to be the most beautiful lady known to the dwellers of the lands within miles around. He asked the first person whom he saw: ’Who is the most beautiful woman in this village?’ The young girl who answered smiled sweetly and said, ’Why, it is the one called Belinda who lives by the creek in a hut under a willow.’ He thanked her and hastened to the place that had been pointed out to him. Expecting a line of rivals for her affection, he was surprised to note that no one else had come to try and woo her. When he arrived, he saw the willow sweeping over the low curve of the hut’s roof, and proceeded to knock at the door with great anticipation.

“A woman answered the door, with features which appeared somewhat plain, although they were partly concealed by shadows, and asked what he wanted. He looked over her shoulder surreptitiously, trying to catch a glimpse of the lovely specimen purported to live within. ’Is the beautiful maiden named Belinda in this house?’ he asked. ’No,’ she replied, and closed the door in his face.

“Frustrated, he returned to the village, and asked the next person that he saw, ’Please, tell me the name of the most beautiful woman in this village.’ The baker, an old man by this time weary from his years of work, answered without hesitation. ’Belinda, who lives by the water in a hut beneath the willow.’ Shaking his head, Dalton proclaimed, ’I have been there already, and the plain girl within claims that there is no such person living in that hut.’

“’Nevertheless, I know this to be true,’ replied the baker, and he returned to his task of kneading the dough for the next batch of loaves. Dalton sighed, conceding that perhaps he had been mistaken, and painstakingly retraced his steps to the creek, taking his horse up and down alongside it to make sure that there were no other willow trees with huts beneath them. Grudgingly convinced, he returned to the hut once again and knocked at the door. ’Yes?’ called the woman inside, opening the door a crack. ’I must ask you again, is there a fair maid named Belinda in this house?’

“’No, there is not,’ she responded, and closed it again. Convinced that the townspeople were making some devious attempt to trick on him, he returned angrily to the village and inquired of a young boy playing jacks, ’Can you tell me who is the most beautiful woman in the vicinity?’ Like the others, he began to say ’Belinda, who –’ but Dalton interrupted him impatiently. ’Only one woman lives in that house, and she is very plain. Are you sure that she is said to truly be the most beautiful?’ Shrugging, the boy replied, ’Yes, so it is said.’

“Growing shrewd, or so he thought, Dalton said ’Ah, but perhaps she is the most beautiful in mind! Tell me, who is the cleverest woman in this village?’ And the boy replied once more, ’Belinda, who lives by the creek underneath the willow.’

“Convinced that he had solved the riddle, he went back to the house by the creek. ’Does the clever woman Belinda live in this house?’ Again came the implacable reply, ’No, she does not.’

“Bewildered, he returned yet again to the village, accosting the next person to walk past. ’Tell me, where does Belinda live?’ A mother responded, ’In a hut that lies under the branches of the willow by the water.’ Humbly and without any idea of what he planned, he came to the house beneath the tree and asked, ’May I speak with Belinda?’ Opening the door, she said ’Yes,’ but did not step out into the light.

“’Why did you refuse to see me before?’ Dalton asked. Glancing at him coolly, she responded, ’First, tell me how you chose your horse.’ Confused, he said, ’She is not the fastest or most lovely of mares, but I saw her and knew that she was for me. I have been satisfied ever since.’

“’Even so. Now think: first, you sought the most beautiful woman in the village. I am not she. Then you sought the cleverest woman in the village. I am not she, either. However, this time you have asked for Belinda, and I am she. Therefore I have come to speak with you,’ she said, and she stepped out into the light.

“Seeing her in the sunlight, he realized that she was indeed beautiful in mind and body, and the two were wed within the month, living happily in spite of their imperfections until the end of their days.”

At the conclusion of her story, Sarah noticed with barely restrained excitement that a slight smile had appeared on his face, although he was still not able to awaken from his deep, abiding sleep. The flowers around them assumed intertwining positions, liberated from their obligation to peek forlornly at the water and instead facing the sun in jubilation, surrounded suddenly by honeybees that came in droves to trace staggering paths through the air and collect the nectar from the generous cups that were everywhere.

On the horizon, she noted Bernard returning with a lithe woman with long black hair and intense dark eyes. They came close, and the woman eyed the prone figure before her with concern before she turned to Sarah with a disarming smile.

“Hello, Sarah. I’m Alice,” she declared in the same clipped accent that Bernard had used, extending a hand. “How do you do?”

Sarah had been so overwhelmed earlier that she had failed to realize that Bernard had neglected to take part in this greeting, while Alice seemed to have retained the formulaic niceties of her own time. Pleased, she shook the woman’s hand and directed her attention to the state of her fallen companion.

“He’s been cooling down, and even begins to show signs of reaction to my voice, but I can’t get him to wake up.”

“I see. I’m glad to hear that his condition is improving, but I’m afraid I have some troubling news. My knowledge of the record of this era indicates that we are currently approaching a catastrophic event of sorts, and it may mean that our lives will be in danger if we remain. Yet we are unable to leave now, particularly with an injured man who we are incapable of transporting with us, if it would even be appropriate to do so. Thus, for the present, we must stay here and hope for the best,” she said.

“And what catastrophic event are you referring to?”

“Judging from the construction dates I have observed on buildings on the mainland, the year is 1906. This year, one morning in April, the city of San Francisco is rudely awakened at 5:12 AM by a sudden jolt. Twenty to twenty-five seconds later, an earthquake begins with one of the greatest forces known in the recorded history of mankind. And we appear to be quite a short distance indeed from the epicenter.”

“What do you propose that we do?” Sarah asked almost pleadingly.

“We haven’t much choice,” said Bernard. “Simply put, we wait until it happens and sit it out as best we can.”

“Won’t people be hurt? Don’t we have the obligation to help them?”

Alice shrugged. “It is not necessarily within our purview to lend assistance to people in the past, since we have no way of knowing how we may alter history by doing so. Even your discovery of this man may constitute an unforgivable interference in the timeline, but having subsequently removed him from harm’s way in such a state, it does not seem right to simply abandon him to a fate we do not fully understand. It may be that you were meant to find him in any case, in which case we are merely fulfilling the roles that chance has assigned us, and we are not at all at fault for helping him. Regardless, the choice is made, and we must now see it through to its conclusion.”

“How soon do you think the event will occur?”

“All indications point to a time in the very near future... most likely tomorrow,” Bernard said.

“Very well. Then, in the meantime, we wait,” Sarah sighed, not knowing what the day to come would bring as the evening rushed forward into night and edged against the next morning in its regrettable haste. E-mail: vokuro@adelphia.net