John Schettler - Touchstone

She lost him once, and now she must lose him again. A line of poetry came to her, stubbornly, reflexively, as if to say that saving at least this much would mean something in the end… ‘My life closed twice before its close…’

Yes, she thought, how appropriate. I will endure this again, and then live with what remains. And when death finds me, somewhere ahead, it will seem a small and inconsequential thing to me then, after this. She held the poem close in her mind, and finished it as they reached the bottom of the elevator. It was Emily Dickinson, that shy wisp of a woman with the whole of life in the turning of one simple rhyme:

He arrivedon the dark of night, the chill of the Arch quickly giving way to a sensation of growing warmth. The sound of flowing water came to him next and, as the mist of the time shift dissipated, he gathered himself and scanned the low horizon for the moon. It was a thin sickle, hanging in a of jade black sky just above the darker shape ahead, which he immediately recognized as that of a great beast, silent in its repose as it waited for the dawn.

He stared at it, realizing that this was not the real sphinx, the stony lion that sat at the feet of the Great Pyramids, but it bore an uncanny resemblance. The Great Pyramids did not yet exist, and would not be built for another eighty centuries or more! Yet here this ancient artifice sat, guarding the eastern meridian where the faint glow of fading stars were now setting, low on the horizon. He immediately recognized the constellation as that of Orion—that the Egyptians might call ‘Osirus.’ As the moon crowned the head of the beast, he could make out the telltale shape of a crudely carved face, draped in shadow. Moments later, the silhouette was plain to see and he froze, as if the creature might spy him out where he stood on the gentle downward slope of a low hill.

For a moment he thought he perceived a glint of light emanating from the eye of that great carved face. But then he was possessed with a feeling of immense emotional weight, as if the burden of ten thousand years had suddenly come down upon his shoulders, the leaden legacy of all the centuries that stretched out between this moment and the time of his own life. The gleam in the eye of the beast was one of recognition, he thought. It was oblivious to all else around it—fleeting life that came and went in the barest wink of a moment compared to the vast span of its existence. But when Kelly appeared it took notice, one ancient thing regarding another in the silence of the desert. He felt old now, hobbled by time and the dire urgency of his mission.

His instinct told him to move, down from the exposed slope of the hill to the covered watercourse below, and he felt his legs labor with sluggish response. Must be the effects of the time shift, he thought. Paul had told him what to expect. Though this was not the first time he had moved in the continuum, the feeling of disorientation was greater now than either of his previous shifts.

Moving forward was feather light, he remembered. He felt as though he was simply evaporating to mist, and then suddenly appeared in the pristine white chamber of some future world. There he had met, and spoken again, with Mr. Graves, a man bound to the thread of his life by the mystery of Time and Paradox. They had saved him from certain annihilation, snatching him away from the hounds as they sought to fall upon him at the end of that first mission.

He remembered snatches of conversation, questions and answers he did not fully comprehend at the time. It was necessary to move him forward to the safety of a Nexus, Graves had told him, otherwise his life would be forfeit to Paradox. The mission, undertaken by Paul and Robert, had been a success. Somewhere, back along the desolate track of the thin rail line that led down from Maan to Medina, a moment had been found that would change all future moments. It was something that still remained unseen and hidden in the confounding complexity of Time, hidden by its own insignificance. Neither Paul nor Robert could discern it. They could not determine what they had done to change things, but the Pushpoint was there somewhere, replete with significance, the whole of Time wrapped tightly round one single instance of the ordinary. What was it? Was it something they said to one of the historical figures they encountered? Was it something Paul did while held captive on the train? Was it something Robert worked by changing the life course of the two Arab men he had stumbled upon? They would never know.

That thought filled him with anxiety as he reached the bottom of the hill and descended into the low, winding thread of the watercourse. He remembered Paul’s anxiety when a silly error had sent his friends millions of years into the past. The farther back you go, the greater the influence of every thing you do.

There was a distant flash of light in the sky and, seconds later, the low rumble of thunder. Storm coming, he thought, and there was something in the growl of the night sky that filled him with deathly fear. LeGrand had spoken of a floodgate he must find and open. Could they have known that, on this night, of all nights, the sky would open and rains would fall heavily upon the barren landscape, a tempest that would end this whole affair. He remembered the rains of the Bay Area that first night in May when they were planning the Shakespeare mission. It began with a storm, and it will end with one, he thought.

Shivering, he looked about him at the flowing stream. What was he supposed to do here? Look toward the moon, follow the water, LeGrand had told him. It would lead him towards the great beast of stone that guarded this place—the only sign of human civilization anywhere to be seen. What would he find there?

He had no idea whether the numbers provided by LeGrand were even accurate. For all he knew, the time shift could be well off the mark. Even a minor variance could find him decades from any moment where he could actually carry out his mission. Follow the watercourse. It will lead to an opening and become a hidden, underground stream. That is the way.

He looked at the wine dark waters, agleam with slivers of moonlight, and stooped briefly to let his hand dip into the stream. The water was slightly cool, and he could perceive a gentle tug as the water swept slowly along its way, heading east towards the dark mass of the sphinx. He looked around him, wondering if there were any other people about. Would not this gateway be guarded? LeGrand seemed to think the site would be free and clear, its makers, if they still existed, unwary of any intruder.

One way to find out, he knew, and he started along the muddied edge of the stream, following its winding course as he crept silently to the base of the immense monument. Up ahead there came the sound of falling water, and he soon came to a place where the stream cascaded down a steep incline in a low fall. The mist from the rising spay was cool and refreshing, awakening his senses as he searched for a path down. In the inky darkness, he could barely make his way, afraid that he might lose his footing at any moment and tumble into the water. Trusting to fate, he lowered himself until he sat at the base of the fall. Amazingly, the water flowed down a slight incline here and rushed into the mouth of an eroded cleft in the ground, vanishing from his sight.