K Parker - Pattern

'Shit,' he said, because (now that he thought of it) it was his first command, and he'd lost ten per cent of his unit through sheer carelessness. 'Quick,' he barked, 'get me a bucket of water. You, give me your coat.'

The soldiers stared at him as he struggled into a second coat and upended the bucket over his head. 'Hang on,' one of them said, 'you aren't thinking of going in there, are you?'

'Shut up,' he replied, dowsing his hat in the dregs of the bucket. 'Whatever you do, don't come in after me, understood?'

'Don't be bloody stupid,' one of them said, but by then he was already on his way. He heard them yelling, 'Come back, what the hell do you think you're doing?' as he scrambled clumsily through a ground-floor window and landed awkwardly on one foot, standing in a pile of glowing ash.

He had one hoarded lungful of air, no more. Get your bearings, he ordered himself. Door's on my right, Bofor was by the first bookcase on the left. He dropped down onto his hands and knees-he could feel the skin on his palms scorching, but physical pain was the least of his problems-and scuttled like a hyperactive toddler across the floor in what he hoped was the right direction. Of course he couldn't see anything but smoke, so thick it was practically solid; but he'd got this far, so it was inconceivable that he'd fail now. Fat Bofor would still be alive, all he had to do was grab his ankles and walk backwards, straight out through the door. It would be simple, easy if he factored out the pain and injury. He wouldn't be here and still alive if it wasn't going to work out just fine in the end.

Something came down thump a foot or so to his left, making him jump so sharply that he almost let go of his breath. It could have been a bookcase collapsing, or a length of rafter; or just a particularly thick and heavy book toppling off a burnt-through shelf; it didn't matter, there wasn't enough time. He had to be crawling in the right direction, Fat Bofor had to be here somewhere, already so close that he could stretch out and grab him. He couldn't fail, because otherwise He felt a stunning blow across his shoulders. It knocked all the air out of him, and when he breathed in, all he got was unbearable smoke. Oh, he thought; and 'Hello,' he said. 'What are you doing here?'

His friend laughed at him. 'Don't be stupid,' he replied cheerfully. 'I live here, remember?'

He frowned. 'Oh,' he said. 'I thought you'd got a transfer to Deymeson.'

'I did,' his friend replied. 'I was there for years, on and off, when I wasn't charging about running errands. But then some bloody fool came along and set light to the place, so here I am.'

This didn't make any sense. 'You've got to get out of here quick,' he pointed out. 'Can't you see it's on fire?'

But his friend shook his head. 'They rebuilt it,' he said, as if pointing out the painfully obvious. 'I ended up here as Father Prior, would you believe? Me, of all people. Truth is, there were so few of us left, anybody with any seniority got made an abbot or a prior. Still, when you think of what old Horse's-Arse used to say about me when we were novices-The day they make you an abbot, the world will come to an end. Bloody odd to think he got that right.'

'Who are you?' the younger man asked.

'But here's me,' his friend went on, 'boasting about landing a rotten little priorship. Look at you, though, talk about the novice most likely to succeed. They may have made me a prior; they've gone and made you a fucking god.' His eyebrows pulled together into a comic scowl. 'Actually,' he said, 'I think that was taking it a bit too far. I mean, how can I be expected to fall down and worship someone who still owes me the two quarters I won off you for long spitting?'

'What's happening?' he demanded. 'Are you real, or is this a dream or something?'

His friend laughed. 'Is this a dream, he asks,' he crowed. 'Oh for pity's sake, Ciartan, of course it's a dream, otherwise you'd be dead. What you should be asking yourself is, which dream am I in, now or later? Bet you don't know.'

'You aren't real,' the younger man said accusingly. 'I'm hallucinating, and you don't exist.'

'There's no need to be offensive,' his friend replied. 'Anyway, you couldn't be more wrong if you tried. Of course I'm here. I'm at least twice as much here as you are. I'm just not letting it get to me, that's all.'

Suddenly he understood; about time, too. 'You're from years ahead in the future,' he said.

'Took you long enough to figure that one out, didn't it?' his friend mocked him. 'And you still aren't there yet. When did you get to be so stupid, then? Back when we were novices, everybody said how bright you were.'

'The future and the past,' he amended. 'You're from when we were both students, and you're from some time in the future where you've been made Father Prior. So, where am I, then?'

His oldest friend clicked his tongue impatiently. 'Oh, come on,' he said. 'Don't be so bloody feeble. You never used to be like this, you know. I think maybe it was the bash on the head, did more than just make you lose your memory. All right, then, let's see if we can't figure this out from first principles. I'm not really here, but you can see me and you can talk to me, back here in this place where we first met when we were novices together. Now, do you want to take a wild guess, or do I have to spell it out for you?'

'Spell it out for me,' he replied. 'I'm not proud.'

'Fine.' His friend shrugged, and became-naturally enough-a huge crow, pinned to the floor by a fallen rafter, as the fire caught in its feathers. 'Let me tell you a few things about yourself. I always wanted to tell you, but you know, you aren't the sort of person who takes criticism well. You've never wanted to hear unpleasant truths about yourself, and you've always been a bit too quick on the draw, so to speak. There was always a remote chance that pointing out your little weaknesses and faults of character might earn your helpful friend a swift chop to the neck. But here I am.' The crow tried to flap its broken wings, but couldn't. 'Nothing you can do to me, I'm as good as dead already. So here goes.'

The bird's feathers were full of fire and he couldn't bear its pain; but he couldn't move either, being trapped under the same rafter. 'No, please,' he said, but the crow didn't seem to hear him.

'Once upon a time,' said the crow, 'there was a young man who lived in a far country, a huge island in the middle of the sea. Everything was very pleasant there, if you like that sort of thing, and the people who lived there were a single-minded lot, rather like a mob of crows. You know what I mean by that; birds of a feather who flock together, and just the one fairly straightforward mind between them. But then the young man did something very bad; and although his grandfather forgave him and nobody else who mattered knew about it, it seemed sensible for the young man to clear out for a while, just a year or so, until things could be put right. So the young man got on a ship that was bound for the great and practically defenceless empire on the other side of the world. While he was away, he might as well make himself useful; so he was given the job of finding out as much as he could about the place he was going to-you see, his people had a very helpful sideline in robbing and plundering the great and practically defenceless empire, but they were hampered a bit by not knowing an awful lot about it, and a little reliable fieldwork would make life a whole lot easier. Besides, they had a friend in the empire, a very bad man who helped them out in exchange for a cut of the takings, but they didn't know very much about him, either, and it seemed like a good idea to get rid of him and maybe put in someone of their own, who could be trusted implicitly' The crow's beak was starting to melt in the desperate heat, making it look faintly ridiculous. 'Are you with me so far, or do you want me to go back over all that?'