Instructor Beele was a thin, middle-aged man with ear and nose hair amusingly disproportionate to the hair on his scalp. As he paced before his students, lecturing on theories of time measurements, that wispy hair blew frantically in the coastal wind.
“Units of time have, of course, been guided by the sun for centuries,” he said with a vague gesture upward. The sun was half-hidden behind brooding clouds, the sea restless, its soft roar underlying Beele’s words. “Other methods included heartbeats and the blinking of the eyes. On a grander scale, years have been divided into recordable measurements: the saecula, the aion, the lustrum, the olympiad …”
Students sat on blankets along the shore. They did not take notes, as most of them couldn’t write. This was a lecture they had to listen to and remember.
Which was why Bell glared at Castor whenever he flung little rocks at Bell’s leg, or made faces when Beele wasn’t looking, or leaned over to murmur in his ear.
“I wonder what unit of time is named after one of Beele’s lessons,” Castor whispered.
Bell couldn’t resist. “A beelenium,” he whispered back. They snickered as a couple other students gave them sidelong looks.
The Instructor stopped mid-pace. “Is there something you two find amusing?”
Castor cleared his throat. “No, sir.”
“Stand up, Bell.”
Flushed and ready to kill Castor as soon as they were alone, Bell stood and brushed the sand from his trousers.
Beele eyed him skeptically. “Since you’ve grown bored with time units, let’s alter the topic slightly. Name the five Gaian gods.”
Bell swallowed. “There’s, er, Chronos.”
“Who is?”
“Who’s the creator of time. And there’s Aetas”—he paused to bow toward the sea—“who was given the gift of time when Chronos could no longer control it.”
“Keep going,” Beele said.
“Oceana, the giver of water. Aetas takes refuge with her. It’s said that they were born together. Then there’s Caelum, the overseer of the sky and the heavens, who moves the sun and moon and stars. And Terra, the protector of earth, who grows our crops and raises mountains.” He glanced down to see Castor clapping quietly.
“Very good. Now tell me, since you already seem to know everything I have to say regarding time units, how Aetas came to be the Timekeeper?”
Bell chewed on his lips. Sheepishly, he shook his head.
“Sit down, then.”
Bell plopped down next to Castor, who sniggered as Bell poked him hard in the ribs.
“Chronos,” Beele said, resuming his pacing, “was born when the universe was breathing its first gasps. He is said to be the father of time. He understood how it moved and gave it shape. It had a will of its own, you see. Time is a flighty, complex thing; it will go in any direction, all at once, without control.
“Chronos saw this and set the earth on a straight track forward. One small slip, one pattern unraveled, and earth’s time would tangle together like a ball of twine. We would go forward and backward, experience the same day in ten different ways, witness our births as we experienced our deaths. Chronos is the giver of time, the founder of what we know as history.”
Beele stopped to stare out at the ocean for a moment, hands held clasped behind his back. “But it was too much, even for Chronos. Weary and losing control, he cut off four of his fingers, which grew into the four other Gaian gods. Aetas and Oceana were born first—in that, Bell, you were correct. Chronos gave Aetas power over time, and Aetas went to earth with Oceana to be closer to his new power.”
Beele took a deep breath and turned back to his students. “What you all felt in the sea during your initiation was more than time. It was Aetas allowing you to see and sense it for yourself, as he does. Time is not a tapestry, cleanly woven; it is far more complicated. You will do well to remember and respect that.”
Over the ground, Castor’s hand had found Bell’s, their fingers twined together.
“Sir?” A girl had raised her hand. “If Aetas is the one controlling time, then how come only time servants can feel it? My sister and parents can’t, but I can.”
Beele was rarely defeated by a question, and it showed in his frown. “That, we do not know. It’s one of the great questions that has no answer. A theory, of course, is that Aetas requires only some of us to help him regulate time over all the world. It’s too big a task for one being, even if that being is a god. So we offer ourselves to Aetas, aware of him always. That is what keeps this world turning.”
Abigail had another fever. Their mother had gone to help an elderly aunt and their father was working late, so Bell sat by her bedside throughout the day, spooning broth into her mouth, returning to the hearth to boil water for tea. He went out to pick herbs, plants that his mother and her mother before her had been taught to use as cures for ailments.
When Abigail was awake, he told her stories of his lessons. She loved to hear about the ocean and the waves and how it felt to be immersed in the water.
“Time was everywhere at once, and it was so large, and so frightening. And so lovely.” He brushed the hair off of her forehead. “I wish you could feel it, Abi.”
“Take me to the ocean, then.”
“I will when you’re better.”
As the sun began to set, he heard a knock at the door. Castor waited on the other side, a small, wilted daisy in his hand. “It looked better before I picked it,” Castor said, handing him the drooping flower.
“That’s why they’re supposed to stay in the ground.” Bell took the flower and twirled it by its stem, grinning. “Would you like to come in for supper?”
Castor lifted a loaf of bread wrapped in cloth. “Baked this morning.”
They made a meal of the bread, fresh butter, dried apples, and the last of the crumbly cheese Bell’s mother had bought at market. He knew his parents wouldn’t mind; the past two years had seen Castor come and go from the house on a regular basis.
If his parents knew the truth of their relationship, however, it would be quite a different matter.
Castor helped clear the table. “You know, I haven’t seen you in a couple days. I’d hoped for another sort of greeting.”
“Such as?”
Castor wrapped his arms around him. Bell returned the embrace, leaning in until they were cheek to cheek.
“I missed you,” Castor whispered.
“It hasn’t been that long.”
“You’re so cruel. It’s been ages.”
“A generation.”
“A century.”
“An olympiad.”
“A beelenium.”
They turned their heads and kissed. Bell felt Castor’s smile against his own. He kissed him again and again until those lips softened and parted.
A small voice called down the stairs.
“Abigail heard you,” Bell said, a bit breathless.
“I want to see her.”
Castor was quite popular with Abigail. He made her laugh and usually brought small treats, like a sweetmeat or a game. Castor plucked the sorry flower from the table and bounded up the stairs, Bell following at a slower pace.
“For you, my lady.” Castor knelt, presenting the wilted daisy to Abigail. She giggled and took the flower with a faint blush.
“I thought that was mine,” Bell complained.
Castor raised his dark eyebrows. “You didn’t appreciate it nearly enough. Now, if you’d had that reaction, I would have reconsidered.”
“Stop teasing my brother,” Abigail scolded. “Tell me a story instead.”
“If you insist.” Castor sat on the bed and Bell dragged over the stool. “How about the story of the three little pigs?”
“No.”
“Rumpelstiltskin?”
“No! One I haven’t heard before.”
“Hmm.” Castor rubbed his chin. Bell noticed that Castor sometimes had a vague shadow of stubble along his jaw and just under his nose. It made his upper lip feel prickly when they kissed, but he didn’t mind. In fact, he rather liked it.
“How about I make up a story?” Castor gestured to Bell on the stool. “We both will.”
Abigail clapped her hands in delight. “Yes!”
Their eyes met, each waiting for the other to start. Castor’s eyes crinkled in amusement.
“There was once a boy …” he began.
“Who received a royal summons,” Bell continued.
“To see the princess of another country.”
“But that country was at war.”
“So he became a soldier.”
“And fought for whichever side needed him most.”
“He tried to make it to the princess.”
“Because she waited for him always in a tower of the castle.”
“And she couldn’t leave.”
“For fear that he would never find her.”
“But there was a battle in the very field that lay before the castle.”
“And in that battle was the boy.”
“A sword pierced him, and he fell to the ground, injured and bleeding.”
“The princess saw, and feared for his life.”
“She didn’t want to leave the tower, but she knew now that she must.”
“She dressed as a soldier and fought in the boy’s stead.”
“She stood over him, swinging her sword at anyone who came near.”
“And when their side won, she dragged him into the castle to be healed.”
“When the boy woke, he saw the princess splattered with blood, and looking more beautiful than he had ever imagined.”
“The princess kissed him, and they were very happy.”
The boys sat smiling at each other, Abigail almost forgotten until she cleared her throat. “And? Did they get married?”
“I suppose so,” Castor said. “If you want them to.”
“I want them to.”
“Then they did.”
Abigail said she liked the story very much. Castor tried to wheedle her into telling one of her own, but she fell into a coughing fit. Bell hurried to get her a cup of water. By the time he returned, her face was red with the strain. He stood staring at his sister’s emaciated frame, taking in her hollow cheeks and thinning hair. Castor rubbed her arm and asked if she was all right. But all Bell could do was think about when they’d believed she was getting better, that maybe her body was becoming stronger.
All lies.
He walked to the dresser on his side of the room and, opening the top drawer, searched for a new handkerchief for her. There were no clean ones. He closed his eyes tight and held onto the dresser’s surface.
When he opened his eyes again, he caught his own face in the chipped mirror. Blue eyes, as blue as his sister’s, stared back at him. A few freckles stubbornly clung to his pale nose. His brown hair was getting shaggy in the back; his mother would insist on cutting it soon.
Something moved in the mirror. Bell did not turn, instead watching Castor’s reflection as it came closer.
“Come back,” Castor whispered. “She needs to see you.”
“But I can’t see her. Not like this. Not anymore.” Bell’s eyes filled with tears, distorting their reflections.
Castor touched his arm. “She relies on you so much. You have to be strong for her. And I promise I’ll help in any way I can.” Bell watched as Mirror Castor leaned their heads together, arms encircling his body.
“I’ll always look after her,” Castor whispered. “I promise, Colton.”
The world came roaring back, bringing a fresh wave of pain with it. Colton doubled over, choking on a scream. His side was on fire, his chest wound too tight. The cogs at his back flared, sensing his distress, and the pinprick of Enfield in his mind grew more distant than ever.
He rubbed at his chest with small, panicked moans. They echoed off the metal floor, surrounding him with the sound of his own fear. He didn’t worry about anyone hearing him. In that moment, the enormity of the world was forgotten, and he was the only thing in existence.
Slowly, he sat up and leaned against the hull. He covered his eyes with a shaking hand, then his mouth, then his chest again.
He had wondered. Had tried to evade the thought—it had seemed too impossible, too absurd—but he couldn’t ignore it any longer, staring him in the face the same way he’d stared at his own reflection.
They weren’t dreams. They weren’t memories of someone else’s life.
They were his memories.