Dreams and Shadows (The Aylosian Chronicles Book 1) (6 page)

“Why?” he called back angrily, not even slowing his pace. He felt a little guilty at snapping at her, but he was still in a foul mood for his imprisonment at the front desk for most of the day. Plus, idle chat would delay his urgent study.

“Just stop, will you,” came the insistent reply.

He could still hear her hurrying after him, and her persistence over-ruled his annoyance briefly; his feet halting in front of the Guildhall. As he turned back to face her, however, he made sure that his deep huff was visible, hoping the obvious impatience would keep her interruption brief.

“What?” he demanded when she caught up to him.

“Oh, we’re into single syllable conversation now, are we?” she observed, “That’s very mature of you.” Beth’s Welsh accent seemed to become more pronounced when Beth was angry – and by the sound of her voice now, she was working up to it.

He raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips, hoping she could see that he wanted her to make her point quickly.

Sighing, she lowered her voice. “What’s the matter with you, Michael? You’ve not been yourself the last couple of days. Usually you’re the perfect worker, but this week, you’re getting into trouble all the time. That old bat is taking it out on us all, you know.”

Michael felt his irritation grow. “Is that what you want to talk about? Maggie’s in a bad mood, and it’s all my fault?”

“No,” she replied. “Look, I know we’re only work friends, but we’re still friends, and you just don’t seem to be right this week.” She tried to get eye contact with him, but he kept his gaze deliberately over Beth’s right shoulder towards the Guildhall as she continued, “Yesterday morning, you were standing in front of the shops – just standing there. It was all very strange, Michael, and since then you’ve been acting all strange in the library too. I just wondered whether there is anything the matter, that’s all.”

He had been studying the Guildhall as she spoke: thirty or so wide stairs leading up to the entrance. Above six huge pillars before the front doors sat the pediment, its gable filled with sculptures of battle victories. The neo-classical design made it quite an imposing structure, and he continued his visual journey up its face, his eyes rising to the top of its central clock tower. As he examined the clock face, the image of the ground clock, frozen at twelve o’clock, came to his mind.

“Time,” he said.

“What?” came the surprised reply. “Michael, are you okay? Have you been listening to me?” She started to sound annoyed again as she realised he hadn’t been paying attention. “You haven’t been, have you?”

He finally looked at Beth. He saw the anger mixed with genuine concern of a friend in her eyes, and felt a tinge of guilt that he had been short-tempered with her.

“It’s somehow linked to time,” he said. “I’m sorry Beth, I really am. I know you’re trying to help, but there is just something I need to understand on my own.”

He turned to resume his journey home as he called back to her, “I need to think about some things. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He didn’t look back to see Beth stand fuming for a while before heading home herself.

But his search through the books that night was no more productive than it had been the night before, and his sleep was just as fitful, only properly falling asleep in the early hours of the morning.

He awoke late, having apparently managed to switch his alarm clock off without waking up, and had to run to get into work on time, looking and feeling dishevelled when he arrived. He hoped that Maggie would have forgiven him for his misdemeanours of the previous two days, as he wanted to find some books about time during his shift. To his dismay, however, he found his punishment at the front desk was still in place, with an additional reprimand for looking untidy. To make matters worse, Beth was still angry with him for the previous evening, though he tried to apologise to her during morning break. The result was that he felt the oppressive weight of angry fingers pointing at him all morning.

Feeling an urgent need to get out of the library and away from critique, he somehow managed to get Maggie to agree to him taking his lunch break a few minutes early. Unlike in his school days, there was no stream he could quickly escape to, but with his dream still heavily on his mind, he walked to the shopping precinct to examine again the ground clock.
 

Perhaps
if I see it again, some new idea will come to me
.

As he rounded the corner to the main shopping precinct, he looked towards the clock not far away. The crowds of lunchtime shoppers were just starting to build, and the queues at the cafes and sandwich bars just beginning to grow. Each time a stranger returned his gaze, he imagined them cursing him for the problems the world had placed upon them, and so he lowered his eyes to the ground in front of him to avoid their accusatory glances.

It was when he arrived at the clock and looked up again that his world changed.

He froze where he stood when he saw her. Whether his heart stopped or doubled its rhythm he wasn’t sure. He stood there, transfixed, his eyes locked with the woman’s who stood directly on the number twelve of the ground clock.

The shoulder-length hair that caressed her face was darker than his – a soft black – and her matching dark and penetrating eyes seemed to draw him into her soul. Her dress was of the darkest blue; the shaped upper half comprising subtle silver brocade shapes. It flared slightly at the waist and ended just below her knees, where the tops of her black boots were hidden. If he had dwelt on these things, he would have thought it an old-fashioned dress, but he was captivated by her face. Her mouth was slightly upturned at the sides, a gentle smile tenderly radiating a warmth across the short distance that separated them.

She was possibly in her early forties, and as he stared, mesmerised by her, the memory of the bee, frozen in the air between two beautiful blue flowers, came to mind. He was flooded with emotion, forgetting to breathe until his body forced him and he took a quick gulp of air.

It was then that something caught the corner of his vision, and he involuntarily turned his head towards it. His sense of wonder was replaced in an instant with horror, as he saw the blonde-haired man – perhaps ten years his senior – raise his right arm towards the woman, his finger on the trigger of a pistol. There was a determination in his bright blue eyes, and Michael somehow knew that there would be no hesitation.

It all happened at once: the man pressed his finger, Michael screamed
“No!”
, and behind him and out of sight the clock on the Guildhall tower struck twelve.

The panic that enveloped him was beyond anything he had before felt, his legs unconsciously moving him as quickly as they could towards this woman who had somehow imprinted herself upon his soul.

Everything moved in slow motion: he glanced at the armed stranger and saw the powder exit the barrel of the pistol, saw the bullet emerge from its chamber. He looked back at the woman, whose gaze had remained on him: her face frozen in that beatific smile. His legs were moving slowly, but were somehow outpacing the bullet that appeared to crawl through the air towards her. The gunman was half the distance from her than Michael had been, and it was nothing but absurd to think that he could race a bullet, but he didn’t think about such things as he willed his legs to speed their progress through the morass of air that lay between them; implored the same air to slow the deadly projectile.

His desperation prevented him from wonder at the impossible as he closed the gap on the woman, the bullet slowing further. Sweat started to fall from his face as the nausea built within him, but he forced his way through the final steps.

As he reached the woman – the bullet mere inches from her forehead – he caught her in his arms, spinning around as they fell, so that she he would cushion her fall.

As the back of his head hit the pavement, a sharp pain shot through his skull, and the world around erupted. Next to him, men were shouting, and he could hear screams coming from all directions. The bile in his stomach forced its way up his throat, and releasing the woman he rolled onto his side and violently threw up, his head pounding as if being repeatedly struck with a hammer.

The pain in his skull was still intense when he finished being sick, and he lay back down with his arms around his head to block out the light and sounds that aggravated it. He wasn’t sure how long he lay there, but as the pain started to ease, he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. He could just make out the sirens of the police cars and ambulance as he slowly opened his eyes. Kneeling before him was a man, perhaps in his early fifties.

He wore a concerned look on his face that turned to relief when he saw an awareness return to Michael’s eyes. “How are you feeling, young man?” he asked in a deep voice.

Michael groaned and replied, “My head is killing me.” The thought of the woman restored a degree of alertness, however, and he quickly added, “The woman who was here; the one that man tried to shoot. Is she okay?”

The man who knelt next to him smiled, “I’m not surprised your head hurts after that. But the ambulance will be here shortly, and they will check to make sure you are okay. As for the woman: well, as she is evidently not safe here, we have taken her somewhere where we can protect her. But yes, she is well, thanks to you.” His face turned very serious, “You did a remarkable service today, young man. The lady – and I – thank you deeply for that.”

“What happened?” Michael asked. “It all seemed so strange. It was impossible, but… I don’t know. I think I’m confused. It’s probably my head.” He remembered outrunning a bullet, but as that was impossible, he couldn’t understand what had happened. He certainly knew that he had hit his head though, and he guessed that the knock had affected his memories. Maybe he would remember later.

He looked around and saw another man lying on the ground nearby, blood oozing from his shoulder. Fear filled Michael’s stomach, “Did that man get shot? Is he hurt badly?”

The man at his side looked over at his wounded companion. “Yes, he was hit by the bullet, but it is not life-threatening. He will be taken to the hospital where he will be taken care of.” He looked back at the young man lying before him. “What is your name?”

“Michael,”
he replied

He nodded at that, seemingly pleased,
“Well Michael, the ambulance and police will be here any minute,” Michael could hear the sirens drawing close now, “but before they arrive, the lady asked me to give you a gift: a token of her thanks. Are you able to sit up so that you can take it?”

His head still drummed with a steady pain, but he found he was able to sit up, and he looked at the man who still knelt beside him. Reaching into his jacket, he carefully withdrew a crystal medallion about the size of Michael’s palm. There was a silver chain attached to it.

“This is really quite delicate,” the man explained, “and I assure you is priceless beyond measure.” He looked into Michael’s eyes, “For the moment, it is probably best if you put the chain around your neck to keep it protected, but before you do I’d like to show you something.”

The first police car had now stopped nearby and the police were exiting their vehicle. They would be here soon, but he looked at the medallion as the man pointed to it, continuing, “You won’t see them clearly just now – and nor should you. But when you are quiet at home tonight, please take the time to study the etchings engraved on this. If you pay careful attention to it, you will see quite stunning detail. Indeed, I can promise you that if you look
very
closely, you will see things you never thought possible.”

Michael looked back at the man. His face was serious, but he seemed to have said all he needed to. Ignoring Michael’s questioning look, he lifted the chain, motioning Michael to lower his head. As he did so, the chain was hung around his neck, and the man carefully lifted the medallion so that it was hidden beneath Michael’s shirt.

There were more police officers here now, and the ambulance had pulled up; the paramedics rushing towards the man lying nearby with the gunshot wound. Michael looked over to see them kneel down at his side. He watched them for what must have been a couple of minutes, when he seemed to hear in his mind the words,
“Trust yourself.”

The words caused a shot of adrenaline as his dream was instantly brought back to his memory. He remembered his arms outstretched: he had been looking at the clouds when he had heard those words, about to be struck by lightning. With a start he turned back to the man who had given him the medallion, but he was gone.

He touched his chest, and could feel the medallion beneath his shirt. It was the thing that now connected him to the woman, and he determined he would honour her by keeping it close, and studying it as she apparently had wanted him to.

The rest of the day, Michael found, was really quite boring. When Michael told the police he needed to get back to work, they sent an officer to the library, and Maggie and Beth both soon appeared. Michael had never seen Maggie look worried before, and he almost thought that perhaps underneath her gruff exterior she cared for him. And Beth’s accent was so strong that, despite the day’s trauma, he still could barely avoid breaking into a smile, the musicality of her voice reaching new heights. His humour at her voice added an annoyance that, combined with her anxiety over his welfare, just made her accent stronger still.

He was taken to the hospital for scans because he had hit his head, where it seemed he spent most of the rest of the day waiting for staff and equipment to be made available. He decided, though, that it must be good news if they didn’t consider him urgent. And then he waited for the police so that he could give them a statement of events for the investigation and manhunt that was now underway. It was well after dark by the time he finally got back to his flat.

Exhausted, he entered his small living room. He had started the day with little sleep, and the events that had transpired had sapped what little energy that remained. But he knew he wouldn’t sleep, images of the woman, and the slow motion of his bullet racing, going round his mind again and again, causing his head to become dizzy with confusion.