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Time can be sliced in many ways.
If our paydays mark the passage of each month, and the church bells on Sunday morning cleave one week from the next*, then it is our meals that punctuate our days.
[* While annoying the hell out of us.]
I’m having a spot of brunch with my best friend iDifficult. My lounge is alive with delicious smells, both sweet and savoury. It’s courtesy of my lovely neighbour Abbey, who dropped in some warm baked treats for us on her way to church. She knows we’re non-denominational, but respects our belief systems, which include plenty of tasty grub.
Man, I groan delightedly, this nutty, caramelly, oaty thing is awesome! I’m forced to catching a shower of delicate, gooey crumbs as my enthusiasm gets ahead of me. How’s yours?
The part-time evil genius grunts appreciatively and grins broadly, Gorgeous, though I have no idea what it is! He then contemplates his confection seriously. You remember that Winston Churchill described Russia as a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma? I nod as I eat. Well, this little treat is a riddle, inside a mystery, wrapped in... he eyes it speculatively, well, wrapped in flaky pastry.
I chuckle and take a slug of my tea. I raise my cup.
To Abbey!
To Abbey! Wiping his lips with a napkin, ‘Difficult regards me curiously. Talking of whom, did you get to the bottom of that business with Abbey and the badgers?
I clear my throat and try to think of a sensible answer.
It’s hard. It’s been that kind of week.
It’s Wednesday morning. I’m puzzled that Abbey seems to know a lot more about the history of the resident badgers than I do; apparently, she’s been sharing stories with Yavin, their Chief Engineer. I’ve had many adventures with them, but rely on body language rather than spoken words. It works well, but means that while I know plenty about the present, I know precious little about the past.
The badgers’ sett is dim and musty. Books line the walls of this room, on everything from engineering to metaphysics. The latter is unusual reading for badgers, but we’re taking tea with the legendary ex-military scientist and freemason known only as The General. This venerable badger also happens to be Yavin’s grandfather.
The General sits resplendent in a smoking jacket, monacle and fez, with a gently wisping cigar in his ageing paw. He was born in 1933, which makes no sense. Badgers live fifteen years typically, and even though Yavin’s family come from tenacious stock, it doesn’t add up. I have so many questions.
Abbey sits between us, holding our hands, and helps us to... talk? I’m unsure. We’ve been here an hour, and while I know a lot more now than I did, but can’t really remember any actual words being exchanged.
Back in the now, my friend shifts in his seat and tries to fill my silence. Because I know she’s good with energy flows. So I figured she’d have some... he waves a hand speculatively, spiritual way of talking to them. He slurps his tea. Or something.
I smile and shrug. Yes. Well... yes. That’s pretty much it. Nodding without comment, ‘Difficult helps himself to an amaretto-laced über-éclair.
Curiousity, sparked by my meeting with the elder badger, gets the better of me. And this General fella, a lovely old boy, is quite a character. More nods amidst the chocolate and cream. He must be a hell of an age by now.
The éclair is replaced quietly on the table, and ‘Difficult thinks for a moment before preparing to speak.
The moment is interrupted by a knock at the front door.
A heavy, meaningful knock that does not repeat.
Hold that thought, I say as I head through to the vanilla-scented hall. It’s oddly dim out here. No light from the front door; I must have a large visitor. Ah yes. Elliot.
Opening the door, I behold a broad and eclipsing elephant in a trenchcoat. He stands proud on two legs and surveys the scene with an expert, jaded eye. I can almost hear a film noir voiceover. He brushes the brim of his trilby hat with a digit of a giant forefoot.
Mr. Roth.
Elliot Nesh is an agent of some unknown Department. He’s also iDifficult’s parole officer, though my friend claims to have no knowledge of his supposed crime. And I believe him. Why wouldn’t I? Besides, it’s a mystery, and we enjoy those.
Another puzzle is Elliot’s jurisdiction. It’s a total unknown, though we’re fairly sure he’s not from round here. All I know is that this elephant shows up whenever we’re about to embark on a time travel adventure, and then ties himself for the duration of the jaunt to ‘Difficult with a length of string.
Again, this doesn’t make sense, but so little does at first glance.
Today, I am not surprised to find Elliot on my doorstep.
Hey matey, nice to see you. Please, I step aside with a welcoming gesture, come in, come in.
As the elephant nods and strides into my hallway, I notice that he’s carrying a small ball of string. I wonder idly if I should fetch my toothbrush.
In the lounge, iDifficult rises in greeting, looking shifty. I assume momentarily that Elliot’s arrival has put him on the defensive, but then I spot that most of the cakes are gone. My friend waves sheepishly and smiles past a mouthful of choux pastry and almonds.
The parole office regards his ward amiably, but gets straight down to business.
Mr. Difficult, are you planning on making a trip today? The agent dons a pair of dark, round-lensed pince-nez spectacles. They seem unnecessary indoors, but who knows what goes through the mind of an elephant? As he patiently waits for an answer, he deftly adjusts the edge of one frame, as if he’s focusing a microscope. Finally swallowing, ‘Difficult looks genuinely surprised.
A time trip? No. Should I be?
The elephant fiddles with his glasses again. You’re sure?
Yes, certain. He looks to me and back to Elliot; no help there. Eager to move things along, ‘Difficult picks up the near-empty plate from the table and offers it to the agent. Cake?
Elliot sighs and removes his glasses, pocketing them quietly.
No thank you. Too rich for me. Do you have anything... plainer? I know what he has in mind, but we rarely keep sticky buns about the place. Elephants love sticky buns, everyone knows that.
Once again, as my friend starts to answer, there’s another knock at the door. The back door this time, a quiet and persistent rapping. For a moment, ‘Difficult seems to consider something, but then he pops the plate down and offers a simple, I’ll see what we have. Excuse me.
I’m left in the room with the brooding pachyderm. I sit and nibble on another delightful confection, wishing Abbey were here to keep the conversation afloat.
You know, Elliot, we never talk about your work. The elephant raises an eyebrow. For example, you accompany us on all out trips because of something ‘Difficult has done, though I’ve no idea what it is.
Elliot shifts uncomfortably, but I resist the urge to keep talking; I wait, and hope that he will fill the vacuum. Elephants abhor a vacuum. Or is that Nature?
I’m assigned to Mr. Difficult, he confirms quietly, seeming to consider his words carefully, but he’s done nothing wrong.
What? But then, the punchline.
Yet.
I’m lost for words. The puzzle pieces in my head scatter randomly. What does that mean? What exactly is Elliot’s job?
My train of thought is derailed by iDifficult’s return. He’s bearing a plate of warm buns and an easygoing smile. The buns are fresh and sticky and smell amazing. Elliot’s trunk and ears twitch. He says nothing, but his gaze is held by the contents of the plate.
These are fresh from the oven, says my genius amigo conversationally, and I think they’ll be more to your taste.
Well, I really shouldn’t, mutters Elliot, I’m on duty after all. He inhales deeply; this must be excruciating for him. Perhaps just one.
A few minutes later, the plate is empty, and Elliot is asleep. The ball of string sits between his legs, lightly dusted in crumbs.
I click my fingers in front of the dozing elephant’s closed eyes. Did you drug him? My friend lifts the ball of string from Elliot's chair and pockets it. When he replies, his mind is clearly distracted and racing.
Hmmm? No. Not at all. He always falls asleep right after a good meal. This is true. We’ve carried him home from the curry house on many occasions, though I had assumed it was the bourbon.
And anyway, where did the buns come from?
Yavin brought them over. I asked him to bring some fresh buns when a particular event finally happened. And, unexpectedly, it’s just happened. He’s firing up the time machine as we speak. I have no time to query this before ‘Difficult continues, his voice alive with new purpose. Right. We need to get moving.
What, now? Where are we going?
I’ll explain on the way. I open my mouth again, but he quietens me with a raised finger. I need you to go and fetch Abbey, before Elliot wakes up. We need a head-start.
A head start? In a time machine?!
His laugh reminds me of old times, and raises a smile in me, but I have a gnawing feeling that this will a very different kind of adventure.
Time can be sliced in many ways, but today?
Well, today I think we’re cutting it fine.
Continued in Part Three - Interlude: An Equation For String
Indigo
This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2011
