The Loved and the Lost (5 page)

“And you're an expert?” Shamira asked.

“Oh, I'm the doctor on that subject,” he said good-naturedly.

Shamira stared at him, deciding how to respond. She chose to turn her nose up and began to stroll into the market. Kingsley smiled and stepped quickly to catch up to her. After a dozen steps, he finally brought Shamira's haughty charade to an end by sweeping her off her feet and kissing her hard. She kissed him back and, as they stood invisible to everyone in the market, three laughing ragamuffins ran right through them.

The two young lovers looked surprised, and then Kingsley's laugh boomed. “I like 24
^th
-century girls, no matter what my mother says,” he said, eye to eye with Shamira.

“I could be your great, great, great, great . . .” she paused, counting in her head. “Well, you know. Your grandmother.”

“Wow. Another provincial attitude to put up with.” Still smiling, he put her down. “Hey, do you mind if we go to Signori Square? I'd like to see the Scalari Tombs when there was only the one for Can Grande. I took a virtual 14
^th
-century tour through there on my family's Mists of Time viewer, but you can't get the feeling of the actual size unless you stand right by it.”

“Sure. It's this way,” Shamira said. “So, you like the 14
^th
-century so far?”

“Absolutely. I mean, look at all this,” he said spreading his arms. Just then, the three rambunctious urchins screamed back past them again. “Look at all the joy and energy everybody has. It's so colorful and inspiring.”

The three children then ran right into a man and knocked him to the ground. They fell on him, laughing and wiggling around.

“Scusa Signor, scusa,” one of the boys giggled. The boys and man got up. The children disappeared into the crowd and the man dusted himself off, all the while chuckling. As his hand passed over his belt he looked up startled.

“You little thieves. You stole my purse. Hey, they stole my purse!” he shouted, though nobody in the market gave him any notice. He ran off in the direction the children had disappeared.

“Happens all the time,” Shamira said.

“The little rapscallions,” Kingsley laughed. They started walking, hand in hand. “Shamira, you're so lucky to have lived here for, what, six whole months? All the art and colorful characters. It must really show up in your painting. That's what I'm hoping time travel will do for me. Inspire my sculpture.”

“Thinking I was trapped here for the rest of my life did change my perception, and therefore my art, I guess,” Shamira said. “But it's not as romantic as you think. Those kids, for instance. Probably three out of five of their brothers and sisters didn't make it till age five. They're all illiterate and dirty. Much of the time they're hungry.”

“But since that's the only life they know,” Kingsley answered, “they don't know they're missing anything.”

A wry smile came to her lips. “And you think
my
attitude is provincial?”

“What do you mean?” Kingsley asked.

Shamira looked at him through veiled eyes, a small smile on her face. “No,” she finally said. “If I have to learn some things on my own, so can you.”

“How cruel,” he replied playfully. “How delightfully callous. But seriously, don't you think the worlds we live in are so safe that they're actually boring?”

“Oh, finding your life boring lately, are you?”

“A bit. Till you came along. But you know what I mean. Is there anything about this place you miss?”

They were passing a butcher's stall. There was one of Master Spagnoli's sons beheading and gutting chickens. Shamira smiled deviously to herself and stopped. She pulled up the sleeve of her blouse.

“See the scar here? I wasn't here a day when, right in this market, I was robbed and stabbed. So, it's not all the fun you think.” She was setting him up but good. “But, yes,” she said, looking around, “I actually do miss some things. Coming to the market everyday with Guilietta and shopping. And the people and these surroundings are colorful. I'll grant you that. I even miss the smell of the place.”

“That's my point. Our worlds are so sanitized and homogenous,” Kingsley said.

“Yeah. I guess you're right. You know, seeing all this makes me want to . . . get the smell of the place in my nose. They say the sense of smell evokes memories the most.”

“But smell is one of the things we can't sense when we're out of phase.”

“That is too bad. Hey, maybe I'll push my node and go native . . . just for a few moments.”

“But Arimus said we couldn't, except for emergencies.”

“You're right. Darn. Well, how about if I just open up a hole, a small opening that nobody here will see?”

Kingsley searched his mind for the “how-to memory” that came with any new node. “Oh, yeah, I have it. But Arimus said not to.”

Shamira looked mockingly at Kingsley. “And here I thought you were adventurous. Don't you know that girls find boys who act a little dangerous, attractive? Twenty-fourth century girls, anyway.”

“Really?”

“Well, you might be chicken to do this, but I say, what the heck.” And with that she pressed one of the nodes at the base of her neck gently, four times quickly in succession. She held up her index finger and the tip of it began radiating a soft, pink glow. Then she drew a small circle in the air, which glowed pink for a second. There was a popping sound, like air rushing into a vacuum. The apprentice butcher seemed to hear it and looked over. Shamira quickly withdrew her hand and he went back to his work. He took the bowl of chicken guts he had just filled and dumped it into the barrel where Shamira was standing. Hundreds of flies rose and buzzed around. Shamira looked mischievously at Kingsley, raised her eyebrows and stuck her nose into the hole. As the tip of it came fully into the 14
^th
-century, it too glowed pink for a second.

“Ah, Verona,” Shamira pronounced as she took a deep breath. “I'd almost forgotten your sweet smells.” The butcher looked over again, like he heard something odd, and Shamira pulled back. The man shrugged and went back to cutting off the head of another chicken and threw it in the barrel. “You going to try?” Shamira asked Kingsley.

“That fellow almost saw you.”

“Well, okay then,” she said. “If you're . . . chicken. I thought you really wanted to experience everything . . . to help your art.” She stared challengingly at him, in the way only a young woman can challenge a young man. “I'll close up the portal . . .”

“No, wait a minute. I'll give it a try.”

“You don't have to if you don't . . .”

“I want to.”

“Well, okay then.” She stood back and watched, poker-faced. She saw Kingsley tentatively come close to the portal, stare down at the barrel of guts, heads, wriggling maggots and buzzing flies, and at the butcher, who was now fiercely plucking feathers off the newly gutted bird. “Take a really deep breath,” Shamira encouraged.

Kingsley stuck his nose and mouth through the hole. They shimmered pink and he sucked in a mighty breath. He froze, mid-inhalation. His eyes bulged and his look froze with surprise as the unfamiliar and exceeding foul smell of the butcher's stall blasted into his nose, lungs and eyes. He then involuntarily gasped another noxious inhalation. His eyes began watering, he wheezed and a 14
^th
-century fly flew in his mouth. He gagged and spit the thing out.

Shamira doubled over laughing.

“Why you little . . .” Kingsley managed to choke out.

The butcher looked over just as Shamira snapped her fingers and the hole closed.

“Maybe that will inspire your sculpture,” and she took off running down the square.

Kingsley chased after her, still gagging but laughing too.

Lincoln continued to saunter through the town, walking slowly and staring at Medeea beside him. The shimmering blue corona around her body lit up her sharp, fine features and glistened off her jet black hair, while her light blue toga, draped over her shoulders, small breasts and hips, outlined a perfect young body. And as she walked, her legs caused the knee-length draping to billow forward and fall back against her thighs. This gave the intermittent suggestion of a limber form underneath.

“You remember I know what you're looking at and thinking, don't you?”
Medeea asked.

“Yes, and I guess I really don't care anymore,” Lincoln said, “or that, at least, it doesn't bother me.”

“That's good. You've adapted quickly. But you also realize I'm not really walking beside you. I'm in your head and in that bottle in your pocket.”

“Yes, I know that too.”

“And you still don't care?”

“Nah. I figure I'll just go with it. And don't forget, I can read what you're thinking too. You like flirting and playing. And what's the harm? The worst case scenario is I'll learn something about girls.”

“But I'm not a girl,”
she laughed,
“or at least, not a flesh and blood one.”

“You want to be.”

“Wow, you really are a born mind-delver. There are not many who could straight off move around in another delver's consciousness without them knowing it, or cope with having another personality over-layered in their brain. Often, beginners get the two personalities mixed up and lose themselves.”

“Who would have thought that my stubbornness would become an asset? I'm so happy I'm good at this.”

“On the other hand, don't get ahead of yourself. This isn't hard mind-delving, Lincoln. This is just me, who can help keep our psyches separate. But when you have someone else in your mind, someone who doesn't know you're in their head, their ego will instinctively try to take yours over.”

“Yeah, that was part of one of the lectures I was at. But I hadn't appreciated the implications.”

“That's what field excursions are for.”

“Have you ever had a student who you thought would do well, but didn't?”

“Oh yes. Often. But it's not worth worrying about. You'll either be able to do it or you won't.”

“Hmmm. Bummer. Do you think Ugilino is a good first choice to try this on?”

“From what I saw of, what did you call him, the Ug-miester? It looks like he's been through the wars. I scanned his eyes and he's living with multiple, long-term concussions and even survived a bout of meningitis.
He must have one incredibly strong immune system. If you can delve him, you'll be able to delve anybody. But be prepared to feel what he feels physically as well as emotionally. Ah, we're almost there. It's just around this corner. Ready?”

“How'd you know where to find The Stinking Fish Tavern?”

“Hey, I can move around in your head without you knowing it too. I can access anything in that cute little noggin of yours. Boy, oh boy. This place really is a dump,”
she said as they arrived at their destination.

To call The Stinking Fish a “tavern” would be overstating it, even by 14
^th
-century standards. It was really just a narrow space between two buildings, with a thatched roof and rotten wood walls at each end. The door was a single plank with leather hinges and no latch. There wasn't even a sign with words. Some previous owner had just painted a crude drawing of a fish skeleton above the door, and that must have been years earlier as it was mostly faded.

“I've never been inside,” Lincoln said. “But why would he be there now? By this time of day, we'd all be working.”

“It doesn't look like a Sabbath or feast day,”
Medeea said.
“And we're not sure of the new date Arimus just took us to. But he said this is where our boy is. Come on. Let's pay him a visit.”

Now Lincoln experienced another odd sensation. Medeea reached out and took his hand. Although he knew it was all in his head, he felt his fingers entwining with a girl's warm, smooth ones. It gave his whole body a thrill. He felt the warm dampness of her palm and, before he knew it, he felt his arm, and the rest of him, being pulled through the wall of the makeshift pub.

As Lincoln went from a bright summer day to the dark recesses of The Stinking Fish, it took time for his eyes to adjust. Then he heard a familiar snore, and then a fart.

“Ugilino,” he announced. He squinted and finally saw him. Ugilino was passed out, sitting on the dirt floor, his back against the wall. His whole body was tilted precariously toward the floor, his head and neck stretched, his mouth agape. Drool had dried and crusted against his cheek. This made the only clean place on his face.

“I always wondered where Ugilino went at night,” Lincoln commented. “But he'd always show up fresh at sunrise.”

“It's well past sunrise now,”
Medeea said.

“And you've no idea what day we've been brought to?” Lincoln asked. Medeea shrugged.

The rough wooden door to the tavern opened and light flooded in. Lincoln squinted and so did Ugilino, though he only stopped snoring momentarily. He shuffled his body against the wall, a sleeper trying to get comfortable. He managed only to fall the rest of the way to the floor, his face now resting on his arm as a pillow.

“Oh, sweet Jesus, he's still here,” a rough female voice said. She was a tall, buxom woman, square and strong-looking. She lifted her skirt and picked her way across a floor strewn with tankards, discarded ceramic bottles and the remnants of food. “Look at all this garbage to throw on the heap,” she said to no one in particular. Then, standing over and peering down at Ugilino, she added, “And here's the biggest bit to toss. C'mon, my ugly amore, wake up.” Ugilino just lay there, snoring. “Mio amore, wake up,” she said more forcefully. The woman didn't look malevolent, but neither did she look like one to be pushed around. She nudged Ugilino with her foot. He stirred, but only managed another long, whining fart. The tavern keeper's face wrinkled. “Hey!” she shouted, giving the sleeper's head a nudge with her foot. “Go somewhere else and do that! Hey! Get up!” Now she kicked the arm out from under his head and his cheek fell into the dirt. “UGILINO,” she shouted, “TIME TO GO!”