The Time Tower (the first visit)

The Lock: Chapter 8

Neeman - or rather, the thing wearing Neeman's shape - had halted to examine Pima as
she watched this memory. She had been so captivated by the scene - Akish and Neeman's
optimistic faces from a year and a half in the past - that it took her several minutes to shake the
vision from her eyes.

If she could go back...she might not change anything, but she wouldn't miss anything
either. That expression on Neeman's face as she walked away. Was that her wishful thinking
now - now that it was too late to look him in the eyes again - or could it be close to the truth?
Why had it taken her so long to understand? She would give anything for one more
conversation with him, one more charged glance, one more lopsided smile.

"You left them."

Pima stared at the figure, eyes wide and tight-lipped as it took a step forward. It shook a
fist in rage. False rage, she knew, but still terrifying.

"You left them. Left him. It's clear which one you care more about. Letting me keep this
shape all this time. Really, Pima? How could you?"

It crouched in front of her, and its demeanor softened, pulling her in. "Still, there's no
need to torture yourself. Do you hear that?" It cocked its head. "Sounds like the fighting has
stopped. Shall we check and see who's waiting for you outside?"

It extended its hand when she didn't move and held it palm up before her. "I'll hold your
hand."

Something inside Pima snapped. With a wordless cry, she rammed the heel of her hand
into the figure's shoulder. It fell head over heels down the stairs, crying out in pain. But it
couldn't feel pain. It was all an act.

Pima's eyes followed Neeman's shape down the stairs, and she cursed under her
breath. She'd barely made any progress. She was getting too distracted. She had to climb.

She couldn't run. Not unless she wanted to get slammed in the face by another door. But
she scrambled up the stairs two at a time. How many steps had she already left behind her?
How many more doors were left to stop her?

Another one popped open to her left. She kept her head down and shielded her gaze,
and miraculously, it let her pass.

A dozen to go? Twenty? Less?

A year and a half of her life - fourteen and a half to go - and then that final step beyond.
She had to finish it. There was no turning back.

"Pima!" She heard Neeman's voice shout behind her, her name drawn out, pleading.
"Piiimaaa!" The force of that voice was like a strong blast of wind, trying to knock her over, draw
her back. Another door opened, and she tried to maneuver around it, bent nearly double, one
arm covering her head.

"Hey!"

Pima stopped at the unfamiliar voice.

"Hey, are you alright?" the boy standing in the doorway asked. A girl peeked over the top
of his head. They both tried to step forward as if they could escape the world behind the
doorway, but before this new horror could overwhelm her, Pima took hold of the doorframe.

"You are not part of my future or my past. Get out!"

And she slammed the door in their faces.
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On the other side of the door, which was very much still visible, the boy and girl stood in
dumbfounded silence. He reached out to try the door's handle, but it was locked now.

The girl put a hand on his arm, shrinking down to his height again, and he followed her a
few steps away. "That...that was..." She swallowed, unable to find the words to explain what
they'd just seen.

"Another land. One apparently ruled not by place or size but by time." The boy stared at
the door with the hungry longing of an adventurer who had been denied the most amazing
adventure. "Time! Can you imagine?"

"No," the girl said, shaking her head and smiling fondly at him. "It seems you have been
locked out of that world."

"We'll find the key. And other doors...there are other doors..."
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Pima tried to continue her upward journey, but her concentration was broken, and she
sank to her knees in front of the next open door.
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It looked like any other day in her life. She was twelve years old. Her mother was sitting at the
kitchen table shelling pea pods that Pima had brought in earlier that day from the garden. A seventeen-
year-old Akish was chopping wood outside. Pima could see him clearly through the broken window over
the sink that would need to be fixed before the winds began to blow colder. He kept pausing every few
minutes to squint off into the trees, trying to satisfy his need to work and daydream at the same time.

She wondered what he was thinking about, and that was the extent of her daydreams. She
wouldn't know what to dream for.

Her life wasn't a fairytale. She lived on the outskirts of a swamp in a land that was quickly being
taken over by toxins and poisons, and where every stranger's smile or shadow hid potential danger.
Winter was coming, and while it might dispel the fog and quiet the wildlife, they would have a hard time if
they didn't hustle to prepare their house and larder.

But - she often reminded herself - she had everything she needed. Her family, her home, food and
shelter. Everything was fine in her world.

She glanced sidelong at her mother. It'd been a while since she'd asked to be told a story of the old
world - from her or Akish. Perhaps tonight, after preparing supper, she'd sit at the foot of her mother's
bed and ask to look through the old trunk that held her father's things. She'd long since ceased to sneak
into the bedroom while her mother was busy and let her hands and eyes wander over the keepsakes -
wrinkled clothing, a couple of dusty books, a pair of old eyeglasses, and a few, more precious trinkets
wrapped in a tablecloth and tucked into a corner of the trunk.

It might do them all good to slip into the past for an hour or two.

Yes, I'll ask Mother for a story, Pima thought, sneaking a smile in her direction.