Refrain

Chapter 18: The Hermit (I)

Now, reader, with the unreasonable stretches of commute covered so far, perhaps it would be a good time to ask: what makes a destination worthy?

And especially, when travel itself seems aimless, pointless, an axis without fixed coordinates that would assure either ascension or descension—a propitious or ominous way forward—why travel at all?

But isn't it also true that, among us, there's always those who overthink and feel too much, enviably so—'sensitive souls', we call them so grudgingly, such as my Cadence—that don't ask Whys because they wouldn't know How. 'Course of action' as a concept doesn't exist for them. They tread through life wilfully, spasmodically, propelled by tiny spurts of impulses and cravings that happen to lie closest, feel most urgent. Their negligence of the 'course' makes their travels organic, unwired: instead of a vehicle, think of them—of him—as a creature; a moth or a bird.

Humans think 'going around in circles' the gravest sin when they ride cars and trains. Moths and birds fly in circles all the time, out of nature.

So don't be too surprised now by where he's heading next, even though it might seem outrageously wrong in your eyes. Cadence could have taken that train and asked for London, to take his flight back to Munich, his unpromising but harmless life, shortened by a few days, and not yet by months. When Lily left him to board that train, he was handed the last chance to abort the unfortunate trajectory he'd been set on ever since meeting me: back and forth in time, losing time, feeling the need to call it free will, just to cover up the nonsensicality of it.

But he didn't. Why would he. The course of life for a bird or a moth is nothing but one tireless flight, reverent only of the unfettering air, reserving little of the self. When he thought nothing of time, he was no longer obliged to fear it.

So now, wearing Louis's shirt, he thought of Oxford, because ruining his life now felt way less serious than the prospect of the eternal, damning Not Knowing:

Was everything between him and Louis a well-orchestrated lie?

He was feeling sick when he arrived. From 1901 to 2012, This would have been his second time crossing the span of a century, and he was far from used to it. A drop of cold sweat, running from the lower hem of his hair along his spine, felt like an elegant slice of butchery down his middle. The world looked unsteady. His limbs were threatening to abandone him, and crawl. Daylight shedded a few more leaden spots into his eyes, the last weight needed for things to topple.

His knees went weak. He stumbled forward.

A pair of arms caught him. I knew whose arms he'd rather fall into. But regrettably, they were mine.

'Come with me,' I led him—dragged him, more like—to my car, which had already stoppled a short bottleneck of taxis between the first bus of the day, still asleep, and the station wheelchair ramp. 'Quickly now.'

Cadence, sluggish as he was, leaned uselessly backwards to resist my pull. He didn't even try to hide his distrust. 'Trust me,' I hooked an arm under his shoulders. It was soaked. Escapement Error had always had him bad. 'Just this once. Trust me.'

He had no reason to. Nor did I have any reason to convince him. I wasn't asking for his trust.

I'd rather have his forgiveness.

I had got him into this mess. Had I paid more attention, been less eager to fulfill the teachings of greed, listened more to the instinctive hesitation at the wrongness of it all. Had I?

But I hadn't. So now I had to pick up the scalpel and perform the impossible: to cut away, in his silly little head, the word Loss from Reward, Past from Future: two equations—trade rules—that my family had excelled at instilling into all of us, rules which didn't require years to learn, but took root easily, instantly: because if there's one belief system humans can embrace without thinking, it's the religion of sacrifice.