Arrows of Time

T
he arrow of time runs from past to present to future, never wavering from its track save in memory or speculation. But this is only half the story. Time has a deeper symmetry, and as our experience of time flows one way, somewhere else, in a counter universe, time is going in the opposite direction.

Consider three aspects of time:

Forward Time
is what we call
normal
running time. We experience the directional flow of events from past to present to future. We plant a seed, it sprouts, flowers bloom. We remember the past.

Backward Time
is a retrograde motion, not like memory where our thoughts trace events that have already happened, but a timeline that runs anew from future to past. Flowers bloom, the seed sprouts, we plant the seed. We remember the future.

Circular Time
repeats itself around and around in a
strange loop
where repetition—planting or sprouting or blooming—is the only constant. Usually, we are unaware of the cycle. Memory is in the form of déjà vu.

These opposing directions of time are not sensed because we don’t see them side by side. They remain separate, incomparable. The corridors handle that. They keep the timelines running straight, in either direction. If there were a glitch, a sudden juxtaposition of directions so that the full scope of time became observable, words such as past and future would become meaningless, as would life and death.

‘
D
id you hear that?’ Kreshkali turned around in the saddle and squinted at the sun. She flipped the compass closed and tucked it into her pocket. There it was again—a bone-jarring rumble.

‘What is it?’ An’ Lawrence asked.

Kreshkali halted her horse. ‘Sounds like drums,’ she said, pushing damp hair off her forehead. ‘Large ones.’ The horse sidestepped, its neck arched, nostrils flaring. Kreshkali looked at the striated canyon walls. The massive sandstone monuments towered overhead, shaped by erosion and held together with the roots of gnarled scrub oaks and twisted Manzanita. ‘Can you see anything?’ she asked.

An’ Lawrence stood in his stirrups, searching the cliffs. Red rocks and shale were trickling down, gaining momentum as they rushed to the basin floor. ‘Landslide?’ he asked as he sat back into the saddle. He pushed up his sleeves, working to keep his mount under control. Scylla, his temple cat, crouched nearby,
bobtail twitching. ‘Or is it more…what did you call it? Seismic activity?’

‘Earthquake!’ Kreshkali’s horse crow-hopped as the ground shook beneath them. ‘Ride!’ she shouted. She cracked the tail of her split reins behind her, snapping them like a whip. Both horses pinned their ears back and sprang, churning up dust and stones as they scrambled out of the box canyon. Shoulder to shoulder, the animals vied for the lead, charging towards the summit. Under them, the earth groaned and cracked and rolled.

‘Head for open ground!’ An’ Lawrence yelled as he crested the gorge, Scylla leaping in front of him. He pointed at the wide expanse, a barren landscape that looked like an endless field of red, sunbaked bricks.

‘Gee-up!’ Kreshkali shouted over the roar.

They took off at a dead run. Kreshkali leaned forward, reins in both hands, her arms gliding smoothly over the mare’s neck in time with the rocking motion. The horse’s mane blew over her arms—whitecaps cresting in a dark sea. Her robe was streaming behind her. Looking down the mare’s shoulder, she watched the horse’s hooves hit the crusted ground. They sank deep into the red clay as the iron shoes compressed the dry earth to powder. ‘Mind the holes,’ she yelled to An’ Lawrence. ‘There’re deep ones.’

I can watch for them, Kali, but at this speed there’s little to be done but observe the fall.

She tightened her jaw, hearing his thought directly in her mind. He was right. When she reached the centre of the plateau, she straightened, easing the mare down. ‘Whoa, now, girl. This is as safe as it gets, right here in the middle.’

She brought the mare down to a jog, taking some time to stop. An’ Lawrence and his temple cat shot
past, skidding to a halt further ahead. Both horses were blowing, steam rising from their backs, their flanks slick with sweat. The ground beneath them rattled like a frying pan on high heat.

‘You call this safe?’ An’ Lawrence shouted at her over the sound of tumbling boulders and cracking ground.

‘As can be…’ she shouted back. ‘Give it time. It’ll pass.’

Rents in the ground opened up, creating arm-length fissures around them. The tearing of the earth was like bones breaking. Scylla braced against the gyrations, all four paws at wide angles to her body, her ears pinned back and bobtail pointing skyward as she hissed, the sound swallowed up by the roar of the earth. Sweat dripped from the horses’ bellies, making dark spatters on the ground like drops of rain.

Kreshkali checked the surrounding hills and ravines, watching the horizon. She imagined a feeling of stillness returning to the land. Ignoring her fear, she focused on calmness, peace and quietude. ‘It’s okay. It’s backing off,’ she whispered to her horse. ‘It’s all over now.’

The earth continued to rumble, then an eerie stillness fell. Suddenly, the loudest sounds were the horses’ blowing and the squeak of leather as Kreshkali twisted in the saddle. A trio of caws filled the air, and three ravens appeared, scolding as they circled overhead.

‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘All’s safe.’

An’ Lawrence grimaced. ‘When are these wretched shakers going to stop?’ He glared at the hills in front of them, as if they were responsible. ‘There’s nothing remotely like this on Gaela.’

‘The known lands of Gaela sit on a single tectonic plate. Of course it’s stable,’ Kreshkali said. ‘This is California—what’s left of it.’

‘And that means?’

‘It’s sitting on broken glass.’

‘More like dynamite.’

Kreshkali turned her mare around in a circle, her eyes on the horizon. A smile lit up her face. ‘Don’t be so sour, old man. That shaker got us going in the right direction.’ She pointed towards a dark fence line that undulated into the distance. ‘There it is, and the gate still stands!’

‘It’d be about the only thing that does.’

She laughed, stroking her mare’s dappled grey neck and urging her into a jog. ‘Come on. We’ve found it. This is good news. The estate can’t be far off.’

‘It wouldn’t want to be. We’ve almost no water left, certainly not enough to get back to Half Moon Bay.’

‘There’ll be fountains full of it on the estate.’

‘Are you sure about that? The place might be rubble, destroyed by the quakes.’

Kreshkali remained bright. ‘As I think it, so it is. There’s water, Rowan. I promise.’

An’ Lawrence jogged alongside Kreshkali, his mouth turned down at the corners. How she could remain so cheery in this sun-stroked, dead-beaten, fly-ridden land was beyond him. They’d spent days looking for signs of her ancestor’s home grounds. Futile venture. It would be dust and ruin after all that had happened here. He swatted his neck and picked the dead insect from between his fingers. ‘Old man?’ he asked without looking at her.

She laughed. ‘It’s a figure of speech.’

‘It hardly applies,’ he said. He urged his horse around a newly opened crack in the ground. Scylla sprang neatly over it. ‘If you’re counting years, Kreshkali, I’d be…’

She stopped him with a look. ‘I’m not counting years.’

‘I’ll bet you’re not.’

She slowed her horse to a walk, loosening her reins. The mare lowered her head, nostrils fluttering. ‘
Old man
was a reference to your optimism,’ she said.

‘I’m not optimistic.’

‘Exactly.’ She leaned over and gripped his forearm. ‘Can you choose your words more carefully? Things are only as grim as you think them.’

‘This again?’

‘Of course this again. It will be “this again” until you get it.’ She smiled. ‘It’s not like the laws of the universe are going to change to suit your grumpy belief system.’

‘But isn’t that just a limiting belief as well?’

‘Not as limiting as your pessimism.’

‘Are you saying I created the earthquake?’