Chapter Five - The Teeth of Time
Baldwin had offered me a ride home, which I respectfully declined. I lived only a few blocks down and really just needed the air. He seemed agitated and wiry, as if he knew something that should have kept me from walking home. But without him saying anything, why should I really worry on just that feeling?
After gulping in cool autumn air, it was nice to finally be home, and have more time to think about the fact that I would be fined for not returning resources. “Would they have even allowed that if I stayed? I just shouldn’t have left the library. Dammit!”
I leaned against the locked door, glaring bitterly at the flight of stairs I had yet to climb, kicking off my “work shoes” and trading them for a comfortable pair of house shoes. I nearly fell over trying to pull the backs of the shoes over my heels. That was something that would seem a constant in my daily routine. I turned off the porch light and climbed the ancient staircase. I discarded my bag on couch in the foyer, turning on the lamp as I moved on to put water on for a bath.
“Hot water and another glass of wine,” I thought, pulling off my sweater. I stopped the motion of throwing it in the hamper when I realized it smelled the same as Baldwin’s jacket. I put the soft article to my nose and inhaled. It smelled unlike most men’s products, delicate and indistinguishable because of it. At once it smelled of fresh earth and firewood as it did of fennel and berries, making my head swirl with the possibilities.
I threw it in my hamper spitefully as the aroma had sent me into a spiral of thought about the latest events.
“Why are men like this?”, I huffed, throwing open the cabinet to find the jar of Epsom salt that seemed to migrate around my bathroom storage. I drew two handfuls, throwing each in angrily and not waiting for the water to start foaming them.
The static from taking my sweater off made the wisps of hair around my face float. I pulled my scrunchy from my hair, feeling the solid weight of my hair shifting in one tug.
Wine was at the bottom of my pantry, forcing me to kneel. I gently sorted through the dozen bottles I kept for department parties to find the bottle of Zinfandel I bought when I moved into the apartment almost a year ago. It still remained unopened. Until today.
Ten minutes later I was dipping into hot bathwater, music playing, window open and wine in hand. I certainly had become vain when I could afford it.
I spoke allowed to myself as I planned. “Tomorrow I will go straight to the university, return my resources, email the archivist.” Sip. “Apologize profusely and get straight back to work. I should be finished with the new resources by the end of the week and on to organizing my notes for a draft. Ha!” I still had yet to request images being taken of the manuscripts and would also need to issue that request by the end of the week. I was glad it was a Sunday and could do these things out of order for a change, as my days were mostly spent in classes, taking meetings, and marking students’ work. As much as I longed for a sabbatical, there was likely another decade after my dissertation before I could even hope for tenure.
“Unless you had financial help,” a sneaky little voice told me. I felt terrible for thinking of Baldwin Montclair at that moment. “He is rich, and you must think him handsome…” That little voice must have been the wine. I looked over at my nearly empty glass and nodded to myself. It was the wine. I sank into the bath, letting my hair submerge and scrubbing my face roughly, hoping it would aid in keeping away the good buzz I had started.
From my phone Hozier warbled “Sweet music playing in the dark/ Be still my foolish heart/ Don’t ruin this for me” and I had to roll my eyes, hitting shuffle on another playlist.
I shuffled from the bathroom up the stairs to my second floor, nearly tripping on the carpet at the top of the stairs. I was far groggier than at this time of night, and I blamed the wine yet again. Usually I became rather energetic at this time of night, getting another two or three hours of work or reading in before finally being able to head to bed. Tonight, however, I breezed through my study and went straight for my nightgowns.
“Well, hopefully I will sleep better than ever.”
I turned on the overhead fan and cracked open all the windows and the balcony door. It was always so stuffy at this level of the house, as heat rose from all three flats in the house and accumulated right in my bedroom. Winters were phenomenal, but during the summer I found myself spending a great deal of the night dozing on the porch swing. My landlady, Ms. Andersen, ended up giving me several lectures on the ‘indecency of a young woman sleeping outside on her porch!’ Alas, tonight the wind easily took the hot air from the apartment and allowed me to snuggle into my bed.
I was floating, except I wasn’t because that couldn’t be possible. It felt like that part in every dream that comes right before you wake up with a jolt, except I felt some control and eventually felt my bare feet touch grass. I was walking now, and everything moved so fast past me, hurling me toward what looked like a spotlight.
I got close enough to see a group of people around the spotlight, and a person with long hair directly in the light. No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t move from that spot, feeling my lungs burn with excursion as I peddled my legs to get to them.
“- by Mars let this sa… Praise be… Hold us up on high… with Grace...”
They sounded like a radio coming in and out of signal, my ears only picking up a little of what they said. My heart dropped when I watched three of the figures pounced, and the girl in the middle shrieked with terror.
I kicked my legs harder, pumping my arms. “I can save her,” I thought, “I need to save her!” I inched forward, watching in horror as they held her down. A hooded figured knelt over her, cutting into her arms as she thrashed and screamed, and I was close enough to see tears rolling down her cheeks as the ground dropped out from under me.
I landed with a rough thud, and now the light was above me. I quickly got to my hands and knees, not seeing anyone else near me. On the ground was a circle of… salt? I dabbed a finger and licked it to find it was. I stood, looking down at the pattern formed below me: a circle intersected with lines, and alchemical symbols within three circles.
My fingers felt odd and when I looked down there were markings on each arm. I turned them over to see symbols cutting into the skin and my blood rising up from them like I was upside-down.
I did what anyone would do. I screamed.
I felt like I hadn’t drunk water in ages, and my eyes stuck together when I pried them open. The clock on the mantel claimed it was three in the morning, and it was eerily silent outside without the sounds of traffic on the main roads.
I pushed myself to a sitting position, cracking my back as I did so. I looked around my room, completely disoriented from whatever dreams I had just moments ago. The room smelled of frankincense, a mixture of spice and woodsmoke, reminding me of the aroma clinging to my sweater before I took my bath.
Frowning, I rose from bed and crossed the room to the mantel where I kept candles and matches. I lit a bergamot candle, throwing the match into the bare firebox, and waited for the scent to fill the room and pick up on the gentle wind that still traveled through the room.
I rubbed my arms roughly and decided to return to bed.
