Read Online They Do the Same Things Different There by Robert Shearman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert Shearman
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felt a stab of affection for the old thing.
“We can save 1574,” he told her.
And she knew it was worthless. That had the Curator sent his thugs to take 1574 from the beginning, she’d have given it up without a second thought. An unnecessary year—but now she helped Andy without a word, he took one corner and she the other, and together they rolled it up. And because it
was
so unnecessary, it rolled up very small indeed, and Andy was able to put it in his pocket.
No one stopped them on the way to the elevator. There was nowhere to go but up. And there was nothing up there. Not anymore.
Andy pulled the grille doors closed. He pressed the highest button that there was, one so high that it didn’t even fit upon the panel with all the other buttons, it had to have a panel all of its own. It hadn’t been pressed for such a long time, there wasn’t much give in it, and when it finally yielded to Andy’s finger it did so with a clunk.
The elevator didn’t move for a few seconds. “Come on,” said Andy, and kicked it.
The lift doors opened out onto the Earth. And there was no air, there was no light, there was no dark. There was no
time
, time had been stripped out and taken down to the art galleries long ago, time had been frittered away then burned.
“We can’t stay here,” said Miriam. “I love you. I’d love you anywhere. But this isn’t anywhere, I can’t be with you here.”
But Andy took 1574 out from his pocket. And holding out one end of the scroll, he
flung
out the other as far as he could. And the year unrolled and flew off into the distance. And when it had unrolled all that it could, after it had sped over the crags that had once been continents and oceans, when the far end of it could be seen flying back at him from the opposite direction, Andy caught hold of it, and tugged it flat, and fixed the end of December to the beginning of January. And it lay across the Earth, all the lumps and bumps, and yet it was still a perfect fit.
“This won’t last. He’ll come and get us in the end,” said Miriam.
“He will. But not for another four hundred and fifty years.” And then Andy kissed her, straight on to the mouth. He hadn’t remembered that’s how you were supposed to do it, but suddenly it just seemed so logical. And they kissed like that for a while, one mouth welded to the other, as the Middle Ages settled and stilled around them.
They’d bask for a bit in August if they wanted the sun; then, to cool down, they’d pop over to February and dip their toes in the chill. And if they wanted to be alone, away from all the kings and sultans and soldiers and peasants and peoples set upon their paths of religious intolerance, then they’d hide in November—and November on the Juan Fernández Islands, just before Juan Fernández himself arrived on the scene. They spent a lot of time there. Alone was good.
They practised making love. If the mouth on mouth thing had been inspired, it was the tongue in mouth development that was the real breakthrough. They kissed a lot, and each time they did they both felt deep within the stirrings of dormant memories—that if they just kept at it, with diligence and labour, then they’d work out the next step of sex eventually.
“I love you,” Andy would tell her, and “I love you,” Miriam would reply. And they both wrote these facts down, privately, on pieces of paper, and kept them in their pockets always.
Miriam’s nose healed. It didn’t quite set straight, but Andy preferred it the new way; the very sight of its off-centre kink as it came up at him would set his heart racing faster. And the bruise where she’d been struck at last faded too. In its place there grew a single, shiny, blonde hair. Miriam felt it pop out of her skull one day and squealed with delight.
“It’s all coming back,” she said to Andy. “Everything’s going to be all right again.”
And Andy had seen enough of history to know that one lone random hair
“We can save 1574,” he told her.
And she knew it was worthless. That had the Curator sent his thugs to take 1574 from the beginning, she’d have given it up without a second thought. An unnecessary year—but now she helped Andy without a word, he took one corner and she the other, and together they rolled it up. And because it
was
so unnecessary, it rolled up very small indeed, and Andy was able to put it in his pocket.
No one stopped them on the way to the elevator. There was nowhere to go but up. And there was nothing up there. Not anymore.
Andy pulled the grille doors closed. He pressed the highest button that there was, one so high that it didn’t even fit upon the panel with all the other buttons, it had to have a panel all of its own. It hadn’t been pressed for such a long time, there wasn’t much give in it, and when it finally yielded to Andy’s finger it did so with a clunk.
The elevator didn’t move for a few seconds. “Come on,” said Andy, and kicked it.
The lift doors opened out onto the Earth. And there was no air, there was no light, there was no dark. There was no
time
, time had been stripped out and taken down to the art galleries long ago, time had been frittered away then burned.
“We can’t stay here,” said Miriam. “I love you. I’d love you anywhere. But this isn’t anywhere, I can’t be with you here.”
But Andy took 1574 out from his pocket. And holding out one end of the scroll, he
flung
out the other as far as he could. And the year unrolled and flew off into the distance. And when it had unrolled all that it could, after it had sped over the crags that had once been continents and oceans, when the far end of it could be seen flying back at him from the opposite direction, Andy caught hold of it, and tugged it flat, and fixed the end of December to the beginning of January. And it lay across the Earth, all the lumps and bumps, and yet it was still a perfect fit.
“This won’t last. He’ll come and get us in the end,” said Miriam.
“He will. But not for another four hundred and fifty years.” And then Andy kissed her, straight on to the mouth. He hadn’t remembered that’s how you were supposed to do it, but suddenly it just seemed so logical. And they kissed like that for a while, one mouth welded to the other, as the Middle Ages settled and stilled around them.
They’d bask for a bit in August if they wanted the sun; then, to cool down, they’d pop over to February and dip their toes in the chill. And if they wanted to be alone, away from all the kings and sultans and soldiers and peasants and peoples set upon their paths of religious intolerance, then they’d hide in November—and November on the Juan Fernández Islands, just before Juan Fernández himself arrived on the scene. They spent a lot of time there. Alone was good.
They practised making love. If the mouth on mouth thing had been inspired, it was the tongue in mouth development that was the real breakthrough. They kissed a lot, and each time they did they both felt deep within the stirrings of dormant memories—that if they just kept at it, with diligence and labour, then they’d work out the next step of sex eventually.
“I love you,” Andy would tell her, and “I love you,” Miriam would reply. And they both wrote these facts down, privately, on pieces of paper, and kept them in their pockets always.
Miriam’s nose healed. It didn’t quite set straight, but Andy preferred it the new way; the very sight of its off-centre kink as it came up at him would set his heart racing faster. And the bruise where she’d been struck at last faded too. In its place there grew a single, shiny, blonde hair. Miriam felt it pop out of her skull one day and squealed with delight.
“It’s all coming back,” she said to Andy. “Everything’s going to be all right again.”
And Andy had seen enough of history to know that one lone random hair
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