The Man in the Hourglass

When he came to, the man was sprawled face-down over a bed of rough rocks. A sound drift­ed away, famil­iar though its name raced just out of his grasp.

Where the hell am I, he thought.

He pushed against the cold rocks but col­lapsed when an intense pain gripped his chest, leav­ing him gasp­ing. Once more he pushed, grit­ting his teeth against the pain. Unsteadi­ly, he stood and sur­veyed his surroundings.

Bet­ter ques­tion: who the hell am I?

He stood naked in the cen­ter of a field of stones, each the size of a cro­quet ball. They had a reg­u­lar shape, with jagged, sharp edges and a uni­form gray col­or. No, not uni­form, he saw. Some were bril­liant white, a few oth­ers were dull black. Despite the lack of an obvi­ous light source, he could see the stones per­fect­ly. But beyond them was an impen­e­tra­ble black­ness sur­round­ing the field and fill­ing the sky, as though he and this field were all that were left in the universe.

He gin­ger­ly took a step for­ward, curs­ing his lack of shoes. The rocks shift­ed with each step. He stum­bled across them like a drunk­en sailor, heed­less of the pain they caused his unshod feet. The rocks shift­ed again and he tum­bled, his arms out­stretched to break his fall. And fall he did, but not to the stones. His nose smashed into a smooth, glass-like bar­ri­er as he tum­bled into it.

He knocked on the bar­ri­er, then pound­ed. It rang like a ham­mer tap­ping on glass. The sound echoed around him, loud­er and loud­er until he could no longer take it and cov­ered his ears. He squint­ed angri­ly, then reached down. The rock he grabbed was as black as the dark­ness beyond the bar­ri­er and heav­ier than he had expected. 

No mat­ter, he thought. The heav­ier the bet­ter.

Like a pitch­er start­ing a wind-up, he brought the rock up in front of him and grasped it with both hands.

A wave of ver­ti­go over­took him. His vision blurred, and he felt him­self falling, rush­ing through the blur and into … some­where else.

#

He spat blood, but nev­er avert­ed his eyes. His right eye was swollen. Blood dripped from a gash on his fore­head. His body hurt in a hun­dred places. From the look of her, crum­pled on top of the bro­ken chair, blood trick­ling from her bruised, swollen face, she had fared no bet­ter. Good, he thought.

“Edward,” she plead­ed. “Please!” She tried to push her­self up but he shoved her back with his foot, leav­ing a dark smudge on her torn, blood-red frock.

“I didn’t tell you to get up,” he growled. Edward? a part of him thought. That’s my name?

“I’m sor­ry!” she cried. “I … I can explain!” The flick­er­ing can­dle­light glint­ed in her wide, fear-filled eyes.

“Sure you can.” He drew a long pis­tol from beneath his tat­tered cape and thumbed back the ham­mer. Though unsteady, his aim was true.

Her eyes grew even wider. “Edward, please, you don’t under­stand!” She was in tears. “Don’t you remember?”

“Oh, I under­stand,” he said. “You took it. Now I want it back.”

“But it’s killing you!” The pan­ic was ris­ing in her voice. She pushed, crawl­ing back a few inch­es. The bro­ken chair cracked beneath her.

He smirked. “You thought you could just take it from me.”

She shook her head. “Edward, I love you!” She shift­ed again, one arm behind her, as if try­ing to push her­self upright.

“Sure,” he said. He sneered, then pulled the trigger.

#

The gun­shots echoed in his mind as he dropped the rock and stag­gered back. What the hell just hap­pened? The vision had come alive, play­ing in his mind like a vivid, recent mem­o­ry. Is that what it was? A mem­o­ry? He bowed his head. Is that who I am? A woman-beat­ing murderer?

I am Edward, he thought, but who is she?

The ground shift­ed. The rocks around him jig­gled and shuf­fled and rearranged them­selves. He lost his bal­ance and fell onto his back. “Ow!” A rock sliced into a bare buttock.

He rolled over and pushed him­self up to his knees. He wait­ed for the pain in his chest to sub­side before slow­ly ris­ing to his feet. He reached back, prob­ing the wound. He felt a jagged tear in his skin that was painful to the touch but did not feel the sticky wet­ness he expect­ed. He exam­ined his hand: dry and clean, no blood at all. He looked around him­self. No blood on the rocks. No blood anywhere.

“What the hell is going on?”

He took a step. The rocks shift­ed under him and he slid a few inch­es. In front of him, a sec­tion of rocks col­lapsed; what had once been a lev­el field now con­tained a shal­low, cone-shaped pit. He teetered as the pit widened but retained his foot­ing. He scram­bled away from it, stop­ping only when he backed into the cold, smooth barrier. 

He whirled around and slapped the bar­ri­er with both hands. He pressed his face up to it, strain­ing to see beyond his faint reflec­tion. There were dim, flick­er­ing lights in the dis­tance that bare­ly pen­e­trat­ed the dark­ness. They dimmed briefly, dis­ap­peared, and reap­peared as though some­thing had moved before them.

“Hey!” he shout­ed. “I’m in here! Let me out of here!” His voice echoed use­less­ly around him. He slapped the bar­ri­er again, then sank to the rocks and buried his head in his hands.

After a moment, he lift­ed his head and looked around. Near his right foot was a brighter rock, bril­liant white. He imag­ined it call­ing out to him with its white­ness. He reached for­ward and grabbed it with both hands.

A wave of ver­ti­go over­took him. Blurred vision and a ris­ing, deaf­en­ing buzz con­sumed him. He fell for­ward, tum­bling end over end, through the blur, and into anoth­er vision. Anoth­er memory.

#

“Bring that can­dle clos­er,” Edward said in a harsh whis­per. “I can’t see the damned lock.”

“You don’t have to whis­per,” she said, her own soft voice bare­ly above a whis­per. “There’s no one here.”

That’s the woman I killed, he thought dis­tant­ly. Or will kill.

He pulled a skele­ton key from his leather wrap and tried it in the lock. It rat­tled but wouldn’t turn. “You don’t know that for sure, Phoebe.”

“We saw him get in his car­riage and dri­ve away,” she argued. “If you’re so wor­ried, why did we both­er com­ing here?”

“For the watch.” He select­ed anoth­er key. This one turned eas­i­ly. He replaced the skele­ton key and rolled his kit, then turned to her as he pulled open the ornate door. “He may not live alone. He may have slaves.”

“Oh, both­er,” she said, brush­ing him with the folds of her frock as she sidled past him. “He doesn’t keep slaves, and he took his but­ler with him. We paid good mon­ey for infor­ma­tion on this place, remem­ber? There’s nobody here.”

“You’re right.” He slid his kit into a pock­et of his cape and strolled in behind her. “Alright,” he said. “Let’s get started.”

The win­dow­less sit­ting room was more of a gallery than a lounge. Though the room held ornate, vel­vet-cush­ioned set­tees and high-backed chairs, they paled in com­par­i­son to the art­work and jew­els crammed into every avail­able space. Paint­ings hung from every avail­able space. Sculp­tures stood tall on the floor or sat on dis­play stands. Glass dis­play cas­es held jew­els and valu­ables from around the world. It was the room where the Magi­cian enter­tained his guests and showed off his wealth. And now, it was theirs to plunder.

They moved quick­ly in the dim can­dle­light, grab­bing the most portable of the valu­ables and drop­ping them into their sacks. A neck­lace, a ring, a jew­el-encrust­ed ele­phant fig­urine. Some bracelets, a gold­en spy­glass, a crown that had been perched atop a bust. Any­thing they could car­ry was fair game. In a draw­er, they found the one item they had come look­ing for, a gold­en pock­et watch. He swept it into his bag.

“I don’t even know why you want that old thing,” she complained.

“It’s impor­tant,” he replied. “He killed my father with it.”

They com­plet­ed their cir­cuit of the room and made ready to leave. Edward stopped at a pedestal next to the room’s only exit, the glint of its occu­pant hav­ing caught his eye. “Maybe we ought to take this, too.” His eyes slid over its intri­cate­ly carved columns, the gold inlay, and the bejew­eled base. He reached out to touch it, then grasped it and lift­ed it to his face. “It’s beau­ti­ful,” he breathed as he stared at the gray sand with­in the glass.

“Remem­ber why we’re here, Edward. That thing is too bulky. Leave it.” She start­ed through the door.

The play of the can­dle­light on its jew­eled base was mes­mer­iz­ing. He turned it over, trans­fixed by the sand falling through the cen­ter. “I can’t leave it.”

“We came for the one thing.” She motioned towards his bag. “And what­ev­er else we can eas­i­ly unload. Not that.” She point­ed at the sand clock in his hands. “Besides, you dolt, the Magi­cian has prob­a­bly cursed it. Leave it and let’s go.”

He glanced at her, then back at the elab­o­rate hour­glass in his hands. “I’ll just car­ry it with me then.”

She made a face. “On your head it’ll be.”

#

He dropped the jagged rock and swayed as the rock­pile shift­ed beneath him. He slid down, away from the bar­ri­er, towards the point of the deep­en­ing cav­i­ty. He crab-walked back up and dug him­self a flat shelf on which to sit.

He turned and stared out of the bar­ri­er, strain­ing to see some­thing. Any­thing. Dim lights swam in the dis­tance but failed to pro­vide any details. He ran his hand along the bar­ri­er that impris­oned him. It was smooth, like glass. “Please, some­body, please let me out of here,” he plead­ed in a whimper.

Out­side the bar­ri­er, a light glint­ed from some­thing above his line of sight. He looked up, strain­ing to see through the dark­ness. Some­thing was there, he knew it. If he could just strain hard enough.

A giant pair of eyes were star­ing in at him.

He jumped back and rolled and slid down the stone pile. He scram­bled, kick­ing and slid­ing all the while. He held out his arms and dug in his feet, halt­ing his slide. Gin­ger­ly he crawled up to the edge of the pile. He sat with his back against the bar­ri­er, unwill­ing to see any­thing further.

“Ha. Ha. Ha.” The deep, grim laugh­ter echoed around him. Wild-eyed, he looked to his left, and his right, and then above him. There was no one there.

“Who are you?” he cried. “What do you want with me?” His voice echoed with­in his prison but gar­nered no answer.

“Don’t you remem­ber, Edward?” The deep bari­tone echoed around him, shak­ing the rocks beneath him. “You, will, in due time.”

The rocks shift­ed again. He put out his hands to steady him­self. Around him, some of the rocks had changed. There were more white and black stones, now. Some had turned gold, oth­ers sil­ver. He even saw a few dull red and blue ones.

A red stone lay near­by. Brac­ing him­self, he reached for it with one hand. A jagged edge cut blood­less­ly into one of his fin­gers, but he ignored the pain. He brought it close to his face and focused his full atten­tion on it, then brought his oth­er hand up to hold it firm­ly before him.

He closed his eyes against the expect­ed ver­ti­go. He breathed deeply as he fell, the light blind­ing­ly bright despite his tight­ly shut eyes. His breath caught, his ears rang, and he opened his eyes to the approach­ing dark­ness of anoth­er memory.

#

The bells pealed as they strode down the aisle, arm in arm. Ush­ers opened the parish doors and they walked into the warm June sun. A car­riage await­ed them, four white hors­es stand­ing ready while the dri­ver held open the door.

“Oh, Edward, that was such a glo­ri­ous wed­ding. I love you!”

Guests show­ered the car­riage with rice and satin slip­pers as they climbed in. Alas, no slip­pers found their way inside.

He smiled from ear to ear. “And I you, Phoebe my love.” Indeed, it had been the hap­pi­est day of his life. If only his father had lived to see it.

They hugged and kissed as the car­riage wound its way through the rolling Con­necti­cut hills. She looked around at the car­riage, then lov­ing­ly up at Edward. “We’ll owe quite a bit for all of this when we return.”

Edward nod­ded. “Yes, indeed. But I’ve spo­ken with Hen­ry, he has a few jobs for us when we return that will help tremendously.”

She laughed. “Per­haps a bit of pil­fer­ing while we’re gone will give us a head start.”

“I like how you think,” he agreed. He smiled wist­ful­ly, a far­away look com­ing over him.

Her smile turned to a pout. “Are you think­ing of your father, again?”

He shook his head. “No, my love. The watch. It’s the thing I most want to pilfer.”

“You have to remem­ber, the Magi­cian is a pow­er­ful man. It wouldn’t do to anger him.”

“He killed my father. I have to avenge him.”

“And you will,” she assured him. “But first, we have to repay our debts from this wed­ding. And we’ll need some infor­ma­tion about that man­sion of his. It won’t be cheap.”

His smile grew as he returned his atten­tion to his new bride. “No, it won’t, but with you by my side, we can’t pos­si­bly fail, now can we?”

They embraced again and kissed lovingly.

#

He could still feel her lips on his as he fell into the stones that sur­round­ed him. “Blast it.” He fought through the pain in his chest to push him­self back to a sit­ting posi­tion. “What the hell hap­pened?” His voice echoed around his prison, set­ting him on edge.

How? he thought. What could have hap­pened to take me from mar­riage to murder?

He searched for anoth­er col­ored stone, one that might bring him some answers. A black stone by his feet seemed like a like­ly candidate.

He grabbed the rock with both hands and fell, his head spin­ning round and round, car­ry­ing him out of the field of rocks and into anoth­er piece of his past.

#

“That’s the best I can do for ya,” the man with the eye­patch said.

Phoebe sighed, exas­per­at­ed. “But these pieces, Hen­ry. Look at them!” She waved her hand over the black vel­vet and the pile of stolen valuables.

Hen­ry, their fence, clucked his tongue. “Yes, I see them. And I know from whence they came. Some of these will be no trou­ble, but these, here,” he indi­cat­ed a small pile he had pushed to the side. “Too rec­og­niz­able. Much riski­er to sell.”

“But what about the pock­et watch?” She turned around and caught Edward by the door. He was lean­ing against the wall and star­ing at the falling sands in his hour­glass. “Edward! The pock­et watch! And stop star­ing at that thing.”

“Hm?” he said. He looked up for a moment. “Oh, yes. Here.” He reached into his pock­et and pulled out the time­piece. She snatched it from him as he returned his gaze to the hourglass.

She shook her head as she added it to the pile. “He’s become obsessed with that thing,” she com­plained. “Gets dim­mer every time he looks at it. Keeps for­get­ting things.”

The fence nod­ded absent­ly. “It is a nice piece, gold cas­ing, dia­monds round the face.” He shook his head. “But I can’t sell this. Cus­tom made for the Magi­cian. I try to move this and he’ll have my hide. Like­ly turn me into a toad.”

She smiled know­ing­ly. “Not with­out the watch, he won’t. Edward,” she said, turn­ing to face him. “Tell him the sto­ry about the watch.”

Edward looked up with a dis­turbed look on his face. “What story?”

She scrunched up her face. “The sto­ry, Edward. The one you’ve been telling me for years. The watch, the Magi­cian, your father? Remember?”

“My father?” he raised his eye­brows. “The watch? I don’t know what you’re talk­ing about.”

She rolled her eyes and returned her atten­tion to the fence. “You see what I mean? It’s all he used to talk about, how the Magi­cian used this watch to kill his father. He’s con­vinced the Magi­cian has no pow­er with­out it.”

The fence clucked his tongue again. “He’s daft if he thinks that. I’ll not touch it.” He nod­ded toward Edward. “That over there, though, I can give you a pret­ty pen­ny for that hour­glass.” He exam­ined it apprais­ing­ly. “Piece like that, if I move it over­seas, it’ll fetch a high price.”

Phoebe smiled. “You’ve got a deal.” She turned to Edward. 

He looked at her, aghast. “I’ll not give it up. What are we even doing here?” He point­ed at Hen­ry. “Who is this man?”

Phoebe stared at him, her jaw agape. “He’s got­ten worse, just since we’ve arrived. Like that thing is absorb­ing his mem­o­ries or some­thing.” She shook her head. “Just this, then, Henry.”

The fence smiled at her. “He ever for­gets about that, you bring it back here. I’ll give you top dollar.”

#

The ground shook under him, rous­ing him from the fugue of his mem­o­ry. He fell and hit his head against the bar­ri­er. He stum­bled back, kicked at a rock, and watched it fall toward the deep­en­ing recess.

A worn, blue stone sat beneath the one he had kicked. It was chipped and cracked, its col­or dull with age. He grabbed it and held it to his fore­head. His head spun as he fell, the rush of wind and time fill­ing his ears and scream­ing in his mind until a sound like the pop of a cork. Silence engulfed him, and he found him­self in anoth­er time. 

#

The boy stood aside to allow the tall man in the cape to enter his mod­est home.

Is that me? echoed through his mind. What am I, ten years old?

The man removed his top hat and hand­ed it to the boy. “Hold this for me,” he growled. “I shan’t be long.”

The hulk­ing man’s head was cov­ered in long, wild hair. A full beard and droop­ing mus­tache obscured his face beneath a wide nose and gold-rimmed mon­o­cle. He brought his white-gloved hands togeth­er and cracked his knuck­les with a cru­el grin.

The boy’s father approached from the hall. He wore the black out­fit of a chim­ney sweep, ready to head out on his next job.

“Edward, come here, away from the Magi­cian,” the father said.

So that’s the Magi­cian.

The Magi­cian stepped into the room, mov­ing at a slow, delib­er­ate pace. “You did a fine job clean­ing my chim­ney.” His grin widened, his lips peel­ing away to reveal sharp incisors. “But you have tak­en some­thing from me.” He moved clos­er to the father. “I intend to have it back.”

“I uh, I don’t think I know what you’re talk­ing about,” the father said, fear in his eyes.

The Magi­cian pulled a pock­et watch from his cape and dan­gled it in front of the father’s face. The father’s eyes glazed over as he watched it swing back and forth.

“I think that you do,” the Magi­cian said. “I com­mand you to give it to me.”

The father’s jaw went slack and he stum­bled from the room, the Magician’s pow­er too much to resist.

The boy stared at the Magi­cian and the dan­gling watch. The watch, he thought. Is that the key to his pow­er? It must be!

The Magi­cian smiled at him, a fright­en­ing, creepy sneer.

Edward’s father returned, hold­ing an ornate gold­en foun­tain pen. The Magi­cian snatched it and placed it with­in his cloak.

“You see,” the Magi­cian said, swing­ing the watch in front of the father, “this pen is spe­cial. I need it to write in my tomes and on my scrolls. You deprive me of this, you deprive me of my liveli­hood. As I shall now deprive you of yours.”

“No!” the boy cried.

The Magi­cian ignored him. The watch dan­gled in front of the father, slow­ly spin­ning at the end of its chain. “Go to your next job. Climb to the top of the roof and into the chim­ney.” The Magician’s lips curled in a sin­is­ter smile. “Relax­at, dimit­tas, som­nos.” He snapped his fin­gers and pock­et­ed the watch.

The boy ran up to the Magi­cian and pound­ed him with his fists. The Magi­cian eas­i­ly swat­ted him away. “Be still, boy. Your father is pow­er­less to resist my spell. Remem­ber this well. Cross me, and your turn will come.”

The Magi­cian left. The boy’s father fol­lowed. He nev­er returned.

#

The rock slid from his fin­gers but his eyes refused to focus. The mem­o­ry lin­gered on, refus­ing to release him.

My father nev­er returned, he thought. The con­stab­u­lary came to tell Mum he had died. Fell asleep in a chim­ney and suf­fo­cat­ed.

The mem­o­ry let go, leav­ing him among the shift­ing rocks.

The Magi­cian had killed his father.

“Your father crossed me.” The Magician’s voice echoed around him, deaf­en­ing­ly loud. He cov­ered his ears but it did lit­tle to block out the sound. “He paid his price.”

He shook his head as the echoes died out around him. The con­i­cal depres­sion was deep, now, and near as he could tell, extend­ed all the way to the bar­ri­er. In the cen­ter of the pit, the rocks jig­gled and shim­mied and fell through to what­ev­er lay below.

“You haven’t much time.” The mock­ing, pow­er­ful words of the Magi­cian rever­ber­at­ed around him as he scrab­bled to the high­est point he could reach, at the bar­ri­er to his prison.

He looked out of the bar­ri­er, strain­ing again to see what there was to see. The eyes, he thought. It must be the Magi­cian that watch­es me suf­fer in this pit.

A slow laugh rolled over him, caus­ing a shiv­er that he felt down to his bones. The eyes swam in the dark­ness beyond the bar­ri­er, and now he could see a thin nose, a hap­py, stu­pid grin.

It’s all wrong, he thought. That isn’t the Magi­cian.

The face out­side the bar­ri­er lit up as if the lights had popped on, and now he could see every detail: the bloody nose, the swollen eye that was going to black, the split low­er lip that mixed blood with a line of drool.

What the hell? he thought. That’s me!

His mouth fell open as he stared at the giant dop­pel­ganger star­ing at him through the bar­ri­er. As he peered into the doppelganger’s face, his face, he knew that he must be going mad.

Laugh­ter sur­round­ed him, echo­ing around his prison. Where is that com­ing from? His dou­ble sat watch­ing silent­ly, the same stu­pid grin on his face.

A hor­ri­ble thought struck him. Which of us is the dop­pel­ganger, he, or me?

The rocks rum­bled and shift­ed, throw­ing him back­ward toward the cen­ter of the depres­sion. He scram­bled to get away, but the rocks were too unsta­ble. It wouldn’t be long before he was sucked through the vor­tex at the pit’s bottom.

“You have crossed me, too,” the voice of the Magi­cian said, his men­ac­ing bari­tone rum­bling around him. “And now you shall pay.”

The rocks around him were chang­ing col­or, light­en­ing to white and dark­en­ing to black, fad­ing to dull red and bright­en­ing to bright gold. He grabbed at them, look­ing for any that would slow his descent.

A blue rock grabbed his atten­tion. He wrapped both of his hands around it and felt him­self fall through the stone and into anoth­er memory.

#

“Where is it?” Edward screamed. “Why did you take it away!”

Phoebe screamed right back at him. “It’s killing you, Edward! Every look at that falling sand and a lit­tle more of you drains away. You’re los­ing your mem­o­ries, Edward! Every­thing that is you! You must stop before you’re all gone!”

“Non­sense!” He advanced on her threat­en­ing­ly. “It’s mine and I want it back!”

“But it’s killing you!”

“Why do you even care, woman?” He was in her face now, flex­ing his hands.

She slapped him. “I’m your wife, you ass!”

He looked at her as if her ears had sprout­ed mush­rooms. “My wife? I don’t even know you!” He pushed her rough­ly and she stum­bled back.

Incred­u­lous, she lashed out, punch­ing him square in the jaw. “How dare you act like you don’t remem­ber me!” She brought her knee up and he dou­bled over in pain. “That thing is steal­ing your mind. I’ll nev­er give it back!”

He forced him­self up, anger smol­der­ing in his eyes. “If you won’t give it to me, I’ll have to take it.” He launched him­self at her, and the fight was on.

They fought all through the liv­ing room of their tiny flat, break­ing fur­ni­ture as they bat­tered each oth­er. Though he was phys­i­cal­ly larg­er, she was the bet­ter fight­er and gave as good as she got. Blows land­ed, blood flew, some­one lost a tooth.

He paused, breath­less. Sens­ing she had the advan­tage, she tried one last time to appeal to his sens­es. “Stop this mad­ness,” she said around a mouth­ful of blood. “You’ll not get it back.”

Though tired, he was not yet defeat­ed. With a snarl, he tack­led her, slam­ming her into a chair that shat­tered beneath her. Her head hit the floor and she was slow to get up.

He was not.

He spat blood as he watched her crum­pled on the floor.

“Edward,” she plead­ed. “Please!” She tried to push her­self up but he shoved her back with his foot.

“I didn’t tell you to get up,” he growled.

“I’m sor­ry!” she cried. “I … I can explain!”

She plead­ed some more, but he bare­ly heard her. He reached into his tat­tered jack­et and pulled a gun. More emp­ty words, but he was beyond car­ing. This woman had tak­en his hour­glass, and now he would have it back.

“Edward, I love you!” She shift­ed again, one arm behind her, as if try­ing to push her­self upright.

“Sure,” he said. He sneered, then pulled the trigger.

He stag­gered and fell, the pain in his chest drown­ing out the sounds of the gun­shots. He grabbed at the pain and felt a sticky wet­ness. When he looked down, he saw a hole in his cape and a grow­ing blos­som of red wetness.

She’s missed my heart, he thought. But not by much.

Gri­mac­ing, he pushed him­self across the floor, stop­ping beside the woman’s life­less body.

“Who are you?” he whis­pered. He felt he should know her, but the mem­o­ry was gone.

In the hand that had been behind her, she held a smok­ing pis­tol. He shook his head slow­ly and chas­tised him­self for not antic­i­pat­ing that she would also be armed.

“Where did you put it?” She’d had no time to get it out of the house. He looked down the hall, through the open bed­room door. A glint of gold beck­oned him from under the bed. Smil­ing, he pulled him­self towards it, a trail of blood fol­low­ing him.

#

The shak­ing wouldn’t stop. He scram­bled, but could find no pur­chase; the sides of the pile were too steep. “No!” He dug in his feet but con­tin­ued to slide toward the widen­ing maw that had appeared at the bot­tom of the pit. Fran­tic, he clawed and grabbed, look­ing for a way to stop his descent.

“It’s too late for you, Edward.” The slith­er­ing bari­tone of the Magi­cian assault­ed him as he fell. “As you gripped to the flawed mem­o­ry of your youth, now shall you be trapped here, with all your memories.”

“No!” Edward screamed and kicked, but could not stop slid­ing. The rocks fell under him, and he fell with them. The mem­o­ries pound­ed his mind as the rocks pound­ed his sides.

The day he met her.

A foot dipped into the gap­ing maw, and he could not lift it out.

The first pock­et he’d picked.

The oth­er fell below, and he felt the pull of the vor­tex as he fell into the bot­tom of the hourglass.

The beat­ing he’d tak­en after steal­ing coins from his mum’s purse.

He screamed, his face con­tort­ed with the fren­zy of his pan­ic. His hips fell through, then his chest.

His last, wheez­ing breath as he bled out on his bed­room floor.

He threw out his arms, but the bar­ri­er, the sides of the hour­glass, were too smooth. The Magician’s laugh­ter echoed around him as he slipped through the hole.

#

The con­stab­u­lary found Edward in a pud­dle of his own blood and drool. He was slumped on the bed­room floor in the fetal posi­tion, an ornate hour­glass cra­dled in his arms. The Magi­cian fol­lowed the two offi­cers and point­ed at the hourglass.

“That is my prop­er­ty. I’d have it now, please.” A dense fog was form­ing in the door­way behind him.

The two offi­cers looked at each oth­er, start­ed to say some­thing about evi­dence but thought bet­ter of it. Bet­ter not to cross the Magi­cian, they thought, lest they end up like poor Edward. One of the offi­cers nod­ded at him.

The Magi­cian lift­ed the hour­glass and thanked the men. He turned and dis­ap­peared into the fog. As the fog cleared, the Magi­cian was gone.

In his man­sion, the Magi­cian care­ful­ly replaced the hour­glass on its pedestal.

“Wel­come to your new home, Edward.” He grasped the hour­glass, Edward’s prison, and turned it over. “Time for anoth­er stroll through your memories.”

He watched the sand begin to stream through its center.

A smile grew on his face. He laughed, a deep laugh that con­tin­ued as he walked away.

#

When he came to, the man was sprawled face-down over a bed of rough rocks. A sound drift­ed away, famil­iar though its name raced just out of his grasp.

Where the hell am I, he thought.