Sara's Story - by Jonathan Malory - Chapter I - Occupation

The shop was an ocean of colour and scent, swathes of almond and jasmine interwoven with odours of purple and shifts of azure. There were oils for burners, lamps and massage. Tapers, candles and incense. Statues of soldiers' gods, elephants and poly-armed deities. The finest woven wool died in meticulous tints, silks of the East, lanterns and weapons. Grand cases of glistering jewels both old and freshly made, alluring charms of silver and gold draped lazily over crush velvet beds of petals and pillows. The chimes responded playfully to the gently circulating air in harmony with the songbirds in the enormously archaic bamboo cage behind the counter. Sara had only been here a few days and she was sick of it already.

‘You just need to work on your people skills.’ Easy for her to say, what kind of a stupid name was Zambia anyway? ‘But the customers always go straight to you, like I’m not here. They all know you.’ ‘Right, okay then,’ sighed Zambia, ‘next one that comes in I’ll completely ignore, start making a necklace or something, then they’ll have to come to you.’

Sara shrugged an agreement. Two customers entered the shop and Zambia looked away and pretended to be busy as planned. It was a man and a woman, both had long hair; hippies, thought Sara. Look quite well off though, might get a good sale out of them. The woman had blonde hair and looked quite a bit older than the man, she came up to the counter and started sorting through some loose bits of jewellery in a basket without saying a word while the younger man stood beside her watching the songbirds. The woman began casually tossing out some random pairs of earrings; Sara picked up a simple pair out of the newly forming pile and started secretly attaching little gems and shells. Wisps of incense floated across the counter like sleepy zeppelins.

‘Right, I think that should do it Jonathan,’ Said the Woman. ‘How much?’ ‘Well, let’s see,’ said Sara, ‘one-fifty for those two, say two each for this one and this one. This pair is very nice for about twenty…’ ‘Wait,’ said the man, ‘I don’t remember that pair, do you mother?’ ‘I did pick out that pair, but they didn’t have all those little shells and things on.’ ‘Look,’ said Sara, feeling a bit agitated. ‘If you don’t want them just say so.’ The customers looked at each other and smiled, then the man glanced back at Sara with an enigmatic visage. ‘Okay,’ Sara pleaded, ‘How about twenty for the lot then?’

‘No,’ chuckled Jonathan, ‘How about I don’t have you arrested, you work till the end of the day the leave and never come back. You’re fired.’ ‘Yeah right, who the hell are you? Get lost!’ Sara bashed the counter and swept the jewellery onto the floor then turned to see Zambia looking at her like she’d just slapped the Pope in the face with a leather glove.

‘Jesus Christ Sara! That’s the owner and his mother, what did you do?’ Zambia scuttled round the counter and gathered up the trinkets from the floor.

Sara span round in shock, ‘My God, I’m sorry! Please I really need this job.’ There was no one there but Zambia crouching on the shop floor, like one of her perfect statues come to life, picking up the reason for Sara’s dismissal.

***

The boat was worn and gnarly like an old tree, stubborn old age the only thing keeping it afloat. The motor puttered and coughed like it was making its final journey across the Styx. Mist and fog vied for supremacy over the water, whose glooping report was the only evidence of its existence as it licked the flaky hull. Sara sat mesmerised watching a snail make its tedious progress along the gunwale, it was the only thing she could see; the only thing not enveloped in opaque atmospheric haze. Its little telescopic antennae were probing this way and that as if it were just as lost in the gloom as Sara was. She was wondering how long it would take the snail to make the trip all the way round the boat, an hour? Two, three hours. How the creature didn’t understand the talent of its predicament, how lucky it was. Sara was also pondering on how the snail had got there, had it slimed its way up this geriatrics’ body from out of the sea? Surely not, it would have had to swim which she was sure it could not. It must have slimed its way aboard over night up one of the ropes, which meant it was not a sea snail but the kind one might find eating your carefully grown vegetable patch. Digging the rough earth, tilling the soil and spreading the seeds; months of intricate attention and nurturing nibbled away nocturnally by God’s slimy denizen sloth, taunting the gardener with its putrid silver map-lines like rivulets of dried up mercury.

Sara considered flicking the thing into the invisible brine, imagined its death throes as it writhed against the salt on its gelatinous body, or would the evil thing re-adapt itself to life at sea just as its ancestors had left the sea and began to breath the air. She picked it up with a shlup that was amplified by the cloying atmosphere, her hair was dripping with precipitation, and stuck it back down at a right angle to the gunwale pointing towards the boat. With its singular foot it reached the edge of the railing and craned its head and antennae over the precipice as if it were considering the daring leap to the rotting deck far below then righted itself and continued its laborious quest along the railing as if its Shangri-La lay at the bow.

The vertiginous swaying of the boat altered slightly as the engine died and they drifted along with nothing but blank white pages in every direction. Sara heard the ring of a bell, not the kind of bell you would expect to hear at sea, more like a tinkling bell an old lady might ring to summon help from the butler because she’s finished her pea-soup. Somewhere on the boat behind her the skipper responded with a similar tinkling, it had to be him because there was no one else on the boat. It went on like this for a few minutes, each responding to the other as the gastropod one-footed its way to mollusc heaven until the hull shook from impact and the creature sought refuge in its mobile sanctuary. ‘Here,’ said a new voice in the mist, ‘take the end ‘o this and tie it to’ front and we’ll reel ya in.’

‘Aye, thanks a lot. Was wondering how I was gonna nav me way in with this lot.’ It was the skipper’s voice, Sara assumed that ‘this lot’ meant the heavy fog. The scraggy looking skipper appeared out of nowhere like an old steam train erupting from a tunnel for a brief moment before plunging again into the shroud towards the bow.

‘Okay she’s on, reel us in.’ Coughed the skipper in the mist.

Sara had been attempting to visualise what the place might be like for the last three days since she set off, now it looked as though she was not going to be able to see a thing; she saw herself being lead like the blind to a claustrophobic state, suffocated by damp ethereal cotton wool.

***

The Island appeared like switching on a television set, from blank nothingness to pure clarity in an instant. A huge oak tree was the first thing Sara saw as the mist disappeared and the boat came to a stop at a natural grassy harbour. There was no sign of the skipper or the other man so she just climbed out, her walking shoes squelched the mossy ground and she drew in the sharp yet pungent air which made her head go dizzy with woodland imagery. The tree seemed unnaturally huge, Sara couldn’t see the top of the crown, and preternaturally thriving with life. There were at least three woodpeckers toiling away at the trunk at various levels. She could see even where she stood their long pointed beaks harpooning insects as they poured out of the holes in the great oak, using their stiff tails to balance themselves against the trunk; they all had different plumage, green, red, and yellow with great shiny crests softly shifting majestically in the breeze. Great swathes of impossibly green moss thrived around the base of the trunk while vibrant ivy visibly climbed up the tree in search of the crown. Splendid though the tree seemed, there was evidence of bracket fungus growing on the regal oak revealing that at his heart the king was beginning to rot.

Sara followed a bark-chip-strewn path around the magnificent tree that led to a bridge over the most unusual pond she had ever seen. The area of the pond was bigger than many lakes, yet it defied that description, it twisted and coiled and hair-pinned like a miniaturised map of the Amazon with all its connecting rivers and streams. Giant platforms of lily pads shone like Australian emeralds from the sparkling flowery water. Weeping willows trailed their tendrils in the pond at intervals so random that they appeared unnatural. Huge teaming bundles of Chinese Magnolias flaunted their fragrant creamy coloured flowers that were just opening as the sun began to set, awaiting the attentions of the night-flying moths to pollinate them. Way off in the distance a creature, possibly a man or possibly an ape, was trying to row a swan-shaped boat down one of the tiny tributaries. The boat was scraping along the bank on both sides as the creature dug the oars into the earth and propelled the craft along as if it were rowing normally.

Sara walked across the bridge and was met on the other side by what appeared to be a Buddhist priest, dressed in fine robes of orange over dragon red. He had a shaven head with eight little dots on the top that indicated his status, how Sara knew this she had no idea.

‘What do you want?’ asked the priest. ‘I wish to speak with the master.’ Sara nodded her head in the direction of a palatial Islamic building beyond the priest’s temple. ‘Very well, you must first come with me to the temple. Do you agree?’ The priest gestured towards the building with his left hand open, long orange sleeve almost interfering with the army of Stag Beetles heading for the bridge.

Sara simply nodded and went with the kindly looking man to the shrine in the temple. She was given three lighted incense sticks and an old Chinese coin to throw into the shrine and make a wish. ‘Please kneel here and wait to be called for, then you will be able to see him.’ Sara turned to agree but the man had vanished, leaving behind his clothes and the continuous ringing of a singing bowl. She knelt as instructed and raised the incense stick up to her forehead three times, made her wish, and threw the coin into the shrine; again unaware of how she knew what to do. There was a tremendous noise coming from outside made by thousands of Cicadas and the place had taken on an oppressive warmth; the singing bowl could still be heard though above all. Sara was damp all over with heat, her hair stuck to her face again like it had on the boat. The sound of the singing bowl was penetrating her thoughts, overwhelming them, it felt as though her hands were aflame. The heat in her hands was gaining superiority over the bowl to such an extent that she was jolted out of her trance, realising that the incense had gone all the way down and was burning her fingers.

‘It is time.’ Said the priest. He was back again, wearing the clothes that had been on the floor.

***

The house lay behind the temple beyond a swath of circular velvet lawn. There was an aged tortoise attached to a peg in the centre of the lawn by a piece of long string, Sara ignored it and went to the front door of the house which was set in a horseshoe archway.

Above the archway was a magnificently large onion shaped dome of gold covered with infinitesimally delicate geometric shapes that formed and reformed themselves as Sara gazed upon them.

The door looked out of place, like an armoured tank in the Garden of Eden, a cold steal bank vault’s portal surrounded by exquisite Islamic artistry. There was a rope that looked like a bell-pull so Sara gave it a tug; no sound could be heard apart from a curious scrunching behind her.

She about-faced, taking in the temple and the strange convoluted pond, it was the tortoise on the grass. The creature was following her, she went and sat at the edge of the grass to meet it but it stopped short of her by about a foot, the tortoise had walked the extent of its tether and was struggling to walk further. Its long neck struck out from its carapace as it fought with the peg forced between the blades of grass.

Sara could see where someone had drilled a little hole in the overlap of shell next to its little tale and fitted a metal ring for tying up the tortoise. The peg gave a little but showed no signs of defeat so the tortoise ceased its tugging and headed of back towards the peg as if to inspect the damage.

Sara sat, feeling very relaxed now, watching the tortoise amble its way towards the hub of its dilemma. It was only just now that she realised how quickly time had passed, she had been in the temple the whole night for the sun was now halfway to its zenith the next day. The heat was returning but it was not oppressive yet, still retaining the freshness of morning, the new light created a shadow for the peg making it look like a gnomon in the centre of a giant green sundial.

The sun appeared to be rising faster than the tortoise made its arduous progress across the clock-face, the shadow had passed through forty-five degrees by the time the creature’s scaly legs had carried it to the centre.

The tortoise whiled away another lazy eighth of the clock passing the peg and reaching the opposite side of the lawn from where Sara sat, and recommenced its lonely battle against the peg. Sara got up deciding it was time to move and set off around the house to find another way in. All the windows at the front were in keeping with the Islamic style and too high up to see in, as she rounded the corner of the house she was confronted by a man emptying vegetable waste onto a great compost heap. The heap shimmered like a mirage in the desert, matter veritably decomposed as she watched a brace of bees involved in a drunken brawl over an apple core.

‘Could you tell me please if there is a way in?’ Sara asked the gardener while still enthralled by the ludicrous dance of the bees.

‘Wakarimasen!’ He hadn’t understood.

‘Parlez vouz Francais?’ Sara took a step towards him trying to appear friendly. ‘Iie, Furansu wakarimasen.’ The gardener walked away quickly, disappearing into a pear orchard.

Sara thought she should be frustrated but she hadn’t a care, what did it matter? The sky was so blue, absurdly blue like a renaissance painting without the clouds; like the skies from childhood memories. The sun warmed her back and the tiniest of baby breaths eased through the orchard, coddling Sara with its scent of pears and ozone. She strode out of the sun and into the cool shade behind the house where an infinite golden wheat field rolled away to the horizon. A flight of stone stairs covered in mosaics of broken faience reached all the way to the top of the house, Sara climbed. It was only a brief amount of steps that transported her to the roof yet, when she looked behind her, the ground was impossibly far away. The roof was strewn with golden domes, thirteen of them copying the layout of St Sophia’s Cathedral in Kiev. Towers of varying heights supported thirteen golden onions reflecting heavenly light in every direction, making the sun’s rays almost tangible. Sara walked among the towers, draped in gold, looking without urgency for an entrance. She found her way to the front of the house and peered over the edge like the snail on the gunwale; the sundial looked like a verdigris-covered coin from this high up but it was still close enough to see that the tortoise had gone. Sara looked over at the temple and the bridge then left toward the pond, she was just leaning back in when she caught sight of the gnomon being pulled very slowly round the edge of the house. As Sara turned to resume her search she noticed that one of the towers had an open door in it, she entered and descended a few steps into a corridor carpeted with soft red wool. She could hear laughter not far away and walked towards the door it was coming from, when she got to it the word ‘Voievoda’ was artfully drawn in golden script across the dark wood. Voievoda?

‘Come on in child, don’t stand out there trying to read that old tongue.’ Sara pushed the door and swept through the entrance. He was sitting in a smart brown leather armchair holding a drink in a covered cup. ‘It means king, or leader.’ ‘Yes I know,’ Sara replied, ‘it’s just that I haven’t seen it written like that before.’ There was a rustic wooden table in the corner opposite the door with Orthodox ikons painted on little wooden boards standing on its top. Also standing on the table were bulky hand-carved candles and candlesticks, Sara made the sign of the cross the way they do in the east; right shoulder first instead of left.

‘Would you like some of my drink? You look hot.’ He got out of his chair and offered Sara the straw bursting out from the cup’s cover. ‘I’m glad you found your way through our little Santa Sofia, what do you think of it?’

‘From the Greek Sofia, meaning wise,’ Sara walked further into the room, spotting a heron through the window perched outside on the windowsill. The heron noticed her but remained aloof; Sara bowed her head with her back to the object of her journey and pleaded to him. ‘I beg you mister Arkansas, please may I have my job back? I really liked it.’

‘That is inaccurate, you were sick of it.’ Mister Arkansas padded up to Sara and gently turned her till their eyes reflected each other’s light. ‘I really do think you should try some of this drink, it’s a Lime Ricky.’

Sara took the offered drink and gave it a try. ‘Thank you, it’s very refreshing.’ The liquid was cool and tasted greener than all the trees she had seen outside, it felt as though everything was going to be all right.

‘You should not occupy your exquisite time with a job you dislike. Not you Sara, with the means to find your way all the way here.’

‘I know you are right but I have to do something, don’t I?’ Sara heard the heron take flight behind her as she thought of all the twists and avenues in her life that had carried her here. To this place of wonder where anything was possible, colours her life had yet to experience.

‘Oh, there is an abundance of things for you to do. I have a job that will see you travel the world and feel a thousand scents, endure exotic scenes till your heart flows like a mighty river tumbling with unbridled abandonment down a heavenly cataract.’ Jonathan Arkansas went and sat again in the big old comfy armchair. ‘I have waited for someone like you Sara for a long time, someone capable of carrying out the tasks I can no longer keep up with alone. Now everything is going to be all right.’

***

The revolving door seemed a masterpiece of Victorian technology worthy of H.G. Wells, gently spinning under some unknowable perpetual power. Made entirely from brass with smoked windowpanes, it hummed gently like a fast-breeder reactor; two thick brass handles sparked on either side of the door awaiting co-ordinates.

‘This is where all your investigations will begin, from here you will embark on the ultimate quest.’ Jonathan drained the last of the Lime Ricky and popped the empty cup into a swing-bin. ‘All you must do is place your hands on these handles and the door will read your Then and calculate the most appropriate destination.’

‘How will I get back?’ Like everything else since she had arrived at the island, the revolving door seemed so natural.

‘You will have to come back to make your reports by more conventional means, a bank account has already been created for you to withdraw travel expenses from anywhere you might end up.’ ‘Interesting, the slower journey home will give me time to reflect.’ Home? Did she mean this house? ‘Yes.’ Sara had the feeling that Mister Arkansas was replying to her silent question, yet still felt faultlessly at ease.

Sara noticed a golden lever halfway up the framework of the door shaped like a stoat. ‘This device appears somehow familiar yet I am unable to decipher its function.’ ‘Indeed Sara, you are a truly remarkable woman! Unfortunately technology has yet to progress to a point at which triggering the Stoat is an option.’

‘Of course, I see.’

Remarkable?

Above the door was a curious looking eye made from bronze with a magenta eyeball; above the eye the word ‘NOW’ was written in ancient Hebrew script and below the eye lay a delicate Sanskrit ‘THEN’. ‘Without the use of the Stoat, the two handholds and the Bronze Eye are the only controls you need to use. The eye open is the NOW setting; by dropping the eyelid you set the machine to THEN.’ ‘You mean like time travel?’ Sara ran a finger gently over the Sanskrit lettering. ‘You could call it that, but you must remember that there is no such thing as time.’ Jonathan gave the door a spin, but it made no other noise than the energetic humming.

‘You mean no future?’ Sara was wondering why there weren’t three settings, but then she could see the sense in it; the eye only has two positions, open or closed. ‘Yes, no future. Time does not exist in reality; it is a device that people invented for convenience. In reality it is now all the time; people think of beginning and ending because they are born and deceased.’

‘You mean they can’t see the tapestry because of the weave?’ Sara eyed the machine almost in awe of its complicated simplicity. She had the same feeling as a child when she used to drop stones in the cow’s water trough and watch the rippling circles. ‘So why is there a Then setting?’

The door was created to be used by people, creatures unfamiliar with constants; as is reflected in their eyes, either open or closed. Even the special few like you and I find it easier to think in then and now rather than always now. We have an imagination that Reality lacks; people can imagine a future that will never exist. The machine was created with compensatory intricacies for imagination but is still unable to cater for our hallucinations of the future.’ ‘I take it you do not know who built this, machine.’ Sara carefully brought the door to a temporary stasis, and then fondly let it go in a counter direction.

‘It is part of the island and perhaps older than the house; all I know is, it will lead us to clues.’

‘Just one more thing,’ Sara turned away from the machine to look at Mister Arkansas. ‘If I use this device to go to Then, how do I get back? I mean, I’ll be in a different time won’t I?’

‘I used to have the same worries, but like I said there really is no Then; just a Now. The machine takes you to locations of experiences, if the experience chosen is in what we call the past; reality will reassert itself once the Acquaintance has expired, and you will find yourself firmly in the Now. Where you always were.’ Jonathan dipped into a pocket and brought out a thick gold ring for scrutiny. Upon the carved surface of its red crystal was a seal to make an impression of a heron. He breathed on it, gave it a polish then plopped it back where it came from. ‘Believe me, it really is a lot easier not to think about it too much. That much reality can be harmful to our realization.’