The Town of Tempus Valley

Authors Note-- This is a scene in a novel I am working on. I'm actively looking for beta readers so if you would like to be a beta reader please comment. Enjoy!

It’s not entirely necessary for me to be going to see my brother. He could always ship the books to me, or to Evan, or keep them and just send me pics like he has. But… I’m not going to lie here, but I think I miss him. It’s been around seven years since I saw him, and I just miss my brother. Not that I would ever admit that aloud, but I do. I miss a lot of people too much. 

Plus, why not go on a week long drive with nothing but boxes upon boxes of books in the bed, safe beneath the truck cap, a box of cassette tapes in the passenger seat, and my lovely sentient truck that hasn’t stopped playing Arsonist’s Lullaby for the past two days.

I glance out the truck windows, watching as the tree’s blur by in dark shadows. I look back at the road in front of me., choosing not to stare too long into the void.

You never know what will look back at you.

I sigh heavily as I yawn. I look at the radio. Unfortunately, my truck has complete control over the music. and why it’s chosen this is beyond my understanding.

“Can we please change this? You’ve been playing the same song for the past day and I’m so tired. Anything else, please?” I ask.

The radio goes static before the sound of a cassette being inserted sounds. Instead of music, I’m strangled by a rope of nostalgia.

“Since when do people use cassette tapes? What are you, Ren, a fossil?” Evan. It’s Evan’s voice, albeit younger, and with a soft Boston accent in every word he spoke. He can’t be any older than thirteen in this recording.

“No, I just do, Mon Lune. I found them in my maman attic. So I took it.” My voice. A lot younger, a lot more energetic, and with a far thicker french accent then I currently have. If I were driving, I’d have stopped the car to avoid crashing.

“Well why’s it on then? There’s nothing very interesting happening? I mean, unless this random deer skull is interesting, which, it kinda is because there’s all those meadow mushroom. Oh, I actually should bring some of the mushrooms home. There edible, y’know? My pa makes a killer mushroom soup.” Evan said, completely losing track of what he was originally saying, just as he still does. 

Or… just as I hope he does. There was just something so… Evan, the way one conversation felt like several.

“I think you’re pa has magic because he can make most meals taste good.” My younger self said. 

And I still remember the last meal I ate with Evan, was the meadow mushroom soup that his dad made and gave Evan the recipe for.

“Mmm-hmm. Are you and Rowan coming over for dinner, by any chance?” Evan asked, as polite as ever.

“No, I don’t think so. I have to help fix the chicken coop back at home.” 

“Ooh, can I help! I really like your aunt and uncle’s chickens. And their geese. And the turkey’s, and goat’s, and pigs, and the sheep! Oh the sheep are my favorite.”

My younger self couldn’t help but laugh at that, even as he said, “I know they are, Mon—“

The recording stops half way. There’s the sound of the cassette being removed and thrown into the back seat with a sharp thud. The difference between my voice when he was younger, and now, is notable. A part of me grimaces when I hear my voice, devoid of anything similar to when I was younger, when things felt right.

“Don’t do that again.” I say, tossing the cassette into the back seat. “Stick to music. Choose whatever.” 

I should’ve burnt those cassette’s. I don’t even know why I still have them.

I turn the music down as I pull up to the drive thru of a rather ordinary looking coffee shop of sorts. The town I’m driving through is rather small, the kind of town where you sneeze and you’d miss it. Small. Unassuming.

I don’t want to stay for too long.

“Morning. I’d like a black coffee in the biggest cup you have. As many shots of espresso as you can put in the thing, legal or not please, I won’t snitch.” I say, running a hand through my hair as I don’t bother glance at the bright glowing menu.

The barista’s voice is that of a woman, older. I can hear her smile in her voice. “The time is always right for a good coffee, isn't it?” She asks.

Not exactly the first thing I expect a person to say when asking for a coffee, but certainly not the strangest. “Indeed, it is.” I say.

“Please pull up to the next window.”

I sigh, glad to not have gotten any issues yet with the amount of espresso shots I’m asking for. Once I’m by the window, I put the car in park and glance towards the window as it slides open.

“It’ll be four dollars and twenty three cents. Beware the frozen leaves; they whisper secrets only the wind can understand. And always remember: Time moves in circles, not straight lines.” The woman has greying hair pulled out of her face in a braid, with a pair of glasses with a red jewel on the top corner of them. 

Her name tag reads in a language I’ve never seen before.

I hand her five dollars and tell her to keep the change.

“A lot of things in science seem to be circles, never completely straight, don’t you think?” I ask, tilting my head slightly.

The Barista hands me a steaming coffee while saying, “Indeed. And remember, time is not linear here. It’s a dance of moments, each step leading to the next in unexpected ways.”

I can’t help but raise my eyebrow as I put the coffee down in a cup holder before looking back at the barista. “A dance of moments, huh? You’ve got a poetic way of putting things,” I say, offering a small smile.

The barista couldn’t help but chuckle. “Poetic or practical, it’s all part of the same dance. Just be sure to listen closely to what the leaves say, and keep your eyes open.” She says.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, giving a curt nod, “Thanks.”

Now, you see, there is a reason I do not like driving through small, quaint, unassuming, towns. 

That reason?

There’s no such thing as an unassuming town. There’s always something wrong with it. Always. 

I’ve driven through a lot of towns. I’ve driven through ghost towns that my truck decides to stop working in and I end up accidentally ordering oil at a diner. I’ve driven through towns where there’s dragons, quite literally, everywhere. I’ve seen it all.

So I’m very annoyed that I’ve driven past the same coffee shop three times now. No, I didn’t turn. I drove straight, with no curves in the road, no turns, no forks in the road, nothing. And I’ve passed the coffee shop three goddamn times now.

My watch says it’s three twenty in the morning, but the thing is it’s said that for about ten minutes now. Trust me, I pulled over and just stared at my watch for what felt like forever waiting for it to change. And it did. Eventually, that is.

I go to take a sip of coffee, but pause when I notice writing on the rim of the cup. There’s a phone number. I frown. Either the barista’s flirting with me, which is the last thing I want given she must be in her late forties maybe even fifties, or, it involves why time isn’t working and why this road keeps repeating.

So I do something that will probably end badly for me either way.

I text the number.

Soren

You wouldn’t happen to know why time is slowing down or why this road is endless, would you?

I go to set my phone down but they answer almost instantly.

Unknown

I am a sentinel that watches the skies, my voice echoes loudly, a call that never lies. When you seek the answer to when or to where, just look at my face and find time in the air.

Lovely. Just lovely. Riddles. The last thing I want right now is riddles. I sigh heavily, taking a long sip of coffee before looking back down at the stupid riddle. My voice echoes loudly. So you can hear it. Just look at my face and find time…

I glance at my watch. It is still three twenty. My watch doesn’t make noise though, not unless I set an alarm.

I am a sentinel that watches the skies.

A clock tower. There must be a clock tower here, somewhere. 

Soren

Where is the clock tower?

Unknown

Roam down the way where the ancient tree weeps, its gnarled branches hold secrets it keeps. Move toward the shadows that dance in the light, keep traveling onward, don’t lose your sight.

Another riddle. Wonderful. An ancient tree, move towards the shadows. Got it. Makes total sense. 

Even though it’s been about two hours to me since I drove into this town, my phone and watch says it’s only been fifteen minutes at most.

Which, I mean, that’s the thing— it’s still technically three in the morning. I didn’t think much of it, but, well, first light would be starting now, if it was around five, and it’s pitch black out.

Time here is basically like a broken record stuck on a pop song you hate—endlessly repeating the same tune, making you question if you'll ever get a different track.

Okay, while that’s true, that metaphor has everything to do with the fact that my truck hasn’t stopped playing Icarus and Apollo by Ripto the entire time I’ve been here and I’m going to claw my ears out. It’s not bad, I actually quite liked it at first. But having listened to it at least fifty times kind of ruins music. That is, when it’s not my choice.

It’s dark, the only light coming from the flashlight I always keep in my center console. The ground is damp and there’s the occasional dead leaf on the floor. The brick path has patches of ice, unsurprising given how freezing it it. That’s February for you. Starting to warm up so everything’s wet during the day and then night comes and it all freezes for about an hour.

The clock tower is old, with broken shutters hanging by a few screws, graffiti paints on the big wooden door and the base of the building. 

I try to get the door to open, but it’s locked. 

What had that woman said? Beware the frozen leaves? 

I glance around myself, and notice a small patch of frozen leaves and ferns. I walk over, and kick the leaves away. I can’t help but smile at the sight of old norse runes. The smile dies in seconds.

I suck at old norse runes.

Latin, sure.

Greek, easy.

Hell, I’ll give hieroglyphics a go. I might mess it up but I can get most of it right.

Old norse though? I’d rather take high school Spanish again.

“‘Við trénu… sem... skalla…’” I mutter under my breath as I shine the flashlight over the runes, “Wait, ‘skalla’—that means ‘skull,’ right? Yes. Okay. And ‘trénu’… ‘tree.’ What the hell does 'skógur' mean again? 'Forest' or... 'grove' maybe?"

Okay… Forest, Skull, Grove. I don’t really want to know what that means, but I might not really have any other choice.

Grove… There must be a grove somewhere around here.

I’ve seen a lot of things. I’ve seen demonic carousel’s, paranoia telling me not to drive through street lights, half the things I dream about coming true, but my god… I never would be prepared for this gothic Christmas tree.

It’s dark, the only light coming from my flashlight, of which is angled towards the spruce tree’s. A majority of the tree’s seem normal enough, but there’s this one tree, just in front of me, that looks… rough. There’s patches of branches missing, as if a child has taken them to build a fort some place else. There are green spruce needles lying on the ground, as if somebody got bored and decided to pluck them off one by one.

My flashlight flickers before going out like a match. I scowl, but can’t help but be relieved that the street lamp a short distance away gives off just enough light to still see.

The tree in front of me is covered in bones, as if somebody got the wrong Christmas tree decorations and didn’t notice. Ribs hang like tinsel, femur’s criss crossing near the base of the tree, and dozens other bones hanging meticulously on this gnarled tree. 

Instead of a star at the top of the tree, sits a skull, like some twisted idea of a sentinel. In the skull’s mouth, sit’s a key. The very key, I imagine, that unlocks the door to the clocktower.

Although the entire situation here is very… unfortunate, given there’s too many bones here to have come from a single person, a part of myself can’t help but wonder how old these bones are. 

I really must be going insane if that’s what I’m wondering right now.

The big issue is this tree is around twelve feet tall and I can not reach the skull that holds that key. How am I supposed to even—

Before I can finish my though, a voice, rough, gravelly, like bones scrapping against one another, says from the shadow cast by the street lamp, “You got a bone to pick?”

I jump, my heart skipping a beat as I nearly slip on a small piece of ice. I look towards the shadow. I can only see the faint figure of a person, nothing more. “Um… depends how you mean? I, er, kinda need that one, so… yeah?” I say, swallowing.

“You got a bone to pick?”

“Um… how do you mean?”

“Yes or no?”

“…Yes?”

There’s a long pause before the key clatter’s to the ground. I realize that I do not want to go pick that key up. I look at where the stranger’s voice came from. “Is this going to come with a cost if I pick it up?” I ask.

“You got a bone to pick?” 

I clench my jaw, sighing heavily before saying, “That’s a yes, isn’t it?” I pick the key up, swallowing before glancing at the shadow. “Thanks… I guess?”

I know this is the last thing I should find even slightly funny, but the key, of which did unlock the door, is a skeleton. It’s a skeleton key. I’m keeping this thing, Evan would love… this…

I’ve been thinking about evan a lot more lately. It’s… i kind of hate myself for it, I won’t lie. The last thing i want to be thinking about is the guy I cut off nearly a decade ago who, for some god damn reason decided to try calling me last month.

I should’ve just blocked his number and ignored his calls. 

I keep thinking about how i haven’t been getting any calls since I got here… I’m a bit relieved. I’m not getting pissed off voice mails from Matthias. I’m not getting worried texts from Evan. I’m not getting midnight calls fro my brother…

But I know I am.

I know rowan’s probably texted and called me and is wondering why I haven’t answered.

I know Evan’s left a dozen missed calls.

I know Matthias probably left a few drunken pissed off voice mails.

The clock tower’s gears are jammed. It’s not too difficult of a fix. Just need to basically get whatever’s stuck, out. I swallow as I walk over to all of the gears, peering in each one, but my thoughts wandered as I did so. Should I fix this clock, make time work properly enough so I can leave? Should I even leave? I know it’s probably really selfish, but a part of me wants to stay in this isolated town where time doesn’t work, where I don’t get phone calls and I don’t have to worry about people.

But I do worry about people. I worry about Rowan because I know he’s always worried about me, even if I’ve done nothing. I worry about Evan, because as much as he’s always seemed so put together, I’ve seen those nights where he seems anything but.

And I’m not upset that I worry. Because I remember what I did to avoid worrying, and I want nothing more than to never go back to that place again. I worked to hard to give in and go back.

There’s a beer bottle jammed between the gears. A part of me finds that ridiculous, how did metal gears not break a glass bottle. I’m too tired to bother think about it. Instead I grab the bottle and pull. Halfway out, the gears turn and make a crack in the bottle. I tighten my grip to avoid dropping the bottle, but the glass shatters, leaving a trail of crimson across my hand. I wince, cursing under my breath as I let go of the now broken bottle. It’s a small cut, nothing too worrisome, just deep enough to draw blood. I’m pretty sure I have bandages in the truck someplace.