Scratched Wax

“I see that you cannot take your eyes from the gifts time has bestowed upon me.” The Dealer’s eyes glinted through a fringe that lay over his face like the unearthed roots of a mangrove swamp. The roots fed a great vine of matted hair that climbed over his head in a dense coil and looped down to twist like a constrictor several times around his body.

“Stare,” he said in a delicate breath barely strong enough to carry the word, “every second you spend staring at me becomes mine.” He raised a thin hand and used the edge of a long, twisted fingernail to score a line into the body of the candle that burned on the table between us. “You may share my time until the flame erases the line.” His hand dropped to the table under the weight of his decades-long nails, which twisted like fuses and scraped toward me through the silence as he flexed his gnarled fingers. “Now, tell me your needs and learn my price.”    

“I need to travel,” I said, focusing on the two sparks of candlelight reflected in The Dealer’s eyes, trying to ignore the huge figure who stood by his side, just visible at the edge of the small reality of candle-lit space. 

“To the lived, or the unlived?”

“Back, I want to go back. To the lived.”

“Ah, yes, to revisit the lived is more valuable. We are all moving into the unlived, travelling there is a mere matter of efficiency, but to revisit the lived, that offers possibilities beyond comprehension, and so, to be blunt, it must attract a higher cost. How far do you wish to travel?”

“It depends on the price.”

“As so much does, indeed, as so much does,” sang The Dealer with a slow shake of his head. “I charge one hour for one scint,” he said flatly.

“Scint? The government are offering a minute for an hour, what’s a scint?”

“Ah, the government. Those philistines have no understanding of the true value of time, and they place such… illiberal limits on travellers. They make life so difficult for independent businessmen like myself and my colleague Mr Cleave,” said The Dealer with a slight nod to the figure at his side, “but in the face of adversity, we innovate! One hour of your life will buy you one scint of travel, one hundredth of an hour.”  

“I don’t know. It’s expensive.”

The large figure stooped and a pale face with black-bagged eyes sunk into the candle’s glow. The head rolled slightly as scarred lips twitched and bounced, miming speech and poisoning the globe of candle light with sour breath, but remaining as silent as the sea bed. After a few seconds, when the lips were still, the words came.

“If you could get a government licence you wouldn’t be here. One hour, one scint. The rate is not negotiable.”  

I nodded, holding the unblinking glare of the desynchronised addict as his face rose away from the flame and back into the darkness. I pretended not to have noticed his lag.  

“You must forgive Mr Cleave,” said The Dealer. “He is a man of very liberal principles and deeply resents the government’s interference in our trade. He is a frequent micro-traveller and his, shall we say, sumptuous proclivities, have also rendered him somewhat… impatient. Let us come to an arrangement which will allow you to experience the pleasure that he knows so well.”

“I don’t think I can afford your rate. If it’s not negotiable then…”

“Let us not be too hasty. As I say, Mr Cleave lacks my patience. I am a businessman. Life is a negotiation. Everything is negotiable!”

Mr Cleave turned, perhaps piqued by his partner’s flexibility, and disappeared quickly into the darkness, to be followed shortly after by the beat of his bodyless footsteps. 

“Come closer,” said The Dealer, “let me see the quality of the time you have to offer.”

I bent forward slightly in my seat, pushing my chin closer to the candle flame, over The Dealer’s claws. He mirrored my movement and the yellow light leapt to his long, grey beard as it swept like rain over the table. He turned briefly to his left and grunted. Hands, too small to belong to Cleave, reached out and fitted a jeweller’s loupe to the bridge of his nose. He turned back to me, aiming the lens into my eyes.

“You have travelled forty-two years, one-hundred and fifteen days, twenty-three hours and seventeen minutes… ah, eighteen. Your heart is good, despite your drinking, tut tut! But who am I to judge? We shall leave that to our priggish government, shan’t we?” He tapped his hands lightly as he peered, causing the nails to rattle and scrape on the table under my chin. “Please turn your head to the left. Yes. And now the right, yeeees, unremarkable but acceptable. And finally, to complete my process, you must tell me your father’s name.”

“Winston Craig.”

“My thanks. I see that there were some problems in your youth, the nature of them is unclear to me, but nothing to suggest that you will not have a perfectly average journey length. This would mean you have something in the region of thirty years left with which to deal. Regretfully, this is insufficient to purchase an amount of travel which could tempt me to negotiate on my rates.”

“I need a month,” I said “well, thirty days.”

“Thirty days. Seventy-two thousand scints at a cost of seventy-two thousand hours. Three thousand days, over eight years. Which means that, in line with my long-standing business practices, partially adopted at the insistence of my erstwhile associate Mr Cleave, regrettably, I must charge you nine. We only accept complete years I am afraid. A fee of nine years will purchase you a journey of thirty-two days. Always prudent to buy slightly more than you need, wouldn’t you agree? I’m sure that a pragmatist such as yourself can see that this is a wonderful deal.”

“It’s just… so much.”

“The journey you need to undertake is very valuable, my friend, maybe worth more to you than a mere nine years of your life?”

“It is important. The thing I have to do, it would change a lot.”

“And to relive the already lived would be inaccessible to you by any other means, by any licenced means, wouldn’t it?”

“It is a big decision.”

“Ah, my friend, it is no decision at all.” The Dealer grinned and aimed the lens of the loupe at the flame as it burned closer to the scored deadline in the wax. “I do not know when next I will be available for a consultation. It could be some time. Every second you hesitate is one you must buy back at the point at which you see sense.”

“I just don’t know.”

“Mr Cleave! Mr Cleave where are you? We are leaving!” The Dealer twisted indignantly in his seat and made a show of preparing to leave despite being incapable of so much as standing without assistance. “There is no creature so reprehensible as a time waster!”

“Wait,” I said quietly.

“Mr Cleave! Where has he got to?” The Dealer looked to the other figure in the darkness and hissed, sending them scuttling off to search for Mr Cleave.

“What if I had more time to offer? Not just more, but higher quality too?”

“I have appraised your time; higher quality would mean it would have to come from another donor.”

“Yes.”

“A younger donor?” The Dealer stopped looking around for Cleave and pointed his loupe at me once again, a flicker of candle light briefly flashing a magnified image of a hungry, yellow eye in the thick lens. 

“Yes.”

The Dealer raised a hand and with a careful scrape of a nail scored a new line, lower down on the candle’s neck.

“You have my attention; you may share my time a little longer. But be warned; if you are wasting more of my time, you will find you have considerably less to deal with than I previously estimated. Mr Cleave will gladly relieve you of it.”

“I’m not wasting your time,” said a boy’s voice in the darkness.  

 “Who’s there?” said The Dealer, instinctively turning to his left for assistance and, finding none, stiffly jerking his neck to shake the loupe awkwardly away from his eye, unable to use his clawbound hands, helpless without Cleave or his other associate.

A boy of twelve stepped into the glow of the candle beside me. The Dealer rocked forward so far over the table that a few stray beard hairs curled and smoked in the candle’s orbit. The tip of his tongue flickered in his moustache.

“You would be prepared to offer the child’s time?” said The Dealer.

“Would you be prepared to appraise it?” I said.

“Oh, yes. Don’t worry, child, I won’t take a moment. Turn your head to the left for me.”

The boy complied, blanky obedient.

“Yes, good boy. And to the right… Yes… Closer to the flame, my Little Moth. Very good. And finally; what is your father’s name?”

“Winston Craig.”

“Ah, a family name, how traditional. My thanks, Little Moth.” He turned back to me, “I have seen enough. If you can guarantee that we could conduct our business without any, obstructions, then for the boy’s time I could match even our foolish government’s rates.”

“There won’t be any obstructions,” I said, looking at the boy who solemnly shook his head.

“What about the mother?” asked The Dealer.

“Mother’s dead,” I said.

“Ah, tragic. Such a waste, to die young,” said The Dealer affecting a frown that did little to conceal his obvious joy at the new opportunity.

“She was much older than me,” I said.

“Ah, well, tragic none the less. But we must not dwell on the past! Why dwell on it when you could soon dwell in it?” said The Dealer with a few sawing breaths of weak laughter that left spittle in his beard. 

“So, you would take the boy’s time?” I confirmed.

“Oh, yes,” said The Dealer, any hint of humour gone.

“How much would you take?”

“Oh, he has so much to give…”

“What if I wanted to travel thirty years?” I asked.

“Well, my friend, as the wisest among us know, life is a negotiation, and I would negotiate… for a whole life,” said The Dealer, the flame picking out his unblinking eyes as it erased the line that should have marked the end of our meeting.

The boy and I looked at each other.

“Is that enough?” the boy said to me.

“Oh, that is enough!” yelped The Dealer, “that would buy so very much, my brave Little Moth.”

“I think we’ve got enough,” I replied to the boy as I rose from my chair.

“Please sit, my friend, we must conclude our business,” said The Dealer, a weak laugh nervously punctuating his words.

“Yes, let’s conclude our business,” said the boy.

“Yes,” I said, “No need to spend any longer on this one.” I hardened my voice as I had so many times before and addressed The Dealer, “You are under arrest for violation of section eight-B, chapter nine of novel three of the Temporal Protocol. It is my duty to inform you that I am a Constable of the Queen’s Government and that you are in my charge until I deliver you to a designated custody facility. Any resistance will be met with force, proportionate and reasonable, but otherwise unlimited. Do you understand?”

“Cleave!” cried The Dealer.

“I think he understands,” said the boy.

“There are about a dozen more crimes that you will be answering for, I could list them all, but I wouldn’t want to waste any more of your time,” I said.

“Mr Cleave!” shrieked The Dealer, “Mr Cleave, help me!”

“He can’t hear you. Byron Cleave was killed while resisting arrest. We took him yesterday morning, as soon as we positively identified him this afternoon,” I said. “He went for his weapon, that cumbersome thing that bulged in his jacket as he stooped to intervene in our negotiation, but I was faster. Maybe his lag was catching up with him.” 

“No. This is preposterous! You cannot use travel to convict me. I know my rights; disordered events are inadmissible.”

“Our conversation here this evening will provide more than enough evidence.”

“Entrapment then! What despicable wretch would use a child in his scheme to corrupt an honest businessman? It is not legal; it will not stand. No child can agree to take part in this. Run child! Flee this heinous beast!”

“I could never get away from this man even if I did run. Anyway, it was my idea,” said the boy calmly.

“It cannot be. Trust a wise old man, your father, this wretch, whoever he is, has lied to you, used you. A child cannot agree to be exploited in this way. You were mere bait in his trap to ensnare an innocent entrepreneur.”

“Like I said, it was my idea,” I said.

“And mine alone,” said the boy.

“Ah…” said The Dealer as he slumped in his chair, his head rolling forward under the weight of his thick vine of hair. He stared at his finger nails, coiling and twisting over the table, their shadows tearing at its surface in the flickering light of the faltering candle. “In the panopticon they will take time’s gifts from me,” he said with a moan.

“They will take everything,” we said, as the candle guttered and died.