The River of No Return Bee Ridgway (best free ebook reader .TXT) 📖

Nick clambered to his feet and slumped into his chair. He put his head in his hands. “It’s getting worse,” he said. “The more I am aware of the river, the more it seems to drag at me. Thinking about the Pale just now . . .”

Alva put her hand on his shoulder. “It is because you aren’t trained,” she said. “They sent you back with no training and expected you to be safe. It’s as if a pilot had taken you up in an airplane and then handed you the controls and said, ‘Land it.’”

Nick groaned. “Then train me, for the love of God. I’m fit, I’m halfway intelligent, I’m a soldier—train me!”

“Training takes months, Nick. To learn to jump, and to learn to do it safely—”

“Yes, yes, I know. They told me. It takes too long. But there must be something I can do to keep from being swept away every time I think about the river.”

Alva sat down opposite him again. “When it happens, what does it feel like?”

“Like all of time is stampeding through me—like a wind or a . . . well, like a river. And I am like a little boat, or a leaf—clinging to my mooring by the most fragile of threads. . . .” Nick found that his hand was in his pocket. He drew out the acorn.

“What is that?”

Nick closed his fingers. He didn’t want her to see it.

“An acorn.” She answered her own question. “The fruit of unenclosed land.”

“Pardon?”

“That’s what acorn means. ‘The fruit of unenclosed land.’” She smiled at him.

He clenched the acorn tightly in his fist and drew a deep breath. “I am in love,” he said.

Her eyes opened wide, but she said nothing.

“And this acorn . . . it is . . . it reminds me of that love.” He found that confessing it felt good. “I don’t know why, but it is.” Nick felt calmer now. The rushing in his ears receded. He smiled at Alva. “There. That’s my secret. You have the Pale and the Talisman and time travel and these catacombs. I have an acorn.”

Alva nodded. “I understand.” She sipped her beer and he sipped his. The moment felt . . . brotherly.

“May I ask you,” Alva said after a moment, “is that acorn from here? I mean, is it from 1815? Not the twenty-first century?”

“Yes. It is from now.”

Alva sucked in her cheeks. “I wonder . . .” She tapped the tabletop with one finger. “I think your acorn might be your salvation. I can’t train you to jump in one day, but I might be able to help you anchor yourself firmly to this time. Do you trust me?”

“Of course.”

She smiled. “You say that quickly, you who are meant to betray me.”

“I think you know that I—” He stopped.

“That you are Ofan?”

Nick frowned. He didn’t know if that was what he had been about to say.

Alva shook her head. “No, never mind. I do not need you to swear allegiance.” She stood. “Come. Get up. I’d like to try something.”

Nick got to his feet.

Alva took his hands.

“Are we going to jump? This is what Arkady did when—”

“Don’t worry. You are in the transporter. At the very worst you’ll jump to some Ofan bar brawl in the fifteenth century and they’ll just bring you back to me here. But I think this will work. I’m going to begin to jump with you, but I will let go of you just as we enter the river. When that happens, I want you to think about that acorn. Use it to stay here. To resist the river. I don’t want you to touch it, for this exercise is about your mind, Nick, not about the acorn itself.” She squeezed his fingers. “Are you ready?”

“No! What are you doing?”

But she was already doing it. Jumping with Alva was not like jumping with Arkady. With Arkady the feeling had been located in the gut, but with Alva it was in the head. Vertigo . . . he was tumbling, his thoughts were flying away . . . and then Alva let go of his hands and he was lost, tumbling away down a long, dark tunnel. . . .

The acorn. She had said to think of the acorn . . . don’t reach for it. Do it with your mind. Do it with your mind. He pictured the acorn, its shiny pale brown flanks, its nubbly cap . . . Julia. Julia’s dark eyes. Julia’s soft hand cupping his cheek, her kisses, sweet and urgent . . .

He opened his eyes. He was in the pub, and he felt strong and alive and firmly planted. Alva was smiling at him. Nothing had changed.

“There,” she said. “The acorn will keep you here. That’s all you have to do next time.”

* * *

“Do you think it is possible to stop the Pale?” Nick was standing behind the bar, washing up their mugs in a bucket of soapy water. Alva sat across from him, eating a packet of lamb-and-mint-flavored crisps she’d pulled out of a drawer. She had described them as “the really evil ones, from the 1980s.”

“No,” she said. “I don’t think it. I believe it. But belief is more fragile than thought. I believe that the Pale can be turned back. But I might be wrong.”

“You can’t be wrong,” Nick said, his voice hoarse. “Surely there’s hope.” He set the two mugs upside down on a folded linen towel and planted his hands on the bar, his arms braced.

“I hope so. But all I base my belief on is human nature.”

“Then we’re doomed.” Nick plucked a crisp from her packet and popped it in his mouth. “Humans are the scum of the earth.”

Alva put her head on one side. “Maybe,” she said. “But we exist, and therefore we have to try to do good rather than bad.” She ripped the silvery bag along its seam and opened it out to make eating the crisps easier. “We have talents—ranging from perfect pitch to towering artistic or scientific genius. We usually celebrate these things as gifts from God. So by what right does the Guild say that your ability to manipulate time, which