Chapter 8: Chapter Eight

Reven:

Reven stood in front of the food preparation unit, baffled at the black metal box’s simplistic design. It was completely cold now but he had witnessed Elizabeth stoke a fire in the center of the device. Coming from a more advanced time, he should be able to master a simple technology. At least he hoped so. Elizabeth’s home was filled with deceptive items that on the surface bore enough of a resemblance to their modern descendants that it bolstered his confidence. When it came to practical application, however, he found himself on his knees, poking at cold ashes.

The entire house was laughably unsafe. Natural gas had been piped in for lighting and the tubes were affixed to the wall, exposed and vulnerable to puncture. The flawed and highly combustible system was lauded as modern progress. Elizabeth had puffed up with pride as she ignited the gas lamps. He would rather sit in the dark and the cold than willingly ignite the gas.

How Terrans managed to survive as a species amazed him.

The mission had strayed so far off the original mark. He knew the words his warlord would say when—if—he returned to the lunar base. He should not have initiated the teleport drive while under fire. He should not have taken shelter in the abandoned barn. He should have done more to remain hidden and certainly should not have revealed himself to a primitive Terran.

He felt no regret for helping Elizabeth when she fell ill. Protecting Earth and its inhabitants was his purpose. He could not let a person die when he had the ability to give them the medical treatment that needed. No one would fault him for that.

However, he should have increased the sedative and kept her unconscious. He should have returned her to her domicile to wake in her own bed, unaware of what occurred. He should not have spoken to her, or struck a bargain for her assistance. He should certainly not have crawled into her bed last night.

That last bit might be left out of his report, if he ever got the chance to write it.

He could still leave and salvage what he could of his ruined mission, yet he couldn’t make himself do it. Something about her compelled him, drew him in, as a light in the dark. He could explain it away as exhaustion making him susceptible to a chemical reaction induced by pheromones. She was genetically compatible and would be a good match, that was all. Simple.

So why was he trying to boil water on a primitive fire box and ignoring every reason to leave? She held some sort of strange power over him.

He should probably leave that bit out of the report, too.

Elizabeth:

She woke in her own bed. Edges of daylight peeped around the closed drapes. Her limbs felt leaden, encouraging her to fall back asleep. Extreme lethargy took her suddenly last night. All she recalled was stitching on a rough patch to Reven’s shirt before her eyes grew too heavy to stay open. She could only draw certain conclusions about how she ended up in bed.

At least she had her clothes on and seemingly alone.

She touched her abdomen, finding the skin smooth and whole, and nearly able to believe that yesterday was a figment of a fevered imagination. Aliens. Cities on the moon. Honestly. She fell ill. Her mind produced an elaborate delusion, nothing more. Extraordinary, yes, but false.

Disappointment sat heavy in her chest. She wanted to believe in the extraordinary. The world was dull and gray. She needed her box of crayon pastels and paper—lots of paper—to capture her dream before it vanished.

Her feet hit the plush carpet at the side of the bed, and she reached for her dressing gown.

The door opened. Reven entered, head ducking to avoid hitting the lintel, and very much not the delusion of a fever. He wore the patched undershirt, the faded rust of blood staining the shoulder. She bit her lower lip, wondering where she could find a clean shirt for him. David’s old wardrobe would never fit. Mr. Baldry was broad enough in the shoulders, if not nearly tall enough, but she didn’t want to rummage through the groundskeeper’s wardrobe without permission.

“You are awake. Excellent. You require sustenance,” he said as he shoved something square and brown at her. It smelled meaty but did not look like the preserved beef or even the dried sausages favored by hikers. Her stomach did not care. It rumbled.

She nibbled on the corner and decided the texture to be like an oatcake—if oatcakes were made of smoked meat. The strong salty taste made her wrinkle her nose, but she chewed nonetheless, too hungry to be picky. Reven produced a cup of tea, and she drained it, foregoing propriety to wash the taste away.

“Where did you find that? It’s revolting,” she said, handing him the empty cup.

“It contains all the nutrients and energy required for one solar cycle,” he replied, sidestepping the issue of taste entirely.

“Is that your extravagant moon city way of saying one day?”

The corner of his lips twitched.

“What is the time?” she asked, already picturing the day’s tasks.

“Mid-morning,” he said.

She slept half the day away. “Let me wash up and dress. Please compile a list of the materials you will need to repair your ship.”

She went to her ablutions, washing away the dust of multiple days. Three days, if she counted correctly. Gilbert walked her home on Wednesday. Thursday night, the lights from the barn drew her out of the house and she fell ill. Friday, she discovered an alien. This had to be Saturday, which meant in three days she’d have Christmas dinner with the Stearnes. She dreaded the notion but could see no way out of it.

Elizabeth elected to wash her hair in the evening when she could let it dry by the fire. For the day, she arranged it in a tidy plait.

Her muscles ached for a good long soak but wouldn’t entertain the notion with Reven in the house. Not that she failed to trust him. She did, without reservations. She suspected that she should be more reserved with her regard for him and not admit that she found him intriguing beyond compare. Her regard felt like a betrayal to David, even though David would have been just as interested in Reven as she.

She recalled the broad expanse of his chest covered in swirling black ink and his thick, firm legs.

Interested for different reasons, perhaps. She could appreciate a fine masculine specimen. She was a widow, not dead, after all.

As different as he was, with his dark plum complexion, horns, and all those tattoos, she never doubted his intelligence or his masculinity. Of course, she did witness his stark masculinity for herself the other night in that very room.

Elizabeth blushed, being neither dead nor blind. Reven was generously proportioned, and she could find no fault with his making.

Once clean to her satisfaction, she chose a simple blue day dress, one suitable for work.

She found Reven in the studio. He uncovered David’s last painting, still on the easel. The drop cloth lay in a heap on the floor.

“My late husband was a painter,” she said, joining him in front of the canvas. The landscape was the view of Exmoor directly out the window, with light streaming through a dramatic break in the clouds.

“That explains the male scent I detect. A mate, but fading.”

Such an apt description of David.

“The colors convey a great deal of emotion. The light appears to move,” he said, studying the image. His fingers moved above the canvas as if tracing the brush strokes.

“David was the best painter I ever knew,” she said honestly.

“How long have you been a widow?”

“Two years.”

“Do you miss him?”

She let her fingers trail over the abandoned brushes with dried paint caking the bristles. “He had an artist’s temperament. Passionate. Obsessive. Self-indulgent. He was a great painter but a terrible husband.”

When David focused on her, Elizabeth felt like the bright, burning center of his world, but that focus only came in brief bursts. When he worked, it consumed him, and he neglected all else in his life, even her. Perhaps had he lived longer, that behavior might have soured their marriage. Knowing now how few days he had on Earth, Elizabeth didn’t begrudge him the time he spent chasing his muse.

Reven hummed a response but said nothing. He moved from the landscape to other paintings, asking keen questions about technique. When he viewed all the canvases, she gathered her paint box and instructed him to carry the drop cloths. They would block light from escaping the barn.

She wasn’t sure why she shared the true nature of David’s temperament with Reven. Perhaps because he had no expectations of her and knew nothing of David. In the village, well-meaning people shared condolences for the passing of the master of the house. They only spoke of him in the most idealized terms, as if his faults vanished on his deathbed.

Perhaps they did. Elizabeth only spoke of his virtues, his creativity and imagination, and never uttered a word about his vices. Who would she speak to? No one wanted to hear how David squandered his inheritance renovating the lodge and fitting it with the most modern of conveniences. No one cared to know that his complete lack of interest in marital congress left her feeling as sexless as a child. No one needed to know that she sacrificed her art to care for David, to play at being the housewife, and her resentment grew each day as he painted and she mended torn clothing.

Perhaps Reven’s lack of expectation in her made it easy to confide to him.

Curious.

She set up in a corner of the ship’s interior and sketched. Her hand flew across the page, hoping to capture everything in their limited time.

“I designed this,” Reven announced, showing off his machine. While it looked like nothing more than a pile of gears and cogs, his obvious enthusiasm for his creation was evident. She didn’t grasp the technical details but understood that Reven had made something new. She admired a man who felt the urge to bring to life what dwelled in his imagination.

He happily explained the tools he used, the individual components of the ship, and the other masterpieces within the larger masterpiece. No question she posed left him irritated, and he always had an answer, even if it was a vague promise to do research to find the correct answer.

“How do you know so much?” she finally asked.

“I’m an engineer. I need to have a basic understanding of how the entire ship functions. A ship is an ecosystem. Each part must function properly, or the entire system collapses.”

“But how do you know so much? Surely you’ve run out of space between those horns of yours.” A man as handsome and appealing as he surely didn’t spend his nights poring over books and schematics.

He huffed with amusement.

***

One day flowed into the next. Reven worked on the external repairs during the daylight and switching to the interior when the light vanished. He answered her questions with unerring patience.

“What is your moon city like? Does it have canals like Venice?”

“No, the canals are on Mars,” he replied.

“Canals on Mars?” Her pencil stilled over the page.

“No. I am being humorous.”

She frowned, but her pencil resumed moving.

“I do not like being teased in such a manner,” she said at length. She was hardly an astronomy expert but had seen lunar map in her father’s library. Her father fancied himself a scholar and would have pursued academia if circumstances allowed. Financial success allowed him the luxury of pursuing whatever interests caught his eye. Curiosity and a love of discovery ran deep in the Josephson household. “You could very well tell me that the moon is covered in a great lake of ice and I would have no cause to doubt you.”

“It is a city like any other. People live and work under the domes.”

“Domes?” Her pencil paused again.

Reven scratched at the base of his horn. “The moon has no atmosphere. The base was originally a military installation, so the older structures are very functional and not aesthetically pleasing. As it expanded, the domes became necessary. Terrans felt trapped in the massive buildings. They prefer smaller structures with green spaces.”

“Are you claiming that there are gardens on the moon?”

“Yes. The base is a series of connected domes. Each has a controlled environment. Some domes are practical: housing, medical, commands, and so on. Other domes produce food and others are greenhouses to provide fresh oxygen. It is a very complex system.” His voice took on a wistful tone. Obviously, he admired complexity. “The domes are constructed from a durable material, so there is no risk of failure, but they are transparent. The Earth hangs above the base. It is quite remarkable.”

“I’d like to see that.” Imagine, viewing the Earth from such a vantage. How extraordinary. Then, “If your moon city is so complex, why is it that no one has detected it? Can we not see it with a telescope, such as the one in Greenwich?”

His body tensed, as if she finally stumbled on a question he did not want to answer. “It’s not visible now.”

“Was it destroyed? You were under attack when you arrived.” Perhaps his hesitation sprang from not knowing the fate of his friends and colleagues.

“I shouldn’t tell you.”

“Whyever not? Is it a secret of the utmost importance? Do you have some phantom technology to make it undetectable? How exciting.” Anything seemed possible as she sat in his ship, surrounded by wonders. It flew, which seemed to be the most commonplace activity, given tedious Reven made it sound. Of course, she hadn’t actually seen it fly. She took him at his word.

“Yes. Let us go with that explanation.” He focused on his task and avoided looking in her direction. For the first time, she felt he did not tell her the entire truth.

This would not do.

“When your ship is repaired, can you take me to your city on the moon?”

“No.”

“Would you be able to return to visit?”

“Unlikely.”

Hmm. Perhaps a different tactic. “Why are your people on the moon? Doesn’t your planet have its own moon?”

His lips pressed together. “I can’t tell you, Elizabeth.”

“Whyever not?”

“Paradox!” He slammed his tool to the ground and stood quickly. Body tense with stress, his fingers flexed and curled into a fist. For a moment, he looked as though he wanted to slam his fist into a wall. Instead, he ran a hand through his hair, making it messier than before. “It could create a paradox and unravel the fabric of reality.”

She blinked, taking in his words, tone, and posture. A laugh bubbled up within her. No matter how she tried to keep a straight face, she just couldn’t. Her body shook with laughter. “Paradox?” Her eyes watered. “I’ve swallowed your story whole so far, but there’s some dark secret about the moon that will, what, have me run off to the Royal Astronomy Society? Write to the Evening Mail?”

“Do not mock. A paradox is a serious consideration when time is involved.”

“How is time involved?”

He knelt at her feet. “May I?” he asked, gesturing to the hem of her skirt.

A warm flush came over her. “I hardly think—”

He lifted the fabric in each hand. “This is space with Point A and Point B.” He raised his left hand, then his right. “Traveling in a straight line would take a considerable distance. Fortunately for us, space is not always flat. It bends and folds.” He folded the fabric together but kept a distance of three inches between them. “Wormholes occur naturally and artificially to connect Point A and Point B.” He brought his hands together. “That is what my engine is meant to do.”

“Artificially,” she said.

“Yes, but it malfunctioned, as you know. It folded more than space. It folded time.”

She sucked in her breath. His words were unbelievable. It was a fantastic notion directly out of a novel, but she couldn’t think of a story similar. A Christmas Carol, perhaps, when the spirits escort Ebenezer to view his own past and then his future.

It couldn’t be true, but she did not sense he lied. He told the truth. He was from the future.

“Time is out of joint,” she whispered.

“To answer your question, you cannot see the lunar base now because it will not be constructed for a few centuries.”

“You’re from the future,” she said, stunned. Reven had spun many fantastic tales, and she believed them all, but this one… “The future? Really?”

“Among other things.” His hand raked through his hair again.

Nothing about his demeanor struck her as false.

“I suppose if I can believe you are from another planet, it’s not such a stretch to imagine you are from the future,” she said.

She had so many questions. Would another disaster befall London like the Great Fire? War? Disease? Would there be cures for disease? Would women ever get the vote?

She opened her mouth to ask, but Reven held up a hand in a clear signal to cease. “No. I cannot tell you.”

“Because of paradox.”

“I probably have told you too much. I may have affected the future.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “No. Your secret is safe with me. No one will believe me. They’ll say I’m a mad artist, a widow driven to flights of fancy by her loneliness, that my imagination has run amok.”

He pressed his hands to her knees and looked up at her. “They may say you are mad, but primitive Terrans are dangerous. They could injure you.”

“Lock me away in Bedlam,” she said. For the first time, fear trembled in her.

Reven rumbled low in his throat, the noise catching her by surprise. “I hate that I frightened you, but the more I share, the more at risk it makes you.”

“How will you return home?”

“Ah.” He picked up the hem of her skirt again. “The wormhole is still present but it is collapsing.” The two points drifted apart.

“How long, then?”

“Four days by my calculations,” he said.

The day after Christmas, Boxing Day. Despite their relatively fresh acquaintance, she wasn’t ready to part company with the Moon Man.

“What of my notebook?” She had pages and pages of his portrait and detailed drawings of his artifacts.

“Do not show it to anyone,” he said.

“Of course not.” She could always claim the notebook to be a product of her imagination, inspired by the stories of Verne and the like. However, she could never share that Reven was flesh and blood, from a planet called Sangrin, and lived on the moon. “It will be for my use only. But may I ask, why are your people here? Why did they come to Earth?”

He gave a thin smile. “I cannot say.”

A terrible thought ran through her mind. Perhaps his people were conquerors and claimed Earth as part of their empire. “At least tell me if you are Earth’s allies.”

“The Mahdfel are allies.”

***

“What about your family?”

Reven paused in his work. “What about them?”

“Can you tell me about them or would that be a paradox, too?”

“My father is a warrior, the same as me, as was his father before him.”

She hummed. “Is it a good living in the warrior business?”

He set down his tool and turned to face her. “The Mahdfel are all warriors, but my father is an engineer, the same as me. His work is very delicate, which surprises many, given his size. He is quite large.”

She eyed him. “You’re quite large.”

“Compared to you. You are tiny, even for a Terran.”

“I am not,” she said.

He huffed in amusement.

“He’s bigger than you? That’s hard to imagine.”

“I take after my mother. Her people are small, like Terrans,” he added.

“How flattering,” she said dryly.

“He is an engineer for the planetary defense array on Sangrin. It is a very important position. Very detailed and delicate.”

Planetary… “I understand those words but not the context,” she said.

He scratched the base of his horn, which she now recognized as his thinking gesture. “It is a type of fortress.”

“For the entire planet?” Her mind boggled.

“Yes, of course. Every planet should have one.”

“Does Earth?”

His lips pressed together.

“Right. You cannot say,” she said, answering her own question.

“It is complex to build and maintain, but a wise investment. Consider it to be like locking the door to your domicile. A good habit.”

“I don’t lock my door.” Why would she? There was no one on the moors except for the Baldrys, who came and went as they pleased.

Reven strode towards her, crossing the distance in a heartbeat. He gripped her chin and angled her face upwards, holding her gaze. “It is unsafe to leave your domicile unsecured. Promise me you will take the basic precautions. Lock. Your. Door.”

He stared down at her with a primal intensity. For a moment, she thought he might kiss her. She licked her bottom lip in anticipation, his eyes tracking the movement.

His fingers relaxed their grip on her and he stepped back. She swallowed her disappointment.

“I haven’t seen you turn the key on the door of your ship,” she countered.

“I have a bio-lock on the shuttle,” he said.

“Again, I do not understand what those words mean in that context. Bio would be biology?”

“It is…” He sighed and stepped back from her. She felt the absence of his heat. “I am the key. My biology. The shuttle unlocks at my touch.”

She clutched her notebook to her chest. “Show me, please.”