This book is dedicated to my Mom 1
9 That night, after Nim’s visit, Dor and Alli climbed a hillside to watch the sun set. They did this almost every evening, recalling the days they chased each other as children. But this time, Dor was quiet. He carried several bowls and a jug of water. When they sat, he told Alli about Nim’s visit. She began to cry. “But where are we to go?” she said. “This is our home, our family. How will we survive?” Dor looked down. “Do you want me enslaved on that tower?” “No.” “Then we have no choice.” He touched her tears and wiped them away. “I am afraid,” she whispered. She hugged her arms around his chest and leaned her head into his shoulder. She did this every night, and like most small demonstrations of love, it had a large impact. Dor felt a surge of calm whenever she held him, like being wrapped in a blanket, and he knew no one else would ever love or understand him the way she did. He nestled his face into her long dark hair, and he breathed a way he never breathed except when he was with her. “I will protect you,” he promised. They sat for a long while, watching the horizon. “Look,” Alli whispered. She loved the sunset colors— the oranges, the soft pinks, the cranberry reds. Dor stood up. “Where are you going?” Alli asked. “I must try something.” “Stay with me.” But Dor moved to the rocks. He poured water into a small bowl, then placed a larger one beneath it. He removed a piece of clay plugged inside a hole in the upper bowl—the one Nim had mocked—and the water began to drip through, one silent splash after another. “Dor?” Alli whispered. He did not look up. “Dor?” She pulled her arms around her knees. What would become of them? she thought. Where would they go? She lowered her head and squeezed her eyes shut.
If one were recording history, one might write that at the moment man invented the world’s fi rst clock, his wife was alone, softly crying, while he was consumed by the count. Dor and Alli stayed on the hillside that night. She slept. But he fought his weariness to be awake when the sun rose. He watched the sky change from night black to deep purple to a melting blue. Then a burst of rays seemed to whiten everything, as the dome of the sun poked over the horizon, like the golden pupil of an opening eye. Had he been wiser, he might have marveled at the beauty of the sunrise and given thanks for being able to witness it. But Dor was not focusing on the miracle of the day, only on measuring its length. As the sun appeared, he slid the lower bowl away from the upper bowl’s dripping, took a sharp stone, and notched the waterline. This, he concluded—this much water—was the measure between darkness and light. From now on, no one needed to pray for the sun god to return. They could use this water clock, see the level rising, and know dawn was coming. Nim was wrong. There was no divine battle between day and night. Dor had captured them both in a bowl. He dumped the water. God saw this, too. 10 Sarah is anxious. She hurries down the steps in her still-warm black jeans. She feels a fl ush of panic. She remembers a night two years ago, one of the few times she’s gone out with a boy. A Winter Formal dance. A kid from her math class. His hands were clammy. His breath smelled like pretzels. He left with his friends. She had to call her mother to pick her up. This is diff erent, she tells herself. That was a weird boy; this is a young man. He is eighteen. He is popular. Any girl at school would want him. Look at his photo! And he’s meeting her! “What time will you be back?” Lorraine asks, looking up from the couch. Her wineglass is nearly empty. “It’s Friday, Mom.” “It’s just a question.” “I don’t know, OK?” Lorraine rubs her temples. “I’m not the enemy, honey.” “Didn’t say you were.” She checks her phone. She cannot be late. Eight-thirty! Eight-thirty! She yanks her coat from the closet. Victor is anxious. He taps his fi ngers on the desk, waiting for Research. Grace’s voice comes over the intercom. “Honey? Are you hungry?” “Maybe a little.” 3
“How about some soup?” Calif waii, the Hamptons, and central London. Since his cancer diagnosis ll bring it in.” She has been kinder since his illness, sw T y’ . ictor picks up the phone to see ho s with the soup hangs up 11 Dor and Alli loaded their meaer possessions on a donky and w ould be safer with Dor’s par wice she made n back, just so she could hug them ag their oldest daughter asked, “ Alli collapsed, sobbing heir new abode was small, made of eak ag family, the couple relied solely on eac y could, her p and a sing om long trips to the g Dor continued his measuring, using bones , the sun, moon, and star. It was the only thing that made him feel pr. Alli g wn. One night Dor saw her hugging their sons swaddling blanket and staring a . F ould bring them f h visit, he spoke about Nim’ w high it had g w the bricks w y mortar came from the fountains of . Alry, Nim had climbed near the top - rw into the sky lood on its tip he people bo ving he had wounded the gods ould r , defea or them, and rule from above. “He is a gt and poerful king ther said. Dor looked do y we living in e . He thought about his life as a c and Nim and Alli running up the hills another man to him, really still a bo be the str hank y 12 “Dor. V.” Alli r ly couple was apprhing on f y moons had now passed since Dor’s banishment—on our calendar ee y
Alli was grateful for any company at all. She greeted the man and woman and off ered them food and water, even though there was precious little to spare. Dor was proud of his wife’s kindness. But he worried about the visitors, who did not look well. Their eyes were red and watery and their skin had dark blotches. When he was alone with Alli, he warned her, “Do not touch them. I fear they are diseased.” “They are alone and poor,” she protested. “They have no one else. Show them the mercy we would want in return.” Alli served the visitors barley cakes and barley paste and the little goat’s milk they had. She listened as they told their tale. They, too, had been cast out from their village, the people fearful that the dark blotches meant they had been cursed. They lived now as nomads, in a tent made of goat skins. They moved in search of sustenance and waited for the day they would die. The old woman cried when she said this. Alli cried with her. She knew what it felt like to lose your place in the world. She held the small cup so the old woman could sip. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Drink,” Alli said. “Your kindness …” She reached out to embrace Alli, her wrinkled hands trembling. Alli leaned in and nuzzled her cheek. She could feel the old woman’s tears mixing with hers. “Be at peace,” Alli said. As they left, Alli slipped the woman a skin fi lled with the last of their barley cakes. Dor checked his water clock bowl and saw a fi ngernail’s length until the sun disappeared. 13 Before you measure the years, you measure the days. And before the days, you measure the moon. Dor had done this in exile, charting its stages—full moon, half moon, quarter moon, moonless. Unlike the sun, which looked the same every day, the changing moon gave Dor something to count, and he gouged holes on 5
lets until he noticed a pa ould la ys w orwar hile pr temples y y. Dor noticed a y y had ne e do?” Alli asked. ehead with the b y should seek out an Asu, a medicine man, w . But the city was too far hisper 14 Sarah speaks to time ys. She slips out the door and heads up the street. She imagines the boy with the coff . She imagines him geeting her with a sudden, swping kiss. She looks back and sees a light go on in her mother’ She slips out the door and heads up the str bedroom. She quickens her pace yond her mother to open the window and y Like many teenage gir nds her mother a huge embarrassment. She talks too much. She wears too mh makeup. She is constantly corecting Sarah— Don h, Fix y s not complaining to friends about Sarah’ en liv ymor got tha heck ag y used to be closer tely mother and daughter shar utual incompr y the other Sarah does not discuss boys with Lor t there has been much to discuss until no. Eight-thirty, eight-thirty! She hear p. Her cell phone. She g t pocket. ys. It has been an hour, and he is used to quick responses t help tha literally ticking computer scr . His cell phone desk phone, printer VD play e digital
time displays. On the wall is a wooden plaque with three clocks in three time zones—New York, London, Beijing— representing the major offi ces of another company he owns. All told, there are nine diff erent sources of time in his study. The phone rings. Finally. He answers. “Yes?” “I’m faxing something over.” “Good.” He hangs up. Grace enters. “Who was that?” He lies. “Something for tomorrow’s meetings.” “You have to go?” “Why not?” “I just thought—” She stops. She nods. She takes the plates to the kitchen. The fax machine rings, and Victor moves closer as the paper slides through. 15 Dor lay on the ground beside his wife. The stars took over the sky. It had been days since she had eaten. She was perspiring heavily, and he worried about her labored breathing. Please do not leave me, he thought. He could not bear a world without Alli. He realized how much he relied on her from morning until night. She was his only conversation. His only smile. She prepared their meager food and always off ered it to him fi rst, even though he insisted she eat before he did. They leaned on each other at sunsets. Holding her as they slept felt like his last connection to humanity. He had his time measures and he had her. That was his life. For as long as he could remember, it had been that way, Dor and Alli, even as children. “I do not want to die,” she whispered. “You will not die.” “I want to be with you.” “You are.” She coughed up blood. He wiped it away. “Dor?” “My love?” “Ask the gods for help.” Dor did as she asked. He stayed up all night. He prayed in a way he had never prayed before. In the past, his faith was in measures and numbers. But now he begged the most high gods—the ones that ruled over the sun and moon—to stop everything, to keep the world dark, to let his water clock overfl ow. If this would happen, then Dor would have time to fi nd the Asu who could cure his beloved. He swayed back and forth. He repeated a whisper, “Please, please, please, please, please …,” squeezing his eyes shut because it somehow made the words more pure. But when he allowed his eyelids the slightest lift, he saw what he dreaded, the fi rst change of colors on the horizon. He saw the bowl was nearly to the notch of day. He saw that his measures were accurate, and he hated that they were accurate and he cursed his knowledge and the gods who had let him down.
ring She was quite still, her head limp on the b . Dor felt an ang an in his feet and shot up thr Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh …” y wafted into the empty air of ough the mor y sun. He ran with his lungs , until, at last, he saw it. It stood so tall; its peak was hidden b d it, obsessed with one last hope harted time and measur . T yramid, its stairs r s glorious ascent. No one dared set foot on them. Some men even lo y y passed. T eral guar looked up ut none suspected w y Bef y could react, he was sprinting up the king’ special steps man? Did he belong? One y eral dropped their tools and bricks Quickly the slaes began ascending the race f ens had begun. The guar ollo eople near the base joined in. T or po le thing e scaling the to ou could hear a rising r the collective y y to take wt was not theirs. hat happened next is a matter of T y history tells the story Babel was either destry w ther Time could testify to something else y same day. As the people climbed, the structure began to rumb he brick g ed. A thundering sound was heard—and then the bottom of the toer melted ay he top b he middle hung in the air, defying anything man had e sought to r shaken from a tree branch. Tough it all, Dor climbed, until he was the only fi gure still clinging to the stair. He climbed past dizzi
hing and his c om the to p and dar This will happen soon. An ocean wae begins to br y rises on his surfboard. He pr l. The wave freezes. So does he. This will happen soon. A hairylist pulls back a clump of he sque crunching sound. The hair breaks free and falls tods the fl oor. It stops in midair. This will happen soon. In a m , Gery, a security guard g t a strange-looking . He is lean. His hair is long es to an e antique clocks. He opens a g “No, bi—” the guar , wagging a fi nger ut instantly he feels r oggy, lost in thought. He thinks he sees the strange man r study them, take them apart, then put them back together Emeging fr hought word: “—itte.” But the man is gone.
VE 17 “It is not a gift,” the old man said. e mistaken. I am a small e mistaken. I am a smal
ce n lit
y her enings in the house with her mother raine had plans with the clacking w or ly admissions applica sity—the only sc His name was Ethan. , he was also a senior y male and female friends y y of high homeless shelter—the same homeless shelter w olunteering since the college applicay on “an infl d had none up to tha y honestly y to ha tmeal, because she felt selfconscious ar urban gir But then Ethan ar y the truck on her fi y—his uncle o ood supply company—and he noticed her , the only per his age opped a bo , he said, “Hey s up?” She clutc y, ws up? His fi y spoke ey w ed him a pack of pean utter cracker and he said, “Nah, I dont want to take f y from these people tha ely Sarah beg y y young girls often do with young boys and its unwritten rules of hom, she had mor , she stood up straighter left behind the social message T w e feminine tops she w y Lemon-ade.” eeks passed, she gew bold enough to beliee that he was feeling for her what she was feeling for him, that this was not an accident, the tw them winding up in this unlikely place te in books like Zadig y V en g The Alchemist, and she belie , too eek, she had med the courage to ask if Ethan wanted to hang out sometime and he’ ybe Fy?” ed the courage to ask if hang out sometime and he’ No y. Eight-thirty, eight-thirty! She tried to calm her t get too wked up o y oke the rules of her rules. be big e ll phone w p g Her heart jumped. In her raspbey T lack je It was from him. . Eight-thirty
teenth-richest ding to a national hin in the wls pushed up t “the priv ed hedge fund mogul” was an only c ho came to America and made it big efused to speak with the mag (V om publicity) certain details of e omitted, including this: w , his mother left the ed nightgo phan. t to join an uncle in America. y y his g y some hoolig our heart.” hooler in hines with om summer jobs and he put the ma. He sold them eight months la y dispenser esting until, b wned the v d pur y possib st $100,000 to the American uncle ything else acquired car dealerships eal esta, and e isconsin, then se oomed, and he started the highestpriced— and most sought after—funds in the w vator in 1965. lond hair et practical. V tor closed and she looked h close quarter y talked f
hool. Her husband was killed in the uried her y shar ooklyn. y did so m , took trips to P their joint activities fell a king on the plane and e Ty stopped playing tennis. Museum trips g riage felt like something spilled. rupt an ness call. He disdained her minor scoldings and ho long it took her to get r nings and the occasional r s passed and their w their life together felt mor , all issues had faded behind the ys after his eighty-sixth bir ried about bad health jeopar xpense in e ear had passed, and the r had seen the lead doctor hoked in her thr t Grace wants to ask,” V e left?”
20 oice said, “Long s ther oi ,” it said. oice. Now a voice “Longer,” it He saw only Soft, L Soft, barely au the cave. S fl , staring a man gws alo The second v said, “More. d v , staring at the incandescent water, desperate, as ws alone, for the sound of another soul. fl , staring g g ing a he second voice, fi nally, was a woman’s. It e.” d voice, a little boy’s, said the same thing. ourth—they came more quickly now—mentioned the sun. The fi fth spoke of the moon. The sixth hisper and repeated, “more, more,” while the ourth—t tioned the sun. hisper Soft, barely auly ge “Longer T Long u ha surface “Show yours er me hen, sudde ice said, “Lo re?” Dor scr He had been man left. He se st walls. man left. He se n left. He seft. He se of ut it br e p mman sear hedc en trying to esc searched f ice said, “Long ea ong He had been tr e since the old man left. He searched for passageways. He banged on st walls. He tried to lower himself into the pool ut it repelled him with air, as if a million e pushing up from below. ying to escape the cae sin eamed. amed. cape the ca w only wisps of white smoke on the pool’s p , and a bright turquoise glow. ourself!” er me!” hen, suddenly, there it was again. A single word. ely audible, a mumbled prayer wafting up into t? Dor wondered. He crouched on the rior or wet his fi ngers with the slowly dripping water p . Do from the fi ssure. But he could not escape the voices from the glowing pool—asking, always asking, for days, nights, suns, moons, and, eventually, hours, months, and years. If he put his hands over his ears, he heard them just as loudly. And thus, unknowingly, did Dor begin to serve his sentence— to hear every plea from every soul who desired more of the thing he had fi rst identifi ed, the thing that moved man further from the simple light of existence and deeper into the darkness of his own obsessions. Time. It seemed to be running too fast for everyone but him. 21 Sarah read Ethan’s text on her phone. Her heart dropped. “Can we do this next week? Sumthin I gotta go 2 2nite. See u at shlter, OK?” Her knees buckled, like a marionette’s with the strings released. “No!” she screamed to herself. “Not 15 . Dor co
hange his mind. But a te might think she was ang ying no t shelter ew in: “Ha it was not her fault, he had not bailed out because she was too geeky or too fa t. He had something to do “No he night was an empty . She could not go home Instead she trudged to a nearb t in the back. ys been ab fi eak spot, and crack it open. was inly a hidde y; ot jus missing it He took the same appr ought his cancer with con ced onto dialysis thr ted only b He tolerated it until he could tolera , he knew the bottom line was this: tried. It was a bad bet, hoping f ictor did not make bad bets ness and focused instead on time—time rundle was human mortality w could he crack tha ound his opening w his W esponding to his requests on
“immortality,” faxed a stack of material on cryonics. Cryonics. The preservation of humans for later reanimation. Freezing yourself. Victor read through the pages, then took his fi rst satisfi ed breath in months. He could not beat death. But he might outlast it. 23 The pool of voices was formed by Dor’s tears, but he was only the fi rst to weep. As mankind grew obsessed with its hours, the sorrow of lost time became a permanent hole in the human heart. People fretted over missed chances, over ineffi cient days; they worried constantly about how long they would live, because counting life’s moments had led, inevitably, to counting them down. Soon, in every nation and in every language, time became the most precious commodity. And the desire for more became an endless chorus in Dor’s cave. More time. A daughter holding her ailing mother’s hand. A horseman riding to beat the sunset. A farmer fi ghting a late harvest. A student huddled over piles of papers. More time. A man with a hangover smacking his alarm clock. An exhausted worker buried in reports. A mechanic under the hood with impatient customers waiting. More time. It was the choke of Dor’s existence, all he ever heard, millions of voices surrounding him like gnats. Although he’d lived when the world spoke but one language, he was granted the power to understand them all now, and he sensed by the sheer volume that Earth had become a v did much mor eled, it made war And it ne me a v wded p than hunt or b ar, it despaired. had enough time to extend the hour requests ne He did not under our he appetite was endless he stopped. Until slowly, gradually, Dor came to rue the hat once consumed him. very thing that once consumed him. t understand the purpose of he cur y he n nger he bo , he cursed all ts he had spent ay fr hen he been with her , listening to her v ying , apparently torture, and he cur he cursed the bo the moments he had spent a could have been with her his head ag he cur iv Mostly he cur g would die and meet their fa going to liv
THE IN-BETWEEN hen she saw Ethan the earing a hooded opped bo er had caused his canceltion. She wanted him to mention it—she certainly mal “Yeah.” Stupid, stupid! He crushed the now empty boes and put them in “Sure am.” ging his hands his feet. y ne ning? up to her to ask? pped to the winhing e l and wipe han had unpacke ed. He ran the e feet high, the color of
ything should happen near the top otect the head.” bies and penthouse this place k in a nondescript New Y uilding with a loading e the bodies beg , six people per unit, like an y after he r ceiv ports yed up all night, skipping , ignoring the pain in his stomac . Although it was a y en was in 1972), the thinking behind cr . Bring it back to life and d during his life y’ t?” he asked. Near the cylinder esponds to a per h, pushed e Grace sitting in . Grace was a e in meddling gue with her . No fl And pay wer it took to get his own cylinder e going to wait centuries to be r w into passagey thousands of te an opening lar om the ceiling , the dripping wa
And as that stalactite dripped onto the cave fl oor, a stalagmite began to rise. Over the centuries, the two points grew toward each other, as if drawn by magnets, but so slowly that Dor never took notice. Once, he had prided himself on keeping time with water. But man invents nothing God did not create fi rst. Dor was living in the biggest water clock of all. He never thought about this. Instead, he stopped thinking altogether. He stopped moving. He no longer stood up. He put his chin in his hands and held still amid the deafening voices. Unlike any man before him, Dor was being allowed to exist without getting older, to not use a single breath of the numbered breaths of his life. But inside, Dor was broken. Not aging is not the same as living, and without human contact, his soul dried up. As the voices from Earth increased exponentially, Dor heard them without distinction, the way one hears falling raindrops. His mind dulled from inactivity. His hair and beard grew comically long, as did the nails of his fi ngers and toes. He lost any concept of his own appearance. He had not seen his image since he and Alli went to the great river and smiled at their refl ection in the water. He wanted desperately to hold on to every memory like that. He squeezed his eyes shut to recall every detail. Until fi nally, at some unmarked point in his purgatory, Dor shook the lethargy of his darkness, sharpened the edge of a small rock, and began to carve on the walls. He had carved on Earth but always as a form of timekeeping, counting, notching moons and suns, the earliest math in the world. What Dor carved now was diff erent. First he made three circles to remember his children. He gave each of them a name. Then he carved a quarter moon to remind him of the night he told Alli, “She is my wife.” He carved a box shape to remind him of their fi rst home together—his father’s mud-brick house—and a smaller box to symbolize the reed hut they shared. He drew an eye shape to remind him of Alli’s lifted gaze, the look that made him feel tipped over. He drew wavy lines to suggest her long dark hair and the serenity he felt when he buried his face inside it. With each new carving, he spoke out loud. He was doing what man does when left with nothing. He was telling himself his own life story. 27 Lorraine knew there was a boy involved. Why else would her daughter have worn heels last night? She only hoped Sarah hadn’t picked a jerk like her father. Grace knew Victor was frustrated. He hated to lose. And it saddened her that this last fi ght, against a terminal illness, was destined to be a defeat.
pen, a s ago ym class stuff e Sarah was oked her hair and said, y one of t. She missed Sarah moving about upstairs and wanted to speak with call you back. , still using his cane older under his ar ou want some tea?” Mankind is connected in ways it does not Mkid i d i i d ping man or er one shouler the other th, b d kiss her a ound and spoil her ou want to go this d met him ear e gonna make up f e moments like tha nding de or disappe oge
FALLING 29 mysterious bearded fi gure was, the artist claimed, a symbol of time that had come to him in a dream. A nineteenth-century etching depicted another bearded man, this one holding an infant, symbolizing the New Year. No one knows why the artist chose this image. He also told colleagues he had seen it in a dream. In 1898, a bronze sculpture showed a more robust man, still bearded but bare-skinned and fi t, holding a scythe and an hourglass and positioned over a giant clock in a rotunda. The model for this bearded man remains a mystery. But he was referred to as “Father Time.” And Father Time sits alone in a cave. He holds his chin in his hands. This is where our story began. From three children running up a hillside to this lonely space, a bearded man, a pool of voices, the stalactite now within a millimeter of the stalagmite. Sarah is in her room. Victor is in his study. It is this time. Right now. Our time on Earth. And Dor’s time to be free. “What do you know about time?” Dor looked up. The old man had returned. On our calendar, it had been six thousand years. Dor gaped in disbelief. When he tried to speak, no sound came forth; his mind had forgotten the pathway to his voice. The old man stepped quietly about the cave, examining the walls with great interest. On them he saw every symbol imaginable—circle, square, oval, box, line, cloud, eye, lips—emblems for each moment Dor recalled from his life. This is when Alli threw the stone … This is when we walked to the great river … This is the birth of our son … The fi nal symbol, in the bottom corner, was the shape of a teardrop, to forever remind Dor of the moment Alli lay dying on the blanket. The end of his story. At least to him. The old man bent down and stretched out his hand. He touched that carved teardrop, and it became an actual drop of water on his fi nger. He moved to where the stalactite and stalagmite had grown to within a razor’s edge of each other. He placed
the teardrop between them and watched it turn to stone, connecting the two formations. They were one column now. Heaven meets Earth. Just as he had promised. Instantly, Dor felt himself rise from the fl oor, as if being pulled by strings. All his carved symbols lifted off the wall, moving across the cave like migrating birds, then shrinking into a tiny ring around the narrow throat that joined the rocky shapes together. With that, the stalactite and stalagmite crystallized into smooth, transparent surfaces—forming an upper bulb and a lower bulb—the shape of a giant hourglass. Inside was the whitest sand Dor had ever seen, extremely fi ne, almost liquid-like. It spilled through from top to bottom, yet the sand in each bulb neither grew nor diminished. - e “Herein lies every moment of the universe,” the old man said. “You sought to control time. For your penance, the wish is granted.” He tapped his staff on th a w the hourglass and it formed a golden top and bottom with two braided posts. Then it shrank into the crook of Dor’s arm. hi his hands. Yo ye D O ni He was holding time in “Go now,” the old man said. “Return to the world. Your journey is not et complete.” sa Dor stared blankly. His shoulders slumped. Once, the very suggestion would have sent him running. But his heart was hollow. He wanted none of this anymore. Alli was gone, she would always be gone, a teardrop on a cave wall. What purpose could life—or an hourglass— serve him now? He brought a sound up ho of go go w lif se from his chest and, in a faint whisper, fi nally spoke. fa “It is too late.”
TO BE CONTINUED...
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