Icarus

The air was cold as Clara Dickens entered the house. Outside the wind had been restless as winter’s characteristic stagnancy gave way to an anxious stirring. But here, in the imposing mansion surrounded by forest at the end of Tempus street, the atmosphere was still.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Clara heard the echoes reverberating through the walls, as if the shattered house itself were alive, time its heartbeat. If she were honest, Clara had been expecting a bit more. Abandoned houses were usually known for ghosts and magnificent murders, not overgrown plants suffocating the half-crumbled walls. Extraordinary was what Clara sought from life, not this. When Clara had lost her father four years prior at only 13, she had promised to give herself the life he’d wanted for her: one of ecstasy and importance, a one-in-8-billion life. Three years after this promise was made, and one year prior to her exploration of this house on the brim of Tempus street, Clara learned she had less time than imagined to complete the vital task. A deadly fate came in the form of an illness Clara couldn’t see, feel, or pronounce. No one could tell her how much time she had, only that it was indubitably and irreversibly limited.

So many vines. So much green. In fact, the whole place looked so decomposed Clara wasn’t sure what she had expected at all. Creaky floor boards. Dust and cobwebs everywhere. Pictures on the fireplace. Broken windows - pictures on the fireplace? Adorning the fireplace were at least nine beautifully framed pictures of a couple. No dust. Clara picked up the central black and white photo of a beaming bride and groom. The woman’s face was blurred but she looked as if she were in her late twenties, not far from 17 year old Clara. Clara admired the woman’s Victorian style dress, precisely what she would envision wearing if she ever married. Clara wondered if it were just the dress that lured her to the woman; she seemed awfully familiar…

“Lovely isn’t she?”

Clara jumped at the voice. An older man with hair starting to gray stood at the opposite end of the room in a three-piece suit, staring. His wrinkles framed his face as if strokes of a paintbrush had placed them there rather than time’s unforgiving effects. Clara stood motionless as his gray eyes remained unwaveringly locked on her.

“Forgive me.” The man moved toward her, resting his coat on the couch along with a set of keys. “You’re likely freezing. I’ll start the fire.” He knelt and began working.

“You’re him.”

The man looked up with a knowing gaze.

“These pictures. They’re you.”

“Yes.” The fire’s warmth began to thaw the air around them. “Would you care for some tea?”

The two sat across from each other, the only sound the clanking of spoons against china. Clara broke the silence. “Why are the pictures different?” The man smiled. Each picture featured the same couple but in entirely different atmospheres: some in black and white, others color, some featuring medieval clothing, others styles Clara had never seen.

“My name is Edgar. That’s my wife. We’re travelers.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Edgar’s eyes twinkled as his lip curled subtly upward. “Of time.”

Clara’s eyes widened. This was it: the extraordinary she was looking for. “You expect me to believe you?”

“You? Yes.” The man smiled warmly, observing Clara.

Clara had grown up believing there must be more to existence than bits of everyday, average life. Clara was a firm believer that if her life was not great, it was nothing. And here greatness stood: staring her in the face in the form of a borderline gray haired man, in a suit, sipping tea in an abandoned, or, surprisingly occupied, house. Well, greatness wouldn’t be great if it arose from normal circumstances. “Tell me how.”

“Explaining how we bend time will take more than a tea party.” The man’s smile softened and Clara realized a sadness to him. There was weight in every movement and look, as if the man had lived a thousand years.

“Does it affect aging?” Clara asked hesitantly.

“No, no. I’ve lived my years honestly. The heart though... The heart ages with no regard to time or body.” Faintly, Clara heard a coughing from the far corners of the tall, crooked house.

“Edgar, is someone else here?”

The man looked up with a gleam in his eye. “It is wonderful to hear you say my name.”

Clara suddenly realized the coldness of the atmosphere. The crumbling walls did a poor job of keeping the cold out. Why live here when you could live anywhere, any time? Before Clara could ask this aloud, Edgar was answering.

“My wife and I met here. This is where we became friends, where she came up with her theory of time, where we discovered how to tame it.”

“And where is she now?” The man laughed. The man laughed? As set as Clara was on achieving greatness, this was a stranger claiming he could time travel. Perhaps he wasn’t entirely sane. “You’ve been so hospitable but I think my aunt will be looking for me.” Clara made her way toward the vine-covered oak door.

“No, no, please, it’s raining now, wait for the storm to pass.” The man glanced at his wristwatch before pouring more tea into Clara’s cup. Once again, Clara noticed the ring of keys precariously balancing on the edge of the couch.

“I really should get going-”

“Give it four minutes and see if the rain won’t slow.” The man’s eyes seemed earnest. “You wouldn’t want to miss a chance at learning about something as extraordinary as time travel.” Extraordinary. Clara glanced at the door, then the large father clock looming over her.

“Alright.”

The two had only been conversing a little while since Edgar had convinced Clara to stay when

BOOM.

A bolt of lightning struck a large tree by the house. Clara heard a creaking from just outside until suddenly a huge limb from the victim tree had come down, joining the vines to block the large oak door, trapping the two inside. Clara looked once more at the father clock, its

Tick

Tick

Tick

seeming like laughter. Exactly four minutes had passed.

The room Clara was to sleep in was large, unlike the narrow, winding staircases and hallways that seemed to shrink in width with every step.

The man had offered for Clara to stay the night until the door could be opened. The girl moved towards the window.

“As we're on the sixth floor, jumping down would be painful at the least. Besides, the windows have all been boarded up to protect from the cold.” He gave the same small smile as always and layed a white, lace nightgown on the bed. “Sleepwear.”

“Thank you.” Again, there was that cough echoing through the halls. “Let me know if you’ll need anything else. Goodnight, Mrs. Dickens.” And he was gone. Clara took a breath. From her pocket she pulled a ring of keys. She simply couldn’t resist sneaking them from the couch into her pocket. Clara changed into the nightgown left for her and lay down, trying not to look at the keys. What kind of person would sneak around someone else’s house? Still, she recalled an intriguing locked drawer she had passed in one of the many halls she had promenaded to reach her room… no. Any sane person would stay put.

As Clara retraced her steps toward the luring drawer, she wondered why the man had decorated the halls as they were. Each passageway seemed to hold a different motif than the last. Along one was a collection of preserved insects in small glass frames. Clara walked past what must’ve been hundreds of them of every color imaginable. Beetles, bees, butterflies, dragonflies, scorpions, and spiders: the creatures covered every inch of the wall with their winding legs, bulgy eyes, and protruding fangs. Curiously observing each being, Clara stopped by a grouping of moths. She couldn’t help her jealousy for the insects’ immortality. Such fragile creatures, protected from decay by a layer of glass. Here, they would be noticed and admired for their beauty. The taxidermy they’d endured exchanged a mediocre life of crawling aimlessly at others’ feet with a legacy of worthiness. They had been chosen for display. Everyone wants to be chosen, even if it means being used. Clara reached forward to touch the creature’s translucent cage. Suddenly, a moth startled and flew from its position among its equals, nearly brushing Clara’s cheek as it stumbled away. It had been the only live insect in the hall. Clara felt sorry for it.

The next hallway seemed more like it belonged in an art museum than a household. Portraits were so numerous that the wall behind them could hardly be seen. A queerness filled Clara to the brim as she realized each portrait, big and small, modern and traditional, was of the old man’s wife. None featured her as any younger or older than her mid or late twenties, and Clara assumed she must have died young.

In the next hall, the everpresent coughing grew louder, and Clara found herself among hundreds of clocks. Grandfather clocks lined the room; their pendulums seemed to make the room itself sway. Mechanical clocks with gears protruding joined the chorus of tick tick tick with robotic accuracy as cuckoo clocks waited eagerly. Each clock on the wall echoed the same message of time’s passing, making Clara’s heart beat faster with every tick. At the end of the long hallway, Clara saw a lit up room. A figure lay in a bed which Edgar knelt beside. Faintly, she could hear a woman’s voice. Clara made out the phrase: “You mustn’t persuade her.” Clara crept forward, hiding in the shadows as she heard some small protest from Edgar before the woman spoke again. “Stop trying to hold on. You don’t have to change time. If you listen and let it, time will change you, and that is enough.” That voice-

BONG

Clara was startled by the clocks’ announcement of midnight and hurried away from the room as the BONG BONG Bong bong grew fainter. Rounding a corner, Clara found herself in a hallway of dozens of cabinets carved into the walls. Each a different design, each with a lock. Although tempted to discover whatever secrets were held here, Clara kept moving until she finally found the hall she sought. Pictures of Edgar and his wife adorned the hallway. Again, an uncertainty bubbled up from within her at the sight of the wife. At every glance, there was a new era the couple occupied. Clara stopped at an ornately designed table. Above it was a large picture of the two in a medieval ballroom, dancing under an ornately painted ceiling. Her gaze dropped to what she had come here for: a small, locked drawer with the letters E & C engraved.

It took Clara quite some time to finally fit one of the numerous keys into the keyhole. When the drawer opened with many groans and creaks, Clara sat to admire its contents. The atmosphere became cold again. Inside the drawer were more pictures, but this time of a much younger Edgar. She picked up a folded picture depicting him as a teenager and smiled seeing him in modern day clothing. He sat on the steps of a large, crumbled house with many vines. This house. Clara recalled what the man had told her: “My wife and I met here.” Expecting to see Edgar’s wife how he had first met her, Clara unfolded the picture. In the picture before her, true as the chill in the air, sat Clara. She dropped the thing with a gasp and crawled backwards away from it, hitting the wall and causing a picture to come crashing down. Clara ignored the broken glass beside her and sat terrified and transfixed on the picture across from her. Could it be? Was she really the same as the woman who occupied each picture and haunted each smile Edgar gave? From above her, Clara heard a coughing followed by footsteps. The ceiling sprinkled down dust as Edgar passed over her. He must’ve heard the break. She scurried forward, snatching up the picture before hurrying away.

Too shaken to find her way back to her room, Clara made her way through unfamiliar hallways, feeling as if the picture she clutched in her fist were burning through flesh. Clara rounded a corner and immediately gasped at the sight of herself. Her breathing slowed as her gaze was drawn around the hall to see that both walls were entirely covered in mirrors. Clara observed each slightly altered clone of herself as she tiptoed past. When Clara looked up, she realized the ceiling, too, had been covered. The back of her neck burned with the feeling of her own gaze upon her. Clara heard footsteps nearing her and looked all around for an escape. Seeing a door, she quickly fumbled through her keys as the footsteps got louder. Sweat dripped from her fingertips as one by one, each key refused to unlock the door. The footsteps paused and Clara heard the faint groaning and creaking of a drawer closing. The hall of pictures. He wasn’t far. Clara was halfway through the key ring now. The footsteps resumed, this time twice their former speed as Edgar’s call of “Clara?” echoed through the house.

Finally, a click sounded and Clara forced the door open, revealing a staircase. She hurried onto the stairs and closed the door, wincing at its creaking. Behind her, a few feet up was a window; unlike the others, this was not boarded shut and provided a passageway for the moonlight to end its long journey, giving the space a dim glow. The footsteps were suddenly less muffled and Clara knew he was in the hall of mirrors. Her fist trembled as she attempted perfect stillness. The footsteps slowed as they approached. Thump. Thump. Thump. Now he was outside the door. Clara held her breath.

Faintly, a cough echoed through the house, followed by a woman’s weak call: “Edgar?”

“Yes, coming!” Edgar called back, and was gone. Clara exhaled shakily and pried her fingers from their furled position around the picture. It hadn’t been her imagination. Clara was in the photo with Edgar. She recalled the familiarity she had felt toward the woman and threw the crumpled thing down, pulling at her hair. She had to get out. The window. Trembling, she heaved the ancient thing open, inviting a gust of cold air into the room. Shivering in her nightgown, Clara peered down. She couldn’t jump, but the limb of a tree extended perfectly to the base of the windowsill. She could climb down and trudge home through the snow, away from this place forever. Freezing is a much more exciting way to die than terminal illness anyway. Clara made her way out and sat on the windowsill, when she caught sight of a moth dancing in the moonlight. Beautiful, yet insignificant. The creature landed on the skirt of her gown, and Clara gently scooped it onto her finger.

Clara didn’t know much, but she knew she had to be something. And for as disturbing as the house was, it was a chance at something.

The moth flew away, and bracing herself for what she was about to return to, Clara turned back to the staircase and made her way up.

A blank wall ended the staircase, nothing but a small indent in it holding a single candle and a matchbox. Nothing. Clara furrowed her brows and turned to walk back down when something brushed across her cheek. Clara reached out to find a rope hanging from the shallow ceiling. With a tug of the rope, a door above her opened. Clara lit the candle and set it on the floor of the hidden room, pulling herself up into the space. Moving deeper into the attic, she passed a child’s toy bear next to an old clock, the face’s glass shattered but the tick tick tick still faintly sounding. She saw the ball gown featured in the picture of Edgar and his wife dancing, grown dusty and tattered. Clara found trinkets and keepsakes of all shapes and sizes until she nearly tripped, stumbling into something at her feet. Clara bent down and drew her candle across a long bag. A knot tied in her throat. Clara drew back the wrapping material.

With a shriek, Clara dropped the candle. She was left in pitch black darkness, but the image was still there. The young boy, from the photo of young Clara and Edgar on the steps of the house. This was Edgar. The young Edgar that belonged in this timeline that Clara should’ve met. Clara crawled away, knocking over everything in her path, not caring as her nightgown grew dirty and torn. Clara heard lightning strike as she finally found the trapdoor. She dove out of the attic and flew down the stairs. Seeing the window ahead of her, she scrambled out toward the branch: her escape. Clara gasped as she nearly fell out the window. The branch was gone. The lightning had struck this tree; the branch had fallen. Gasping for air, she climbed back into the house and flung open the door to reveal Edgar looming over her.

“Hello, Clara.”

The two sat across from each other, the only sound the clanking of spoons against china. Edgar broke the silence. “What do you want most in life?”

Clara looked up from the teacup in her hands, finding herself on the same couch as before, next to the same, cold fireplace as she first saw. “To go home.”

“To be extraordinary. You hate home. You hate your average, mediocre life. A life lived without greatness is no better than that of an insect.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Clara spoke through gritted teeth.

“Your ambition is why you bent time. And when you were only 17, too!” Edgar’s eyes lit up, fond with memory. “We met here; I was only 16 when you came in just as you did today. We met here every day, again, and again, and again for an entire summer, until finally you cracked the code to my project, and we traveled everywhere together. We left the ordinary numbness of our everyday lives and lived extraordinarily for years together.” Edgar’s smile beamed, and his eyes were soft. “Don’t you want that life?”

Clara glanced at the photos on the mantelpiece. “What happened next?”

Edgar’s face filled with disappointment at the question. “I tried but failed to save you. I failed you.” Edgar’s despair was replaced by desperate optimism. “But now I’ve come back for you! We can be together again!”

Clara fought the sadness that developed in her as she looked into the old man’s hopelessly devoted eyes. “How many times have you come back for me?”

Edgar seemed lost. “What do you mean?”

“What number am I?” Clara’s eyes welled with tears. “How many versions of me have you persuaded to join you?” Clara thought of the attic. “How many versions of yourself have you killed to take his place?” Her voice began to break. “How many times have you watched me die?”

Edgar seemed as if he were in another world. He looked around confused, searching for the answer, until he found Clara’s eyes again. “If Icarus had survived the fall, would he fly again?” Nothing answered but the tick tick tick of the clock against the wall.

A cough sounded from the corners of the house. They weren’t alone. This was her chance. Edgar saw this realization in Clara’s eyes. The two stared for a moment, not sure who would move first.

tick

tick

tick

Clara jumped from her seat and ran toward the stairwell, Edgar following behind yelling for her to stop.

“Help! Help, please!” Clara screamed, choking on her tears. She made her way through a hallway with dozens of lamps, candles, and hanging light fixtures, a hallway of thousands of notes plastered to the walls, each ending in:

Love,

Clara

and finally through the hall covered in clocks, all ticking in unison. With each tick Clara became more aware of her need to find the woman. With reckless abandon, she fled toward the room she had seen the woman in earlier and flung herself onto the bed, not knowing if the woman was there or not as she cried. “You have to help me.” She felt a fragile hand rest on her head, brushing her hair with tender care, and her breathing slowed. Another hand came to grab her chin, cautiously lifting it to face the woman. Comfort and familiarity overwhelmed Clara; she felt as if she were the only person in the room, looking at herself.

“I know you.” Clara whispered.

The woman smiled warmly in response, her eyes brimming with tears. “Break his heart for me.” With these words, the woman rested her head, closed her eyes, and let out a final exhale, leaving Clara alone with the figure at the door.

“No.” Edgar moaned, making his way to the woman. “No, no, no, no, please.” Clara slowly backed away into the wall where she remained for what seemed like hours as Edgar groaned and pleaded and sobbed for his dead wife to return. The sound was stifled and Edgar turned to Clara, eyes unrecognizable. Before, he had appeared a broken and lost man. Now, he was a desperate, anxious soul crawling toward Clara with eyes of both certainty and utter despair. “Clara. Clara, please.”

Clara’s tear stains glowed against the angry red of her face as she looked Edgar in the eyes.

“No, no, Clara, you have to stay with me.” As Edgar muttered, he reached for Clara’s hands.

“Don’t touch me!” Clara clung to the wall as if it would engulf her, taking her away from this horrid, anything but ordinary night.

Edgar’s hands recoiled but his eyes grew more transfixed by the second. “I won’t touch you! I won’t!” Edgar sobbed. “I just want to be near you. I have to be near you. Please, please.”

Clara couldn’t deny her pity and couldn’t restrain her fear. “I’m not her!” She pleaded. “Your wife is dead.” Edgar’s pain was almost ignorable through Clara’s tear-blurred vision. Almost.

Clara pointed to the bed with shaking fingers. “That woman wasn’t her. Neither were the other women you came here to collect after she died. And neither am I.”

“Yes you are.” Edgar shook his head violently, trying to drown out Clara’s words.

“Your wife is gone.” Clara whispered.

Edgar looked up with manic eyes. “No. She’s here. You’re here. You are my wife. My Clara. Please. Stay.” Here it was: extraordinary, in all its glory. Clara could stay and finally live a life worth more than an insect’s. She could live a life hotter than the sun and colder than the arctic. Edgar extended his hand. With shallow breath and shaking hand, Clara slowly reached out. Just as the pads of her fingers brushed his trembling palm, a flutter caught Clara’s eye as a moth landed on her extended finger. Extraordinary. Here sat a man who had experienced remarkable life over and over again, and was utterly broken.

Clara stood slowly. “No.”

Edgar fell backwards as if looking into the eyes of a ghost. Clara didn’t bother to wipe her tears as she walked toward the door.

“The answer is yes.” Edgar’s words stopped Clara. “Icarus would fly again, because the misery of hitting the ground is nothing compared to the ecstasy of reaching the sun.”

The air was cold as Clara Dickens entered the house. Outside the wind had been restless as winter’s characteristic stagnancy gave way to an anxious stirring. But here, in the imposing mansion surrounded by forest at the end of Tempus street, the atmosphere was still.