Page 50 of The Devouring Time

It suddenly registers that we aren’t speaking some common language. This is simply how my mind interprets the thoughts they press upon it, and vice versa.

Before I have time to gather myself, the creatures guide me out the door. If I don’t pay attention to my new body, it seems to know how to move without trouble. But the moment I try to think about the motion of my many legs, they tangle.

The creatures aren’t impatient at my stumbles, so I use the time to try and look around through my greatly expanded vision. The corridors are made from enormous blocks of stone and appear to have been painted with murals depicting the creatures in a variety of settings: a jungle, a ziggurat, alongside organisms that remind me of the dinosaurs in the American Museum of Natural History.

But all the murals are flaking away, as though they were painted generations ago. A few clumsy attempts seem to have been made to repaint them in places, but lack the genius of the original artists, reducing the intricate details to flat smears.

The building itself has been well-maintained, or at least what little I glimpse of it before my captors lead me through another door. This one opens onto an enormous room, liberally decorated with stone couches with mossy beds. More of the creatures stand clustered in groups, perhaps communicating telepathically with one another, while others sleep or stare out an enormous window that overlooks a forest of widely spaced trees. Something enormous moves off in the distance, but I can’t make it out from here.

“These are your own kind,” says one of my captors. “They will teach you what to do.”

Then they’re gone, the door closed behind them. I stand still, shaken, unsure what to do next. Unsure if any of this is even real to begin with.

One of the entities already in the room breaks off its communion with two others and approaches. It moves slowly, as if not wanting to spook me. Once it’s about ten feet away, it stops and lifts its trunk in greeting.

“Welcome,” it says. “Though that isn’t really the right thing to say, since we’re captives here together. I know we don’t look it, but all of us are human, though from different times and places.”

Different…times?

“I know it sounds mad. But what could be any more mad than, well, this?” It indicates the room with its trunk, its mental voice wry. “From what we can tell, judging by writings previous captives left behind here, various members of the Swarm projected their minds through the ages and somehow swapped bodies with us.”

This can’t be real. “The Swarm?”

“That’s what we call them. The Ones Who Become, if you want to use their name for themselves.” It makes a complicated wriggle that I think is meant to be a shrug. “But I’m getting ahead of myself. What’s your name? I’m Bianca Giuliani.”

Part Four

35

Bianca Giuliani. The painter who wrote my name in a letter, despite having died centuries before I was born.

I try to tell her I know her name, that I’ve been chasing her paintings and her writings for some clue as to what’s happened to me. To ask for the answers I so desperately need.

But wait—this is just a memory. I’ve been hypnotized. I’m really sitting in Danvers State Hospital, recalling a time before I’d ever heard of Bianca Giuliani or Aion or any of it.

The attempt to speak jolts me free of the memory. I try to grasp it, put myself back there…

“Sterling?” Adrian asks.

“Don’t try to move yet.” Dr. North stands beside the examination table I’m lying on, his voice and demeanor comforting. “Sometimes this happens—the hypnosis ending abruptly, that is. Generally it’s a sign the patient has drawn close to whatever truth they refuse to confront, but which is the root cause of their insanity. Which means we’re already making progress in your case!”

I can’t let myself think about the memories I just uncovered, or I might start screaming. North is already speaking of me as one of his cases; I can’t lose my composure in front of him. I turn my head, see Adrian watching me with great concern from near the door. “I—I forgot it was just a memory, I wanted to tell her, ask her…”

“Clearly this wasn’t an actual memory,” Dr. North says with a pained smile. “You spoke of monsters and someone named Bianca. My hypothesis is this ‘Bianca’ figure represents a person you know or knew, and the monsters are your brain’s way of protecting yourself from some truth by presenting a distorted version of your actual trauma. Now, if you will consent to admission to the hospital, I think a few more sessions and some rest will be all that’s needed to restore you to perfect sanity.”

I sit up in alarm. “Admission? No. No, I’m not staying here.”

I look frantically to Adrian, but he’s already moving to stand beside me. “Thank you, doctor, we’ll certainly take your suggestion under advisement.”

North frowns at us. “Mr. Evans, you heard the same things I did. It’s clear Mr. Caine is suffering from a more serious problem than simple amnesia.”

He doesn’t know the half of it. A hysterical laugh tries to bubble up, but I trap it behind my teeth.

“A few weeks of rest and treatment can cure him,” North continues, “but returning him to the outside world will only make his condition worse.”

Adrian puts a hand to my upper arm, and I slide off the table. “As I said, we’ll consider your suggestion.”

North clearly isn’t happy, but he shrugs. “On your head be it, Mr. Evans. Let me show you out.”