A notebook in TIME.

The Four Orders Series - Part 2

“I’m not certain myself.” SPACE replied to LIFE’s question with an unconcealed eye roll.

“But as it’s just us we should probably go ahead and get comfy.”

Without any twiddling of wands or wave of arms, no incantations or ritual, a transformation took place; the like of which no living thing should ever see. The Four Orders revealed themselves and got cosy.

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DEATH, instead of a tall, doom-cloaked lurker wielding oversized farming accessories was now a paunchy, slightly balding man in his mid-fifties. He wore sturdy but comfortable shoes, jeans with a crease and a plaid button down shirt - tucked in of course. He had a red face that, had you seen it, you would guess read the sort of newspaper that turned his face even redder. He looked a lot like an accountant with something to do on a Saturday.

“It was the stupid apex human bastards, weren’t it!” DEATH took a seat on one of the four wooden chairs beside the matching table that now appeared in front of them. Still cocooned within the confines of the black hole SPACE had provided, warm light was cast by three dancing fireflies above the table.

“You always say that.” SPACE replied, with kind eyes beginning a fresh roll around their sockets. Having previously worn a cloak similar in style to DEATH - except of oceanic blues and greens swirling together - SPACE now appeared as a tall, slim woman in her early forties. She was the kind of woman who would accompany Indiana Jones on an adventure but actually do all the work. She wore fluffly slippers that looked like frogs, fleeced pyjama trousers and a very warm hoody.

“No, just bloody listen.” DEATH was off, face already ‘one-front-page-about-immigrants’ red.

“They’d basically started doing my job for me right.” He held up the index finger of his right hand, evidently intend on counting off a list of grievances with the human race. He held out his left hand towards the others as they took seats around the table with him.

“They’d all forgotten why the little princess was important.” He pointed at LIFE, no longer celestial in her appearance but was in fact a nine year-old girl wearing a floral summer dress and ballet pumps. Her long blonde hair was in bunches, one of which she was chewing.

“They got abso-fuckin-lutely nowhere with you…” pointing straight at SPACE, who stared back blankly; they were just going to have to let him get this all out.

“…didn’t even get out of their own stupid neighbourhood, did they? And as for you!” he glared at TIME now, who was dressed exactly the same as before - rain-stained brown shoes, a tattered, trampy green coat with stuffed pockets, torn flat cap on his scruffily bearded head and an enormous antique watch on his wrist.

DEATH vented on, face now reaching shades of purple.

“They were fucking useless. Oh they time-travelled alright! Very slowly, all at once, in the same bloody direction. Marvellous!” He punctuated his big finish by slamming his fists down on the table but was incredibly disappointed when they made no sound.

At this point in the proceeding, TIME (who knew exactly where this was going - they all did) was about to whisper his way into the conversation. He was on the verge of politely suggesting that maybe they didn’t rush into the ‘start’ part of the ‘restart’. He was going to recommend that actually, they took a couple of millennia off; a sort of ‘come back fresh in the morning’ approach, only more so. He would have convinced the others (after a little back and forth and some further impotent desk banging from DEATH) with the strategic suggestion that they all kick off their break with a marathon ‘Scrubs’ rewatch. LIFE would have suggested a rewatch podcast. The consequences (of the pause on restarting all life but mostly of the impact of another rewatch podcast) really didn’t bear thinking about.

So on balance it was no small mercy that just as TIME was about to timidly clear his throat to indicate his intent to whisper, he was struck on the back of the head by something hard. DEATH was diving into a fresh vein of vitriol; something to do with the fact that ‘no humans since the Vikings had the right idea about carking it…’ and so TIME looked down behind his chair without the others noticing.

There, on the ‘not-floor’, he saw an A5, hardcover, black leather notebook; a posh one with an unpronounceable brand name embossed on the front. He scooped the notebook into his lap and surreptitiously open the front cover and read the ink scrawled on the inside:

Prof. Jesidiah Bollard

Notebook 4

April 2005 - July 2005

Photo by Pavel Polívka on Unsplash

He started to flick through the notebook. None of the others were paying attention to him: DEATH was approaching ‘indiscriminate spittle mode’, SPACE was caught in a perpetual eye-roll loop and LIFE was ignoring everything while she played with some fluff she found in her belly-button.

After a full five minutes on the ‘utter fucking magnificence of funeral pyres - they did right back then, let me tell you….’ SPACE could take no more.

“Look, why don’t we get some ideas flowing between us, yes? Things to change slightly this time.” She could see DEATH about to protest and so she continued;

“You could work in more funeral pyres for example, make it broad across more cultures. Just a thought. But before we get to all that, we should warm up. I know I am a little out of practice, and I am sure you guys are too. So, let’s start with our revised creeds, shall we? LIFE, you go first my darling, it all starts with you.”

TIME felt panic rise from his toes and into his fingers, which in turn started flapping wildly through the notebook of Professor Jesidiah Bollard for anything he could use.

Life began.

“Life is beautiful.” A precocious smile smashed across her face, the smile you find on small girls whose daddies constantly tell them they are clever, or funny, or pretty.

“Death is inevitable”. DEATH, now standing out of due reverence (for himself we must suppose) was very proud of this one. He had ignored all relevant advice from his advisory committee to go with something a little more accessible. They’d wanted language about ‘new beginnings’ or ‘different paths’. DEATH was having none of it and had spent a great deal of effort explaining to all the morons working for him why his very first idea was actually the very best idea.

SPACE diverted her eyes from the top of her current eye-roll and added, gently:

“Space is infinite.” She accompanied this with a magnanimous opening of her hands and rested her eyes on TIME, expectantly.

TIME landed on a page in the notebook whereby the noble professor was describing in detail his observances having completed an amateur investigation into the lower intestines during a Saturday morning shoulder surgery. He spoke, but did not meet the eyes of his colleagues.

“Time is… bendy.”

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“OH FUCK OFF. That’s stupid.” DEATH was smiling broadly, basking in the failure of a contemporary. LIFE was giggling into her bunches and SPACE was staring with naked pity.

“Look, I know.” TIME began to mount a defence.

“But you see, it’s always such a bally process, isn’t it? So much riding on it, so many opportunities… set a culture and all that. No small amount of admin and governance. You all know what I mean… Gods forbid we get an audit on this stuff! What with all the committees and meetings and briefings and workshops and catch ups and sprints and check ins and brainstorms. Well I... I just sort of ran out of time.”

“You are fucking joking!”

Said SPACE.

Read the next part here:

Of Moths and Fire.

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