Yesteryear
It has been precisely zero seconds since time stopped. And that was five years ago. Unless it wasn’t. Because the strange thing about time stopping is that there is no way to keep track of it anymore. But five years feels right. With no time, the sun never sets. It has been 2.15pm now for … well, see that’s the problem, isn’t it? I don’t know how long for. But it has been a clear, blue sky. It has been twenty-five degrees Celsius. I know because my school has one of those LED signs out the front that tells you the time and the temperature. It is stuck on the temperature.
I haven’t been hungry, which is good. I tried to eat once, when I got really bored, but I couldn’t tell when I was full. It didn’t end well. I threw up a lot. I can still taste stuff though, so when I feel the urge, I just rub something around on my tongue. On the plus side, no need to go to the toilet. And that’s very good, because I used to check my phone when I was in there. And I don’t get messages anymore. Or news updates. Best battery in the world, though, it’s been on 32% for five years!
Probably.
I can’t watch movies, but I can still draw, paint, and read books. I’ve read a lot of books. The entire library at school. And the entire library next to the park, across the road from the cinema. Even the children’s books. Okay, so not the entire library, I didn’t read the travel books. Or the cooking books. I read one cooking book. But when I tried to make this awesome charred vegetable ragù, you guessed it, I couldn’t. I’d searched down Mason St first, because I knew Mrs Alberts has an amazing gas oven and stove top (her son, William, always brought the tastiest leftovers for lunch). But I couldn’t cook anything because the fire wouldn’t start.
I never get tired either. So I haven’t slept in or stayed up late. I haven’t missed the bus, or been held back at lunch for laughing at someone else’s stupid joke and then being blamed for disrupting the class even though it wasn’t me, it was Lucinda! Anyway, I’ve been living in Ferndale like this for 692 rotations. Sorry, five years. Rotations is my thing; one rotation is how long it takes me to sweep the entire town. And when I say sweep, I mean literally. Strangely enough, dust still gathers. I haven’t had to wash my hair. I haven’t had to eat. I haven’t had to go to the bathroom. But not even frozen time could stop the chores.
After sweeping Randall street and Acacia, I sigh. My school sits on the intersection between both, and that’s my least favourite part to clean. It’s the part that is too close to home. I mean, home obviously is the closest to home, although since it is literally home, I am ready to say it doesn’t count.
I take a breath and enter through the foyer, past Ms Richardson, the admin lady. She has a gaunt face and a mouth like a freshly sucked lemon. But the kind of personality that makes you feel like a warm, buttery cupcake. As long as you’re on her good side. But if she finds out you’ve skipped class … the devil would hide from her wrath. Mr Tracey is still there, holding out a vanilla folder. I peeked inside once, it was nothing interesting. For the longest time I’d fantasied that it was a love letter, like he and Richardson were sneakily passing them back and forth, flirting inside the office. Scandal!!
As I wander the halls, I take role call of every class. Making sure that everyone is where they are supposed to be, since Ms Richardson can’t do it. And just like the last time, the same students are absent. Harry from 9B (who is currently dangling from a tree behind the bakery). Melissa in 7A (who is laid up with a nasty flu, mid sneeze! Poor thing). Tamara in 11C (I’d rather not say what I found her doing) and Brandon, Josh, and Mark from 10C (Brandon is currently halfway through ripping up his knee after falling off his skateboard down at the skate park. Josh and Mark are there too, holding their guts with laughter.)
And Ryan. Who still sits at the bottom of the little slope towards the back of the football field. You can’t be seen from the canteen, or the play equipment there. And most of the time the teachers are too lazy to walk all the way down during lunch and recess. But especially during class time. I go down to say hello, even though he can’t say anything back. His lips are still pursed in that moment, his eyes half closed, leaning forward. And I wonder, if I weren’t moving around, if I were statuesque like all the others, would I know? Would I see his face inches from mine? Would I be stuck in that moment, so close to his lips, but never touching?
I hope not. Because if I knew, then he would know. And he’d see me moving about while he could do nothing. I sigh and put my hand on his cheek. “One day, beautiful boy,” I say, settling into the exact position I was in when everything stopped. Looking into his eyes, counting the hairs of his eye lids.
He keeps himself propped up with one hand, while his other forearm lays in his lap, hiding the lump in his pants. Had I not had cycle after cycle to spend scrutinizing, I wouldn’t have noticed it. The first time I did, I was freaked out and awkward. A few cycles later I felt kind of impressed, (I’d read a bit more about human anatomy and ‘averages’ from the library by then) then frustrated, then I languished for a bit (This was about the time of my thesaurus phase).
Around cycle 260, I thought I might take a peak, but by cycle 300, the curiosity passed. And by cycle 490, I’d had spent enough time processing things and had come to terms with the fact that I’d never feel it how I was supposed to. Not the lump! I meant his kiss. I’m curious, but … it just never seemed right to look underneath his belt. I mean, what if he could see everything that was happening? And what if time started again? That’s not the kind of conversation I want to have!
It’s the outer street, the south side of town, the road that leads off to Riverside – if Riverside still exists. That’s where I first notice him. He is crouched down among the rose bushes that Mayor Lindley so capably campaigned for. The ones that Sarah Janson’s mother insisted must be in the colours of our town crest. Like a town crest is something anyone even thinks about anymore. But all the same, that’s where he is.
He has goggles on, and the glass catches the sun and shimmers green. And he has a bunch of other stuff too. Dark clothes, a turtleneck. A few gadgets on this batman-style utility belt. And he is completely frozen. But he is not from Ferndale. I know everyone from Ferndale. I know every inch of Ferndale. He isn’t from here. He’s new.
He is fascinating. He can’t be more than a few years older than me, like twenty maybe? He could be a second-year university student. Though, not with these clothes. He looks like a spy.
I sit a few feet away from him and watch. I don’t know how long I watch for. But not because of the timelessness. It’s his face. Not attractive, but not not attractive either. And I can’t help but wonder, ‘what do his eyes look like?’
I want to see them. I want to see him blink. But he won’t. He can’t. He doesn’t move. He is just stuck there. I don’t grow bored, I can’t grow hungry, but I need to keep my routine, I need to keep my sanity. So I move on.
On cycle 712 the man is back again. He isn’t in the same position as last time, this time he isn’t trying to hide. He is still next to the rose bushes, still in his spy clothes. But he has a notepad. A big, A3 note pad that he holds with both hands. I read what he has written on it.
Hello. My name is Mathew. What’s yours?
He can see me. Or rather, he saw me. When I was last here. I sat for so long, he must have seen me. My heart bashes into my ribs and blood pumps through my neck so hard I feel like it will pop. I run back to school, back into Ms Moylan’s classroom to grab my art book from the cupboard and a thick sharpie from her desk drawer.
Hello, my name is Mirai.
I swallow hard. I have so many questions I need to ask. Do I write them all down at once? Would that overwhelm him? I click my teeth and roll the sharpie around in my fingers. And I decide to just go crazy. What’s the worst that could happen, right? I frantically scribble away on my page, wishing my handwriting wasn’t so messy, and I hold it up to him.
What is happening? Where are you from? How did you get here? What’s with the goggles? What colour are your eyes?
He is still in the same position. Motionless. With his notepad in hand; ‘Hello. My name is Mathew. What’s yours?’ I realise it will take him a while to answer, so I grab a wooden chair from Mr and Mrs Matheson’s house, the white-walled weatherboard place behind me, and I prop my art book up with the questions facing him. But I need to distract myself, I can’t just sit here and wait for the answers.
I head for the skate park. There are a bunch of spray paint cans tucked away under a bench, borrowed from Ms Moylan’s class (she wouldn’t mind). I don’t know why I hide them when I’m not using them. Force of habit I guess. I collect up the milk crate full of paints and stand in front of the graffiti wall. I hold up a can of blue, a can of green, and a can of brown.
“So, what colour are they, do you think?” I ask, looking over at Brandon. He doesn’t seem very talkative. He’s just there on one bloodied knee. Josh and Mark don’t seem too keen to answer either. Really, not that much different from before. “Green? I reckon so, too.”
I drop the other two cans and shake the green one. Holding it up to the wall, I press down on the nozzle and let out a ‘psssssssst’ sound. No paint comes out, never has before. Won’t today either. But I make do. I trace great round circles to make two glorious green eyes, and swap to brown and white, to blend for his skin tones. When I’m done I take a few steps back to admire my handiwork. The wall is exactly the same as it was on cycle 10. And 150. And every other cycle.
“Perfect.”
Maybe my best work yet. Shame I had to paint over Marcus’ tag though. Sorry, ‘Stab Yadad’, I needed the space. It’s a stupid tag anyway. It must be time to check on Mathew. There he is, notepad in hand.
I’m from the government. Your town is out of sync and it’s time-locked. We don’t know what happened, but we’re trying to figure it out. What can you tell us? You’re the only contact we have. The goggles stop my eyes from drying out, it takes a long time to blink. They’re blue.
Blue. Damn. I was close at least, blue is more like green than brown is. I step up closer and peer through the thick, dark glass of his goggles. I can almost see them, but they are blurred, like I am looking through water. Standing this close, I can see the slight lines from the edges of his eyes. The faintest hint of crow’s feet. Melissa’s older sister, Candice, calls them twinkle wrinkles. Said you get them from smiling too much. She is a weird hippy, but I kind of like the sentiment. I wonder what he has to smile about.
I scribble out my answers and prop my book back up.
I was sitting at the back of the playground. There was this loud sound, like thunder and lightning combined. Maybe an explosion or something? I remember it came from the main street. Near the post office, maybe. Or the video shop? Then everything just stopped. Everyone stopped. I went back through the school and no one was moving. At all. It was weird. I went looking around there, but I couldn’t find anything.
I leave out the part about being with Ryan. About the feeling of his breath on my lips as he leant in to kiss me. About how giddy I was in the moments before, and how stupid I thought his joke was. And about how terrified I was when I realised he wasn’t making a joke. He wasn’t pretending, he really had stopped. Mathew doesn’t need to know that. I leave out the part about all the crying I did, about all the dread I felt. And confusion. But I want to tell him. I don’t know how, but I want to. And I will. Eventually.
I write a final line, ‘am I going to be okay?’. Then I pick up my broom and begin cycle 712. When I get back around to Mathew’s position, he isn’t there. But he has left his notepad.
Yes, you’re going to be okay. We’ll figure this out.
On cycle 765 Mathew is back again. He’s had a haircut that makes his forehead look bigger, and it’s kind of amusing to see just how much he had been hiding under his floppy fringe. He has instructions for me this time. He wants me to go underneath the street, to find the nearest stormwater drain and pop it open. They think there might be something underneath the streets that has triggered it. He cautions me to be careful. I smile, and leave a note ‘Will do. Back soon.’
If you’ve ever tried to lift a stormwater drain, you’ll know it isn’t easy. The metal grate is heavy, and I can’t budge it. But Harry’s dad owns the hardware store, and he won’t mind me borrowing a few things. I grab a pair of leather gloves and a crowbar to try and leverage it out, but as I do, I slip and the crowbar tears up my arm, leaving a nasty open gash.
“Piss.”
On cycle 114, I climbed up a tree to get a closer look at a bird’s nest, but I slipped down and cut my calf on a rock. It was only a small nick, but it is still there, looking as fresh as if I had done it yesterday. Which I might have. Or it could have been ten years ago. Either way, the cut on my arm is a lot worse, and it won’t heal. On the plus side, it won’t get infected. I hope. All the same, I borrow some gauze from Luc’s Pharmaceuticals and wrap it up.
It’s cold in the sewer drain, but the recent rains (recent in the sense that it rained only a few nights before everything stopped) have pushed a lot of the gunk along. Surprisingly, it doesn’t smell as bad as I had expected. But it is dark. Mr Bronson had been testing out his spelunking equipment in the outdoor education shed in preparation for the Year 9 Camp. They’d be going caving, just like we did on our Year 9 Camp. So I borrowed a few things, including the head lamp he’d turned on.
In our caving excursion, we’d rope lines and stuff to guide us, and a buddy system that Mr Bronson was extremely pushy about. I can see now why. If I had a buddy, things would be much easier. But I do have a rope that I’ve tied to the ‘no stopping’ sign near the drain.
“What for, exactly?” I mumble. “It’s hard to get lost when there are only two directions.”
It’s not big enough for me to walk, so on my hands and knees I slough through the pipe, letting out coils of rope behind me. Water soaks into the knees of my pants and spills over the lips of my gloves. The pipe shatters apart beneath me, and I tumble down. The world goes upside down and the rope digs into my hips as it catches my fall.
Upside down I dangle, above an open pit. There is an electric blue glow emanating from below me. It’s coming from a donut-shaped metal ring sitting on a pedestal. It’s only a few metres below me, and if I had an extra bit of rope, I could touch it. If I should touch it. Maybe I shouldn’t. I should just tell Mathew.
I was never a very good climber. It takes a while to finally get back up into the pipe and back out onto the street. I leave a description and a sketch on the chair and go to the local pool. I need to clean myself up somehow and no showers work. Pool is the only water around, even if it means smelling like chorine for … for however long this is. It’s a better smell than sewer water, even if it is mostly rain it’s not all rain. Rain does not have lumps in it.
Dried and dressed, with a fresh gauze on my arm I return to Mathew’s position, but he isn’t there. There is a middle-aged man instead, receding hairline streaked with grey. A bit of a belly. It takes a while for me to understand, but when I do, my heart implodes, sucking all of my guts into a tiny ball in my chest.
It is Mathew.
I’d been without a point of reference for so long I’d forgotten. Time has stopped for me and Ferndale. But it is continuing beyond the town limit. And for him, it has been years since he first stepped across Ferndale’s border. My mouth dries out. I read his note.
The object you have found is responsible for Ferndale being out of sync. It needs to be turned off or destroyed. But not from within the time anomaly. We’re working on a solution to extract it. We will have one. You’re going to be okay.
It is the last time I see Mathew.