Charlotte sat at the old, wooden desk, covered in orangish lamp light. She turned pages furiously, eyes darting, cramped fingers scratching out notes on the wrinkled paper next to her. Why hadn't she thought to buy batteries when she was out that afternoon? It was so much easier to speak her notes into the little digital recorder. Even Char could barely read her chicken-scrabble writing. Her mother joked that she needed to make friends with a doctor who could decipher it for everyone else. But, this was her only option for the moment. She had to get through the old book, lift all of the pertinent information for her article. She had disappointed Ralph too many times already, with her blown deadlines and dropped projects. This time she had to finish something.
It wasn't her particular interest, though, this sort of thing. A tract on pseudo-Wicca. The plasticky smell and feel of the cover threw doubt on the human skin story. The bright cherry red of the chapter titles made blood ink seem unlikely. The rest of the ink, a soft, easily readable black, could have been made with ashes and melted fat, she supposed. Ashes of burned witches and fat of unbaptised babies. Or was it pigs? Or cats born on Friday the 13th? So many rumors, so many people believing without question. That's the thing about magic, she mused, it plays to our deepest desires as greedy humans. Everything supernatural has a connection to our own psyche and our petty, selfish wants. That was what she had wanted to write her senior thesis on, except she hadn't finished her sophomore year of psychology before she switched to history. Then journalism, then chemistry, then French. Then she switched to an accounting program at the community college just so she could have some qualifications and maybe a chance to get a job and pay back her bank account draining, paycheck swallowing, hope and dream crushing loans. But she didn't even finish that 6-month course.
Fortunately, her favorite cousin (although the feeling was not necessarily mutual) had an exceedingly large house, inherited from a great-aunt by marriage. This cousin let her stay in a small apartment over the back patio in exchange for a pittance in monthly rent and some gardening. Char did enjoy a good session of weeding when she was feeling blocked and watering with the anaconda-like hose in the early morning gave her the kind of wake-up she enjoyed. Her income was mostly freelance articles and the sale of flower photography. Char herself thought neither the flowers nor the photos were anything special, but there did seem to be a market. Which was undoubtedly fortunate, since not one in ten of those freelance articles ever left her laptop.
Charlotte was too easily distracted, said the family indulgently. Charlotte found this diagnosis irritating, but also found herself unable to modify her behavior. In a way, her first attempt at college had been her trying to fix herself. Hadn't worked. Just opened her eyes to more possibilities for study and exploration and Char felt like she had to try everything before her time ran out. That was really the problem, she told herself, that she had too much curiosity, that everything was interesting to her. And life was short. If she knew she would have the chance later, she could settle down and focus on one thing at a time.
That's weird, she thought with a start, these pages are different. The paper was slicker, whiter, and the ink was blue. Sure didn't look like the rest of the book. Must have been added in later, Charlotte thought as she scanned the pages. Her hand automatically scritched key words. It was a pack of about 20 pages, but at the end, she noticed that the sentence cut in the middle by the end of the newer-looking page was finished on the top of the next, original looking, page. Maybe it's just a sloppy repair job, Char thought. I'm so tired now. I probably won't take good notes at this time of night anyway. Better finish up tomorrow.
Charlotte awoke the next morning not feeling refreshed at all. She couldn't remember what she had dreamed about, but she still had a feeling of fearful tension in her upper back and shoulders. Even going into the garden and dousing everything with its daily soothing shower did little to ease the tightness. She went back to her desk and her notes feeling troubled. When she saw her notes, her frustration hit its peak; they were practically illegible! She'd have to go through more than half the book again. But first, batteries for that damn recorder.
With the gadget newly prepared, Charlotte sat down to work. She opened the crackly old book to the third chapter, where she had been when the recorder had died the day before, and started off. She murmured through her reading, gaze sliding rapidly over the paper, dry fingers turning pages easily. It was amazing how much faster it was this way. Then she got to the part that she vaguely recalled as being an insert or repair. And it wasn't there. All the pages were the same off-white color, with a texture somewhat like a paper towel, rough and spongy, and the black ink never brightened into blue. Charlotte was sure she could remember that part. Positive. She couldn't go on until she proved to herself that she hadn't been dreaming. Or had been, whichever. She pulled her notes from their circular grave. A flash of headache hit her, but she thought she could probably decipher a word here and there and find that odd part. It definitely had a different tone than the rest of the book, more straightforward and less pretentiously magical. Char always thought the language in those magic books sounded forced, like people pretending to know a foreign language and wording everything in a completely unnatural manner because they heard something like it in a movie once. Those blue ink pages had a very normal and natural feel to them, very contemporary. Hey, here's something. Spells for getting what you want from your superiors. That was from the blue part. And she'd made a note of the change back - page 345. And even some of the lines from that last page. Charlotte checked the book. Pages 344 and 345 had the same paper and ink. The blue sentence had stated, "With just a little help from beyond, you will see made reality -" The sentence, now all black, read, "Beware temptations and beguiling spirits whoso offer- (page 345) all thy wishings and wantings and needs in all the world."
Charlotte sat back in her chair. What the hell happened last night? How could the book have changed? Was she really dreaming then? Or now?
Confused, Charlotte got up to make some tea to wander around the grounds with while she considered the possibilities. She spent several hours wandering and wondering. In the early afternoon, though, a pile of dark gray storm clouds slumpfed over the horizon making staying outside a less attractive choice. A clap of thunder boomed just as Char closed the door behind her and she flipped on the light. Which immediately burned out. Scowling and cursing, Char stomped over to the desk and tried the desk lamp to be sure it wasn't a blackout or fuse and warm light illuminated the desk top. She sighed and sat down. She picked up her notes, sighed some more, and looked at the book. Wait a goddam minute. Now there's a sheaf of white pages in there again! With no regard for old bindings or paper cuts, Charlotte yanked open the book and there it was. White pages, blue ink, simple style. Was it the lamplight? Char reached for the switch to test her new theory, but hesitated, afraid the blue would disappear and not come back, or wouldn't disappear and then she really would be crazy.
Fine. The "new" bit was there again, staring her in the face. What to do now...Charlotte glanced back at her notes and where a jumble of scribbling had been sprawled before, a pattern now seemed to leap out at her. The letters down the left-hand edge of the page made words and the words made sentences that actually made sense. The words trailed around the bottom where she had written some quotes and then back up the right side and backwards across the top (if she only used the first letter of each word). Charlotte picked up the paper and murmured the words to herself. When she had finished the full circle an enormous crash of thunder shook the room while the desk lamp flickered nervously. Then all went quiet. No wind outside, no pitter-pat of the first drops of the storm. Char looked out the window and could see the dark gray clouds drooping over the trees like somebody's first attempt at setting up a tent. Curious about the stillness, she went out into the garden. At the far end of the yard, Char saw a woman standing under the trees. She was dressed in a floor-length black hooded cloak with the hood draped loosely over her head. She started to walk into the yard. Little leaves and fallen petals whirled around her footsteps before she even put her feet down, although Charlotte felt nary a breath of air around her. The woman's face was pleasant, rosy cheeked, red lipped, with a smile that bespoke a calm good humor. Her eyes glittered like stars. She came right up to Char and said, "Well, dear girl, here we are at last." Char's confusion must have been apparent on her face because the woman quickly added, "Of course, you weren't really expecting me, but I've been thinking about coming to find you for some time now. I'd like to offer you a bit of assistance. It's a small favor for me to grant and no trouble at all, really. But you must accept the favor for it to benefit you." Charlotte was even more confused by this, but then the woman took her hands. Her smile widened just a little and her face seemed to radiate joy. She's practically glowing, thought Charlotte, maybe she's pregnant and wants to sell me the baby. Give me some direction in life. The woman lifted her hand to her mouth to cover a musical little giggle, then put on a more serious face. "Charlotte," she said, her voice soft and rich as the garden soil, "You need to relax and concentrate. I've heard it many times in off-hand comments, but after so many, I felt it was worth my time to present you with a solution. You will have time for everything, Charlotte, that I can promise you. But you will have to use the time or it will revert back." Now Char was skeptical. "Revert back to what?" "Why, to the Universe." The woman was smiling again, pink lemonade lips curving slightly upward in a gentle arc. Charlotte considered for a moment and said, "I would like to have time." The woman's eyes brightened. "Are you sure?" "Yeah, sure. Everyone wants more time." "But do you want the time I offer you?" "Well, yeah, why not?" The woman sighed happily and said, "Charlotte, I look forward to hearing about your achievements. I may drop in from time to time, just to make sure you stay on course." She squeezed Char's hands and glided back the way she came, with an unfelt wind whipping up the leaves on the ground and swirling her cloak around her. She reached out and absently caressed a blossom on her way and Char just watched her go, entranced and not sure what to think or do.
When the rain started to fall, she darted back into the house. After a moment of indecision she went for the light-bulbs and a chair in the kitchen. Once the burnt out bulb was replaced, she went back to her desk and sat down in front of her notes. Suddenly she realized she had sliced her thumb on the pages of the book some minutes before and had left a small dot of blood on the paper. Her thumb didn't hurt at all now, though, and the opened skin had been closed with a skinny line of dried blood. Without another thought, Char opened the book to where she had left off recording and, snatching up the recorder, she smoothly began to redo her notes.
After a couple of hours of unexpected and newly experienced dedication, Char stood up to take a walk and stretch her knotted muscles. This attention thing was hard work, but maybe with some practice she could get into the habit.
Things began to come together for Charlotte after that day. She started finishing more and more articles on time. She was able to start studies in communication and journalism at a local college, and do a reasonable amount of work for her classes while continuing to write for the magazine. She just felt calm, no rush at all. Her relationship with her family also improved. They were more relaxed around her, feeling no need to push or pressure, and she felt they were more supportive of her endeavors than they had ever been before.
Char's life rolled on in a steady stream of writing, research and travel. Her degree hung on her wall, she dedicated herself to her articles, and she got to know people and places that only five years before had seemed far out of her reach. But finally, she began to get tired. It started with a frightening experience on one of her research trips, where she was going to interview a few museum curators and witnessed a spectacular traffic accident. Instead of researching and writing, she began pondering and brooding. Her output slowed to a trickle, but editors were willing to give her a little time off, a mini sabbatical. It became clear after an entire week in bed that her interest in the world had tapered off and she no longer felt the urgent need to get things started and experience everything before her time was up. Somehow, she was sure there would always be another day, another year, and she would do everything she wanted to do and more. And it made her despair.
When Charlotte finally rose after that week, she realized she could barely stand up. She lurched into the bathroom and splashed water on her face, spraying the walls and floor with heavy droplets. Finally she looked in the mirror and was thoroughly startled to see how awful she looked. Her hair was greasy and lank, hanging in twisted strings; her eyes were puffy and bruised looking, with the little red blood vessels jaggedly shooting across the sclera; even her skin had a horror movie quality to it, all grayish and full of bedlines like Frankenstein monster scars. "What the hell is wrong with me?" she wondered aloud, shocked at how raspy her voice was. She dragged herself to the kitchen for a vitamin shake. As she gathered the blender and ingredients, she kept trying to keep down the nagging thought that the effort would kill her, although as she moved around the room she began to notice energy trickling back into her limbs. By the time she finished drinking the shake, it was like she had been given a whole new gas tank, filled to the top. Now that she was full of energy again, she didn't stop to ponder the meaning of this almost spontaneous healing; she got right back to work on an article she had been having trouble finishing. It came out easily. Like a hot knife through a stick of butter. Words poured onto the page, and they were the right words, Charlotte was sure as soon as she typed them.
So, Charlotte went back to her busy life for a while, with only a niggling, nagging feeling in the back of her head about her collapse. After another couple of months, it happened again, with the same result - after a time spent in repose, getting worse, Charlotte forced herself up and she recovered. The third time laid her out quickly, and with such alarming physical effects that her mother had her shipped off to the hospital, where doctors were stymied by her failure to respond to treatment as much as by the cause of her condition.
One night while dozing in her hospital bed, Charlotte suddenly became aware that somebody else was in the room with her. Her eyes flew open and she shot bolt upright in bed, heart pounding in her anguished chest. There in the visitor's chair sat the woman in the cloak, resting her head on her right hand, with a somewhat wistful expression on her face. She smiled just a little at Char and said softly, "Well, Charlotte, I told you time was a gift to be used."
"I don't know what you mean."
"I told you that morning in the garden. If you don't use the time you're given, it will be taken from you."
"But - but it's not time that's leaving me, it's my health, my life!"
The woman dropped her hand and straightened up in the chair. "What do you think life is, my dear? Life is time. Life is the time you use. Everyone receives a certain measure, but sometimes we can be persuaded to give out more if we think it won't be wasted. When it looks like the gift is not being appreciated, however, it leaves the recipient."
"So you 'gave' me time and when I needed to slow down, you took what you gave plus interest."
"Oh no, Charlotte. I'm not taking anything, it's natural. If you pull back a branch to open up a little space and the branch springs back when you let go of it, are you taking space away? No, the branch is returning to its natural state, although it might have a little, shall we say, backlash. You were given more time. You stopped using it, and it's returning to its natural place, but you feel a little weaker than you would normally. If you can stand to wait, your feeling will balance itself eventually."
"So my gift time is leaving me, and taking my own time with it? Should I be dead already?"
"If you should be dead, you would be."
"But who says I wasn't using my time? I just got tired, I needed some time to reflect, think about my life and where I was going! Am I supposed to just work, work, work? I want to consider the big picture of existence!"
The woman sighed and stood up in one smooth motion. She stood then at the foot of Char's bed with her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes shining like little mirrors in the dimness of the room and her smile twisted oddly on one side of her mouth. "You may have mistaken me for somebody else, Charlotte. I don't deal with the big picture, that's a friend of mine. I am all about the details." Then she smiled broadly, white, teeth practically glowing, and just when Char noticed that she hadn't heard one sound while they had been talking, not a chirp of monitors or a nurse's voice or a footstep in the hallway, a piercing beep drove into her ears.
She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them. It was morning and the nurse was opening the blinds, making a horrible squealing noise. She turned around and looked at Char sheepishly, as if to say she couldn't do anything about it. Char noticed a thin brown haze out the newly unclad glass, a collection of gases hovering in the atmosphere above the city, and felt the strength returning to her arms as she visualized typing up her next article on the dangers of and solutions to pollution.
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