The Ocean of Time by David Wingrove

wings, sailing in the sky, throwing down great pots of fire – bombs – on to the people below.’
    She looks away, troubled. ‘All this is true, Otto? You see things that are yet to happen? You have …
visions
?’
    ‘Yes. Only these aren’t visions. I’ve actually been to those places and witnessed those things with my own eyes.’
    ‘But … why exactly are you
here
, Otto Behr? What are you doing here?’
    Being with you
. Only I know that won’t be enough. I can see that she’ll need to know it all. And so I begin, explaining it, piece by piece, trying to make sense of it all to her. Four-Oh and Gehlen and the great dark castle of Asgard. And the War, and Time and …
    Dawn comes and we are still sitting there, only I’m quiet now, letting her digest what I have told her.
    ‘Well?’ Bakatin asks me, as I come ashore. ‘Is it all mended?’
    I shrug. ‘I’m not sure. But at least we’ve talked. At least …’
    ‘At least?’
    At least she knows now
. Only I could change it in a moment, jump back and last night would not have happened. Only now that it has, I want it to remain. I realise now just how heavy a burden it has been, keeping it from her. And though I’m still afraid of how she’ll take it, I feel a real relief.
    I look to Bakatin. ‘At least it’s done.’
    For no particular reason, I feel in my pocket and my fingers close over the delicate shape of the brooch. I take it out and stare at it a moment, surprised that I’d forgotten, then turn, meaning to go back and give it to her, there and then. But I stop. Now is not the moment. Just now it’s best to leave her, to let her brood on what I’ve said.
    It’s a fine, clear morning, the kind that lifts your spirits, only I’m not sure what to think. Katerina is retching again. And who can blame her? What I’ve told her is enough to make any sane person anxious. All the same, I go back to her and, waiting for her to finish, ask her if she’s all right.
    She splashes water over her face, then turns and looks at me, and smiles. ‘I’m fine.
Really
. It’s okay. Besides … it’s not me … it’s the baby.’

179
    ‘Otto?’
    ‘Yes, my love?’
    ‘Can we start again?’
    ‘Again?’
    We are midstream, half a day north of Belyj, the sun shining down, the forest a solid barrier of green to either side. Light glints off the surface of the river as Bakatin and his sons pull hard on the oars, drawing us swiftly through the water.
    ‘You were going to teach me German. Remember?’
    I reach out and trace the line of her jaw. ‘I remember.’
    ‘Only it would be useful.’
    ‘Useful?’
    ‘If we need to speak of …
things
.’
    ‘Ah …’
    I understand. Though they seem as if they aren’t listening, Bakatin and his sons hear every word we say. In a few days’ time, we’ll be saying farewell to Bakatin and his sons, and they’ll be heading back downriver to Surazh.
    ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Then let’s begin right now.’
    She sits up a little straighter, her face all attentive, like a pupil at her desk, which makes me laugh. But as I hand her the brooch, I see her face change, an expression of pure wonder and delight entering her eyes.
    ‘
Das Blatt
,’ I say. ‘
Das Esche Blatt
.’

180
    That next evening we arrive at Antipino. It’s another Belyj, only worse, and I’d prefer not to stop, only Bakatin has business there.
    We go ashore, Katerina holding my hand, curious to see the village, even though it’s clearly a stinking hole of a place. Chicken bones and other discarded things litter the ground between the ill-built, shabby huts, and – worse than anything in Belyj – there are dogs, half-feral beasts with dark oily coats that sniff at us and growl and show their sharp yellow teeth threateningly.
    There are more slaves here, too. Six scrawny-looking young men in ragged clothes sitting with their backs against the wall of a hut, chained to each other at the ankle, one of their ‘owners’ – a Swede without any