Time Loop: Impelleti

By Lloyd Harrison Whitling

We all know someone who seems to have disappeared. People often wonder where he or she went, but no one can successfully learn. Well, don't ever french-kiss a witch, or you may be the one to find out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 11, 2001
• ISBN: 9781469766874

Lloyd Harrison Whitling

Born in Oil City, PA, a coal-miner's oldest son, Lloyd's excursion away from fundamentalism took him on a lifelong journey which culminates with his DAEMONOLOGY and this companion book, and others you will find on iUniverse and his own website.

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All Rights Reserved © 2001 by Lloyd Harrison Whitling

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

Writers Club Press an imprint of iUniverse.com, Inc.

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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, or events which may have already or might someday occur is coincidental and unintentional.

ISBN: 0-595-19946-1

ISBN: 978-1-469-76687-4 (ebook)

Contents

DEDICATION

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

DEDICATION

Dedicated to Robert Rimmer, who inspired me to plod forward with my work in spite of negative influences dominating our world today, to take advantage of new opportunities that same world offers, and to stay focused, as he did, until the battle is over. To my wife, who has acted as my agent, my compadre, and my inspiration, who keeps track of my muddled existence while I struggle for cogency: Mary-Lou Whitling, I love you.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The ideas presented in this story are a compilation from many sources. Robert Heinlein wrote strange and wonderful tales, as did Isaac Asimov, which portray an admirable array of possibilities regarding what could be, or is apt to be, real. Men like George Vetter (Magic and Religion) and Colin Wilson, and many others, promoted a life with greater possibilities with words I ingested like a porridge. Robert Rimmer’s books of magickal lifestyles heightened my consciousness of the limitations others impose upon us, usually without our awareness, usually with our consent and approval, which keep all of us from becoming whomever we were meant to be. To these men, and other men and women whose words have heightened my own awareness of greater possibilities, I hope you recognize my gratitude and debt.

To those whose efforts went against the tasks of writing and seeking publishment, who sought to steer me away from it by sending me down more productive and rewarding pathways I thank you for the things you said and did that showed me how wrong you are. My indebtedness to you is as great, and as tasty to acknowledge, as that expressed to the more desirable people I have met in my lifetime.

CHAPTER ONE

The Loop Begins…?

My virginal tongue explored her mouth. A dot of light begins dimming to oblivion while I rocket feet first toward some unheralded destination. My awareness fades before fear sets in. I feel no sensation of time nor motion, but I awaken in a different position, in a different place, alone. Now, is when I feel scared.

I wonder, did I die? I don’t recall opening my eyes, nor how long I laid here before I realized I’d been staring at thin, feathery clouds in the sky. I only remember feeling like instant ice had frozen all my blood, and think my shivering had been what awakened me. Dull, throbbing pain works its way down my spine as I become more aware. Blood renewing its flow through my arms and legs feels like sand being pushed through my veins. I must have passed out on these rocks a long, long time ago. I try to remember why I’m here. I force my head to turn, to look around, to try to understand. I test my muscles, which feel like they’ll break when I try to move.

No, wait! The light coming through my eyelids had seemed to brighten suddenly when I began to stir. I know someone had been bending over me, and then had run away while I shook my head to awaken myself. Every nerve of my body seems to awaken and begin aching at once. I look around. I can see no sign that anybody has been near. I hear only a tumult of rushing water from someplace nearby. I try to stand, lose my balance, then force myself upright onto my feet, and feel amazed at the enormity of my own weight. For the duration of an epoch, I have to pay my full attention to keeping my legs from folding beneath my weight. Ants swarm beneath my skin while my blood returns a semblance of normalcy to all the senses of my being.

I don’t know why it all looks so familiar. Foggy mind-images tell me this can’t be my first visit. For the life of me, I do not know when I last smelled this mildew, shivered in this damp, cold mist, heard those hollow sounds echoing from the mouth of a cave, nor why. Deja vu overwhelms me. I sense vague memories I cannot locate in my mind, but only their shadows haunt me with images not really there. Is it possible to have memories about the future?

I catch a glint of flashing ripples reflecting from the river’s surface inside a cave, beyond where empty darkness hides behind an ominous, mist roiling in the cold breath from its mouth. Still gaining awareness, I discover that I’m standing where the outer bank curves around, my body sagging against an old maple tree barely clinging to its precipice. While I close my eyes, I imagine the rumble from deep inside the cave is the river complaining about having to leave its safe, comfortable darkness. The pounding repeats itself inside my head. I wonder if I have a hangover. I wonder why I can’t remember.

I know, from the sounds of it, the cave is hollow and roomy. That means the water level is down. The season must be late in the summer, when fewer storms brew to flood the cave. I look at the tree, and know it may no longer be here in another year. I feel unsafe when I see its exposed roots dangling over the water. When I turn an ear southward, I hear another rampage where the water passes over a cliff, seeking to return to safe, comfortable darkness hidden from the glare of this surface world, like the darkness I have just pulled myself from. A thought makes its way through my head: Time flows like a river flows, only to return to the clouds. I hear it as though in my grandmother’s voice, as though it might be a bit of her advice, and wonder what it could mean.

Time flows in a circle?

Trapped in a jutting bend of land at the place where I am still supporting myself against the tree, the river forms a pool. At first glance, this pool seems calm and placid; but a lingering look always shows me leaves and froth swirling around in never-ending circles. I feel an inexplicable kinship with them. A sharp splash, like a fish diving, catches my attention. A fresh dropping leaves its own mark by forming ring upon ring on the surface, these growing as new chases the old in all directions to where they disappear under the bank, or merge with the rippling main stream as they circle away from me. I watch while fish attack the dropping, their actions leaving ringlets to form patterns amidst those created by the dropping, like the causation and effects of life, itself; as though telling me time could, indeed, be flowing in a circle.

I judge, by what I can see of my own reflection, my age would be a little less than thirty years. I’m wondering why I feel like I just got here. I have a dog licking my hand and whimpering when I kneel down to rub her head. I know her name is Elsa. Like any collie, she seems to have an urge to communicate with her master. At least, I think I’m her master. I feel a connection with her, yet feel a link is missing. I remember something about a test. I think I failed it. I feel trapped, but cannot understand why. She licks my hand, but I can see her fur bristle while she looks toward the trees.

There must be an abundance of birds in this mountain forest. Another fallen dropping has left magical rings dancing across the water’s surface. I watch them form and turn while memories grow in my mind. While I pet Elsa’s head, I marvel at the softness of her golden fur. I feel confused by my sense of discontinuance. I sense that time has passed, without my awareness of any interruptions. I have a past; I have no past. My past is like my future: I know it exists, it is mine, and I can envision some of it. I see pictures and possibilities in my mind, but the story seems like it may belong to someone else.

A snapping branch from somewhere in the woods makes me look up. Trees and sky loom over my noisy haven. A twig falls, dancing skillfully at the end of a leafy parachute while it glides into the water, its rings mingling with those of the droppings to create a myriad of moving designs, inventions of flashing blue light and deep green reflections I find pleasing to my eyes.

I must’ve scared them, I guess, although I don’t know what I did to cause it. I look around to seek the cause of the snapping sound. Their fluttering wings stirring the air, sending showers of leaves circling downward into the water, the birds flee. I see circle upon circle in the water, growing and forming, reminding me of raindrops in a puddle, but the scale of comparison is immense. The birds, too, make a circle and then they are replaced by the relative quiet of their absence. Only the waters speak.

I knew my grandmother on my mother’s side of the family, with whom my mother chose to live after my own birth. Oriental, dainty and sweet, whose hair stayed black until the day she died; whose voice never raised to sound an angry note; her English indiscernible from yours or mine; who held no ill for any man, even those who used her for their own ends, like my grandfather—and like the men of all races who slept with my mother. Vague memories of my own past loom, then fade.

The final leaf falls now, swinging back and forth like a twig with a feather still attached, hurrying on a downward spiral into the water. New rings form again on the surface, alive and dancing in wide-spreading, short-lived joy. Regiments of fish attack and then, disappointed, scurry away in bright flashes of light. The river still thunders within the cave and at the waterfalls, rippling with singing notes as it runs around me on its way from one down to the other. I know my name. I am Impelleti.

Hello.

CHAPTER TWO

"Hello?"

I should’ve heard her when she approached, I suppose. I warned myself that I should learn to pay better attention to things going on around me, especially in weird circumstances. Hello, I responded, almost choking on my own heart. I quickly turned myself around to confront the loveliest example of womankind I could imagine. I felt vaguely frightened of her, and struggled to figure out why. Do I know you? I heard myself wondering aloud, for I sensed a familiarity about her that heightened my wariness. Images swirled through my mind until I realized the cause of my fear.

My mother had taught me to play music, the piano, mostly, and had placed her theories of life in the midst of all that teaching. She avoided the music I could hear on the radio and jukeboxes, admonishing me the ritzy classics were more in demand by people with money, who’d be important to my future. Once I knew them, she kept reminding me at times of rebellion, I could learn to play commercial music in my sleep.

For all her wisdom, my mother knew only the shady life that poverty laid bare to her, that the rich folks she so admired could hide from their own families, and about which they could refuse all acknowledgments of their own contributions. She could afford a room large enough to house herself, my grandmother, and me. She thought herself well off compared to a lot of folks, she often said.

When I played with other kids, it was music, not baseball or some other sport. Most kids thought of me as someone putting on airs in a way I had no right to. They never liked the kind of songs I knew; my mother failed to acknowledge any enjoyment of the simpler fare they served up to me. Music, for me, began to seem as though it had taken on two lives, as I began to keep separated what I could play for whom.

I began getting pretty good at it. As time went on I had plenty of chances to play along with various groups, until I could develop a reputation for being someone dependable who could give a solid performance with any kind of act. I never put on my own shows, and never sought a starring role. I never wanted to be noticed, except by those who could provide me opportunities in which I could immerse myself in swirls of sounds and rhythms I could match with the beating of my own heart.

I began playing farther away until my work took me off for longer periods of time. After a while, my trips home became visits, and I felt like I no longer really lived there. I moved from city to city, and then found a regular job at a place men paid to dance with women. I could play the kind of music mom taught me there, the pay was good and dependable, and the people seemed like my kind of folks. I had tired of the hustle and bustle of the road. Even though I’d actually earn less, I knew I’d also spend less. I took the job and settled down.

It didn’t take long for me to notice how sometimes the customers would disappear with one or another of the women, and that those were the women who most seldom danced with anyone. I’d watch while, after a whirl or two around the floor, they’d seem to vanish for long periods of time. They’d come back flushed and nervous, then wait for another partner with whom they’d behave the same way.

My mother had taught me more than a thousand pieces of music, a repertoire to which I had immensely added, and I had learned how to play them all in several styles, so that I could go on for an entire session without actually paying myself much attention. I had plenty of time to observe the girls, fantasize, see with whom who did what, and discover where they went to do it.

I learned all that without much caring about it, except for the fantasizing part. Sometimes one of them would beg to play a ditty she’d learned, and I’d let her in exchange for a dance. I never went to the rooms with any of them, though. I could never imagine myself paying someone for that liberty after so many other men had already enjoyed it, knowing it would seem like sleeping with my own mother.

And then, a new girl joined their midst. No one seemed to know where she’d come from, her name, nor why she began showing up quite regularly. Some thought she might be a customer, but had never seen her dance with anyone. Some others said she might be looking for work, and warned us all to keep our eyes open, but no one ever saw her approach any paying customers. They began whispering that she might be a cop, and to watch her because she’d be looking for anything she could charge us with.

She seemed to be so extraordinary in all aspects of her being that I found that suggestion easy to follow. I observed her mingling with the girls and with the customers, and even the people who ran the place. I never saw her dance, nor leave with anyone. All the while I watched her, I could see she seemed to be watching me.

She seemed to be about my age, by appearances—No, hell, I’m an old man in comparison! Black hair, brown-green eyes, smooth tan skin, she made me think of things soft and delicate a man might shatter with a heavy touch, but still as supple in appearance as any athlete. She could dress in ways I had never seen a woman do, sometimes in a low-cut, pleated gown that would sweep the floor, while at other times her legs would make me swoon. I decided she dressed in ways that other women never did, simply because she could. I forgot the other girls and began fantasizing about her.

One day my eyes locked with hers, until it seemed like she must be the only woman in the hall. I began playing only for her, watching for her approval, quickly changing modes when I saw she didn’t seem to like what I had going. Fearful that looking away would cause her to do the same, and that I’d lose whatever I had going with her, I let myself be swallowed in the notes, the rhythms, the joy that music allowed me to share with her.

She began to dance, her eyes recapturing mine when she’d whirl, her skirts sailing, while she slowly made her way toward my side. Her breathing was barely perceptible when she reached me, where the other girls would be gasping after making the endurance run I’d just observed. Hi, she said with her hand on my shoulder. Don’t stop, I love your music. Can you play and talk, too?

Yes, I acknowledged, and slid over to give her room on the bench. Can you talk and play, too?

I can’t play a note, she disavowed. Then, as though struck by an idea, she chortled, You’ll have to teach me.

Wonderful idea, I thought, but said, I don’t know if I could behave long enough to do that. I called myself a sap, then, and told myself to keep my mouth shut.

You! she laughed, and looked around. There’s all of this around you, and I’m willing to bet you’re still a virgin!

I didn’t know it showed, I responded, feeling rebuffed.

Well, she laughed, being a virgin’s not a healthy thing. We’ll have to do something about that.

Ouch! I said, and missed several notes while I reached for my newly sore ankle. I struggled to get back into the rhythm and at the right part of the song.

What did you do? she inquired, looking amazed.

I kicked myself, I said. I can’t believe this is happening.

What is? she wondered, her eyes inquisitive.

You, I said. You’re wonderful and, I mean, you’re here, and…Wow! Right then, I began wishing I had practiced some kind of smooth talking on the girls, but how could I have ever known such an ability might prove important to me.

Speechless, huh? she looked at me and grinned. I kind of like that in a man, and it really looks right on you. She slid off the bench, let me get a good look at some leg, then turned back to ask, What do you do when you’re not busy here?

I work out at the gym that’s down a block, I said. Sometimes I walk in the park, or go there to read. Most of the time I just spend at home. I do a lot of reading.

She frowned inquisitively. What do you do at the gym, she asked.

Everything there is a challenge to me, I said. Mostly you’d just get to see me sweat a lot.

She turned away to leave. I’ll see you at the park, she said. Maybe you could think of something entertaining by then.

To me, everything I could think of would be entertaining. Unable to figure out what would be entertaining to her, I made