The River of No Return

will still tell the story of my life as a story that proceeds forward in time.”
    “Your life moves forward day to day, even if those days don’t follow each other on the calendar.”
    “Exactly. Which means that I cannot know what is coming for me, and I cannot go back to a day I have already lived through.”
    “‘Solomon Grundy,’” Nick said without turning from the window. “‘Born on a Monday, christened on Tuesday, married on Wednesday’ . . . where the bloody hell are the horses?”
    “But other time travelers must know your future. They should be able to tell you when you die, for instance!”
    Alva caught Nick’s eye. “You see what happens when you invite Naturals into your world? They invariably start telling you that your lifestyle is freakish.” She turned back to Jemison. “Our talent is queer,” she said. “Why do our stories proceed unmolested even as we jump about in the river? If we time travelers know the big shapes of human history, the movements of markets and epochs, you would think we could know what is destined in our own piddling lives. And yet . . . we cannot.”
    “That makes no sense,” Jemison said. “Naturals are condemned to a preordained story, we are bound to live lives that you, the time travelers, can know—but that we cannot. While you, the time travelers, don’t know your own futures, even though you can travel forward in time. You have possibility, movement, hope, and from what you have just told me, I can only assume that we Naturals are doomed.”
    “Oh, no,” Alva said. “You misunderstand me. You are not doomed, Mr. Jemison, any more than I am. I mean, you shall die one day and so shall I, but how you arrive at that final chapter is up to you. You have choices to make. It is only the big picture that continues always to look the same, no matter what we small actors do—and by we I mean all of us, Natural, Ofan, Guild. We run about like busy ants, but the wars do not change. They never change. And that is exactly what we Ofan hope to learn how to alter. What we must learn how to alter, else one day the Pale will wash across us and we will vanish like a dream.”
    Jemison’s dark eyes were intent. “So the future of mankind is set in stone, and while individual lives may sparkle and shine, we are little more than spirits, melting into air. You seem to be basing your hopes in fairy dust, Miss Blomgren.” He sounded doubtful in the extreme, almost condescending.
    Alva shrugged. “But surely that is what hope is! ‘The tune without the words.’ Maybe not knowing the words means that we can make them up as we go along. And more importantly, it means that we can go back and change them. We can already change the river in tiny ways, you know. Nick did today when he told you about us. But it is only play, the level at which we dabble now. A dip in the river, a splash, a brief obstruction of the flow, and then our individual revels end. But I believe that if we can learn to channel our dreaming, then we can make the fact that we don’t know the little things alter the things we know too well . . .”
    Nick was ready to tear his hair out. “Oh, my God, Alva, Arkady told me you Ofan were all a bunch of dangerous dreamers. How can you be whittering on like this when Julia is lost? If you don’t shut up I’m going to kill you. There. How’s that for a hopeless ending to your story?”
    “I would simply jump away from you, Nick. You know that.” Alva smiled a little sadly at Jemison. “We are cowards, really, we time travelers. We cheat death over and over. Jumping away from one story and into another. Always pursuing the hope of another day.”
    Jemison curled a lip. “That’s a fancy way of saying you are seeking immortality, Miss Blomgren. All dressed up as charity to a benighted humanity.”
    Alva’s eyes widened; she was startled by the scorn in his voice. “No . . . not individual immortality. I’m talking about group action. The fact that we don’t know what happens to us individually—that’s what gives me hope for humans collectively. It must be possible to change the big story.”
    “I am just a poor Natural,” Jemison said. “But would that not be to grasp too much power, Miss Blomgren? You have read your Milton, I assume. God will punish you if you claim too much knowledge. . . .”
    “He’s right, Alva,” Nick said peevishly. “And what you’re describing sounds quite a lot like fascism. Or corporate