Page 17 of Chasing Eternity
“Invisible?” I balk. “You do remember what I shared about Arthur, and Killian, and even Elodie?” I shake my head, wondering how he could possibly say such a thing.
“I heard every word,” he says, his voice resolute. “And while your concerns are valid, from what I can see, the only person standing in your way—is you.”
The words float between us, mingling with the tiny dust motes dancing in the candlelight. In my discomfort, my fidgety hands and burning cheeks, I recognize the stark seed of truth.
I have one destiny.
One enormous task to complete.
Everything outside of that is just small dramas I use to distract myself.
“I—I do want to do this,” I say, my voice steady, resolved. “I’m ready to change.”
In my hand, the slick, cool metal of my charm is a reminder of a past I’m about to transcend. With a determined exhale, I uncurl my fingers, allowing the small golden cage and its chain to drop gently into my dad’s waiting palm.
“At this moment,” he says, securing the talisman in his pocket, “you’re like the minotaur at the center of your own labyrinth. But by the time you leave here, you’ll understand the most crucial truth of them all.”
His intense gaze levels on mine. I lean forward, heart pounding with anticipation.
“Your true strength and power, Natasha, comes from within.”
6
“I know what you’re thinking,” my dad says, a wry grin lifting the corners of his mouth. “It sounds cliché—like something you’ve heard, or seen, or read a million times before. But let me ask you this: Have you ever truly lived it? Can you imagine how it feels to be so deeply anchored in your own power that you’re no longer swayed by external judgments or outside circumstances?”
The question is rhetorical. Obviously, I have no idea what it’s like to live with that sort of conviction. Still, it sounds like the ultimate freedom. And as I watch him sort through stacks of dusty, old tomes, his fingers gently brushing over cracked spines and worn leather covers, I say, “And that bit about the minotaur?”
My dad looks over his shoulder, casting a thoughtful glance my way. “It’s about delving deep into yourself. It’s the process of confronting and conquering all the fears that have accumulated over the years. Once that’s behind you, you’ll begin again as a new, more powerful, version of yourself.”
“Didn’t realize it would be so easy,” I joke. “Do I get a red string like Ariadne gave to Theseus in the myth?”
I watch as my dad sets a few selected books aside. When he looks up, his gaze levels on mine. “Let’s start there.” He frowns. “Your use of humor and sarcasm to shield your insecurities.”
I shift uncomfortably, painfully aware that I’ve failed the first test. “Don’t most people do that?” I ask.
“Perhaps.” He shrugs, peering at me like his eyes can strip through layers of flesh and bone, all the way down to my deepest, most shadowy, shameful self. “But you’re not here to become ordinary. You’re here to achieve the extraordinary, no?”
His voice resonates with a sobering truth, and I find myself nodding in place of words. My throat is tight with a mix of apprehension and the promise of liberation from the me I’ve come to know—the me I’m increasingly desperate to outgrow. And yet, I still have my doubts.
“I’ve learned a lot at Gray Wolf,” I say, the words coming out in a rush, as though I might soon forget the proper use of language as well. “And a lot of it, most of it, is not the sort of stuff I can afford to forget if I have any hope of defeating Arthur.”
My dad raises a hand to stop me. “Let me be clear,” he says, “your memories and skills will return. It’s the narrative you’ve woven around them that will evolve.”
“So, like rewriting my story?” I ask, recalling Arthur’s advice once more.
He nods. “Only this goes much deeper. It’ll become second nature, an intrinsic part of who you are, requiring no conscious effort on your part. And this is where we begin.”
He lays open a book before me, tapping his index finger to the center of the page where an enigmatic sketch is displayed. “Albrecht Dürer’sMelencolia I.” His finger hovers over the image.
I lean forward, making a closer study of the picture. It’s so vivid, so intricate, centering on the figure of a melancholic angel surrounded by various objects—a scale, a geometric shape, tools, even an hourglass. And though I have no idea what any of it means, with all that symbolism, there’s clearly a story to unravel.
“It depicts mankind’s struggle to comprehend the ancient mysteries. It’s a puzzle scholars have been debating for centuries,” my dad says.
“And what’s your take?” I ask. “I mean, as a Timekeeper, what do you think it means?”
“Look closer.” He edges the book nearer to me. “Do you see how every element symbolizes a different aspect of the human experience? Knowledge, measurement, time, and the limitations they impose on us all—it’s all there.”
I study the image, noting how the angel, despite being surrounded by symbols and tools, looks lost in thought, maybe even paralyzed with thought.