Free Song Of Time by Ian R. MacLeod

it, but stammers the b.
    “Is that you. Adam? Is that your name?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “You can’t…” Slowing down, conscious of the rattle of my heart, I take a breath. “You were washed up on the beach. Do you know what you were doing there?”
    He shakes his head. Again, the gesture doesn’t seem quite right. A negation of sorts, but not quite no.
    “Do you know who you are?”
    “I thought…” Still afraid, he looks at me blankly.
    “I’m sorry. All these questions. I’m not that used to discovering naked young men, I suppose.”
    It’s an attempt at humour; he almost smiles.
    “Were you on a ship? Some kind of boat? Were you swimming? Walking around Bezant Bay? Flying? Did you fall from the cliffs?”
    “I can’t remember.” The eyes don’t slide away from me quite so readily now.
    “Whatever it is, you’ve clearly had a severe shock. And I—I’ve had a shock too. And I’ve been a bit—well, I’ve been a bit preoccupied today. You seemed so fast asleep…” I trail off, conscious of the intimacy which sharing this house has already thrust on us.
    He moves a hand, tracing it up across his chest as if to feel his face, then seems to think better of it. The hand falls and clutches at the towel which lies beside his bare thigh.
    “What do you remember?”
    “The shore. You were there. I was…” A long silence. Even with his eyes open, he’s still close to sleep.
    “You nearly drowned. But before that?”
    He frowns again.
    “Are you hungry? Thirsty? Do you need the…?” My eyes, and his, can’t help but travel down.
    “Not hungry, no. Not…”
    “Good. Well, I…” What else is there to say? He still seems scarcely here. I’ve had similar conversations with my son Edward when he used to sleepwalk. Then or later, nothing made any sense. “We’ll have to get you fixed and dressed. Do you think you could stand up? Could you make it upstairs with me?”
    I hold out a hand. With the towel still bunched in one of his hands, he takes mine with the other. He’s so warm and strong and heavy. And so tall : he just keeps on going up as he rises. How on earth did I ever get him here from the shore?
    “It’s this way.” Lights fan on in the hall. I hear Morryn’s surprised creaks as he follows me upstairs. “Watch that low beam. Turn right here. It’s through this door. If you’ll just…”
    I sit him down on a stool in the bright bathroom, then consult the faded mysteries of my medicine cabinet.
    “That music…” he murmurs with his hands primly folded across the towel he still clutches on his lap.
    “Do you know,” I ask casually as I push aside yellowed bandages, “what it was?”
    “Debussy. Some of the Preludes .”
    I stare back at him. “You know that?”
    “I don’t know why.” His eyes are blue-grey, innocently clear. “It’s just…” He blinks slowly, then swallows, as the mirrored front of the old cabinet squeaks back towards him. This, I realise, is the first chance he’s had to see his own face. “Shouldn’t I?”
    “It’s not so common, these days, to have a ready knowledge of classical music.”
    “But you do.”
    “I’m a musician. Now…” Slowly, lightly, deliberately, so that he can see exactly what I’m doing, I touch the digs and abrasions on his wrist, then a deeper gouge which lies amid the golden hairs on his forearm. Like two flowers, his hands unbunch. “Do you know how any of this happened?”
    “The rocks? The sea?” It’s a hopeful stab; neither of us believes it.
    “Well—whatever it was, we’ll need to fix it.” I find an antiseptic spray in the back of the cabinet, then some strips of micropore, and an anti-biotic patch, a pack of artificial skin. “You’ll just have to sit still and bear with me. If you want me to stop, if it starts to hurt, just say. Is that okay?”
    He doesn’t reply but, by the broad slouch of his body, he submits.
    Beginning with the surfaces of his back, I dab and spray, dab and spray.