The Golden Helm by Victoria Randall

Author:Victoria Randall [Randall, Victoria]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-12-13T18:30:00+00:00

The End

Influence

August 10, 2017

P aul was digging weeds in his garden and mulling over ideas for his next book, when he heard a crystalline chiming sound. He glanced up in time to see a young woman step out of thin air in the corner of his yard. She stood blinking around, looking like a tourist just off the plane.

He sat up, staring at her. With a delighted smile, she spotted him and hurried over. “Mr. Paul Corbin?”

“Ýes, that’s me.” He rose slowly. “Who—where did you come from?”

“I come from your future.” She held out a hand. Her hair, coiled in silver bangles that dangled to her shoulders, glittered in the morning sun. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you!”

“The future. You’ve heard of me in the future?”

“Yes, indeed. We know that you were one of the first influences on Abraham Solisky. I’m doing a dissertation on him, and got permission to interview you! It’s so exciting! May I ask you a few questions about your writing?”

“I suppose so,” he said, feeling off balance. “Come and sit down.” He indicated the chairs around the white metal table on his patio.

She had some questions about his writing, but it was clear her focus was on this Solisky. In the course of the conversation she let slip that Paul’s books were no longer read in the future.

“Not at all?” he asked, a lump in his throat.

She shook her head. “Of course you might run into an old copy in a junk shop. But everything of any value has been uploaded to the Mindnet. Physical books are collector’s items.”

“What have I ever done to you?” asked Paul. “Why have you chosen me to—to haunt?”

“I am not a ghost,” Opal said with a laugh.

“A ghost of the future,” he said darkly. “You’ve come back in time to destroy any hope I have of being a writer. Who do you think I write for, if not for the future? And you tell me I’m forgotten?”

She gestured around at the garden, bright in the California sunshine, the tomato plants, the golden asters, the kitchen windows of his house. “You write for the present—for your readers.” She shook her silver bangles, casting reflections across the garden. “And you are important, as I said, since you were one of Mr. Solisky’s early influences.”

“An influence,” he said gloomily. “What has he written?”

She caught her breath. “How strange, to meet someone who has never heard of Mr. Solisky! But of course, how could you? You live in his past, he has not yet written anything yet. His work—how can I describe it? He has laid bare the hearts of the people—of all people. You cannot read him without laughing, without weeping. No one can read him and go on with his life as it was before. He creates change in his readers’ lives; he does it by exposing the best and the worst in us. Our world is so much richer for his writing . . . it is impossible to say how deep and widespread his influence has been.

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