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Chrono Nexus – Rivière du Temps

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Revision 20241229 (2,554)

Chapter 3: The River’s Farewell

The procession continued from MRB and wove down Decatur Street like a dark thread through Carnival’s tapestry. Sweat beaded on Jack’s neck despite the cool March air, and each step brought fresh waves of sense memories: coffee and beignets drifting on the breeze from Café du Monde, diesel exhaust from delivery trucks, stale beer soaking into the pavement, and beneath it all, the muddy perfume of the Mississippi.

Time seemed to fold in on itself. With each block, Jack glimpsed overlapping versions of the street—horse-drawn carriages from centuries past sharing space with modern cars, while gas lamps flickered alongside LED signs. The metallic taste of copper forced him to focus on the steady rhythm of the band, using it as an anchor to the present moment.

Street performers froze mid-act as the procession passed: a silver-painted mime held his pose, a juggler caught his pins and bowed his head, while a tarot reader’s cards trembled in the breeze. Locals emerged from shops and bars, their Mardi Gras revelry subdued by the sight of mourning in their midst. Some made the sign of the cross. Others whispered prayers that mixed with the incense from nearby botanicas.

The band’s lament draped the street like a mourning crepe on a Garden District door. The tuba’s deep notes resonated in Jack’s chest, while the trumpets’ mournful cry seemed to echo across multiple timelines. Each drumbeat marked not just time but memory—the rhythm of a city that had learned to dance between dark and light.

“This way,” Leo’s cane guided them left at Dumaine, its tap-tap-tap on concrete adding another layer to the sonic tapestry. The Mississippi stretched before them, vast and eternal, its coffee-colored waters holding secrets from every era of the city’s existence. Jack’s throat tightened as temporal echoes rippled across the water’s surface—Spanish galleons, steamboats, and modern cargo ships ghosting past each other in his vision.

They veered right along the Riverwalk, where the water’s persistent lap-lap-lap against the shoreline played counterpoint to the band’s rhythm. The air grew heavier with river scent and history while seagulls wheeled overhead, their cries mixing with the horns’ lament. Each face in the crowd held shadows of past and future grief as if all of New Orleans’ centuries of loss were concentrated in this one moment.

The brass band moved with deliberate grace, each step a heartbeat syncing with the rhythm of loss and celebration. The drums set the pace—a resounding, steady thump like a pulse beneath the city’s skin. Tubas rumbled low and heavy, carrying the weight of generations, while trombones groaned, stretching notes that seemed to sag under the burden of memory. Above it all, the trumpets’ wail cut through time itself, their sound both farewell and welcome home.

Jack felt the weight of every timeline pressing in, each version of this farewell overlapping like transparent photographs. The Mississippi rolled on, indifferent to time’s passage, carrying their grief toward the Gulf. With measured steps, the procession approached the stairs leading down to the water’s edge—Moonwalk.

Scene Break

Reggie stood with Jack at the top of the promenade leading down to the river. The midday sun and mild March afternoon wrapped around them, carrying the briny scent of the Mississippi mixed with diesel fumes from passing barges. A gentle breeze stirred the air, warm for early spring but typical for New Orleans.

“Hey, Jack, look at this place.” Reggie gestured toward the expanse before them.

“Yeah, Reggie. It’s a beautiful place. Sometimes, just come and sit, watching the river.” Jack’s shoes scraped against the rough concrete as he shifted his weight.

“Tru Dat. When I was a little kid, this was a pretty nasty place.” Reggie pulled out his bright-colored handkerchief and wiped a bead of sweat from his brow.

“Really, Reg?” The moist air made Jack’s shirt cling to his back.

“Yes sir.” Reggie widened his stance, crossing his arms. “I seen a lot change in this city over the years. Some good, a lot bad. But got to give credit to old Maurice ‘Moon’ Landrieu, that mayor fought to clean up the riverfront, really made the place nice, gave people pride. Built these stairs, too.”

They watched the crowd gather on the steps, their footsteps echoing off the concrete. The gentle breeze carried snippets of whispered conversations and muffled sobs. Jack moved toward the water’s edge, carefully stepping down the open stairs and winding through groups of sitting people. The river’s spray misted his face, droplets mixing with his tears. The river crept up the bottom steps, turning the concrete slick and dark. His leather shoes left temporary shadows that faded with each pulse of the current.

A distant steamboat’s whistle echoed across the water, its mournful cry merging with the sounds of grief. Jack approached Jeff, who stood alone on the bottom step, staring off lost somewhere in his memories.

Leo stepped forward, his cane tapping a solemn rhythm on the concrete as he took Lynda’s ashes from Jeff. The ornate wooden box felt heavy in his hands, weighted with more than just physical presence. He looked at Jack, his eyes filled with unspoken emotions, crow’s feet deepening at the corners. Jack lowered his eyes, understanding the depth of Leo’s feelings for Lynda. Together, they approached the river’s edge.

Jeff clenched his fists, his jaw tight. “This isn’t right, Leo.”

Leo turned to face him, his face a mask of calm but his eyes blazing. “And what did you expect, Jeff?”

“I know about it, Leo,” Jeff’s voice cracked, the pain raw and unfiltered.

“Don’t you dare,” Leo hissed, stepping closer, his body trembling with restrained fury. “I was there for her in ways you can’t even comprehend.”

Jack stepped between them, his presence a calming force. “Enough, both of you. This is about Lynda, not us. We honor her by respecting her wishes and each other.”

Jeff took a deep breath, his eyes glazed. “I just… I just miss her so damn much.”

Leo’s expression softened, his anger dissipating. “We all do, Jeff. That’s why we’re here. To say goodbye together.”

Leo slowly approached the river’s edge, each movement precise and practiced, movements Leo had done so many times before. Jack watched as Leo caressed and opened the box. He could see Leo’s lips moving ever so slightly as if sharing one final secret with Lynda. As Leo carefully scattered the ashes into the water, Jack felt an uneasy sense of closure—the river symbolizing life’s unending journey. He glanced at Jeff, who stood silently, tears streaming down his face. Leo, overwhelmed with emotion, remained silent.

As the three men watched, a reflective hush fell over the riverbank as Lynda’s cherished friends approached the water’s edge. Each took their turn to reverently scatter blossoms, vintage keepsakes, and heartfelt mementos onto the river’s vast expanse.

Once the final offering had drifted away, surrendered to the river’s embrace, Leo rose and addressed the hushed gathering.

“Friends, today we honor a remarkable woman. Lynda’s spirit was as dynamic and unyielding as the city she loved. She lived with passion, loved deeply, and embraced life fully. Let this river carry her spirit, mingling with the souls of New Orleans, a city that never forgets its own.”

Then, Leo pauses, a mischievous glint in his eye. His weathered face crinkles with a suppressed smile.

“Speaking of unforgettable, let me tell you about the time Lynda single-handedly saved a Mardi Gras parade… It was about five years ago if I remember correctly. One of the floats in the Krewe of Bacchus parade got stuck right in the middle of Canal Street. Tractor stalled, wouldn’t start—a real mess. Now, Lynda, bless her heart, had been enjoying the festivities and libations a bit too enthusiastically, if you catch my drift.”

A ripple of knowing chuckles passes through the gathering.

“She stumbles out into the street… hitches up her sequined dress… and starts pushing that float like she’s the Incredible Hulk in drag. And wouldn’t you know it, the driver gets the engine started, and the dang float starts moving! The crowd goes wild; Lynda’s in her glory, thinking she’s making the thing move. Of course, the police see this crazy lady on the parade route and start moving in. Luckily, Reggie’s there and runs at Lynda, pretending to arrest her. He’s cuffed her and waved off the other cops. Reggie quickly gets her back to where Jeff was and hustles them both off the route… Reggie was pissed!”

Reggie chuckles at how stupid Lynda was and how angry he was then.

Laughter ripples through the crowd, mingling with the gentle lapping of the river.

Leo’s voice softens. “That was Lynda… She loved this city… Always ready to jump in whenever she thought she could help.”

He paused, letting his words sink in, then continued, “Lynda would want us to celebrate her life, to remember the joy she brought into our lives. So, as we say goodbye, let us also rejoice in the memories she gave us. Let the music play, the laughter ring, and her spirit live on in each of us.”

In a final gesture of reverence, Big Chief Crazy Ray, standing near the top of the steps, let out a mournful cry that echoed down the river. People immediately around the gathering, whether they were startled or respectful, momentarily fell silent.

As Jack stood at the river’s edge, watching the murky waters of the Mississippi flow by, an eerie calm settled over him. The procession’s music had faded, replaced by the gentle lapping of waves against the shore. The air was rich with the scent of river mud and lingering incense from the ceremony, a uniquely New Orleans blend of the sacred and profane.

As Jack approached the top of the steps, a shiver ran down his spine, and it wasn’t from the cool breeze coming off the water. It was the unmistakable sensation of being watched. His eyes scanned the crowd before him, taking in the kaleidoscope of colors from the mourners’ attire—a mix of somber blacks and the vibrant hues of those already dressed for the impending Mardi Gras festivities.

Most faces were familiar—friends, neighbors, the usual Crescent City mix of locals and wide-eyed tourists. But then his eyes landed on a figure standing slightly apart from the rest. Jack focused.

The man stood out like a shard of glass in a bowl of gumbo. Dressed in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit that probably cost more than Jack’s monthly rent, he looked absurdly out of place amidst the sea of colorful costumes and bright casual attire. He wasn’t participating in the grief. He was observing—calculating.

Jack studied the stranger, noting the silver streaks in his dark hair, the sharp angles of his face, and how his piercing blue eyes seemed to absorb everything around him. The man loomed unnervingly still among the undulating people. His hands clasped behind his back, his gaze alternating between the river and the crowd with meticulous precision.

Leo moved beside Jack, a look of concern on his face. “You feel it too, don’t you?” he said softly, his eyes following Jack’s line of sight.

Jack stared at the man, his mouth suddenly dry. “Yeah. Who is he?”

Leo’s voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible above the distant wail of a steamboat’s whistle. “That’s Victor Duval. Media tycoon. Old money, roots in this city deeper than the oldest cypress in the bayou. Guy’s got his fingers in everything from newspapers to movie studios.”

Jack stared, his body feeling the itch of hundreds of mosquito bites. “Why would someone like that be at Lynda’s funeral?”

Leo shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving Duval. “In all my years in this city, I’ve learned one thing: when Duval shows up, it’s never a coincidence. He’s here for a reason, and I’d bet my last dollar it ain’t to pay his respects.”

Duval’s eyes flicked up and met Jack’s gaze. The brief connection made Jack’s pulse quicken, his palms growing damp. Duval stared at Jack with unsettling intensity, like a French Quarter chef appraising a cut of meat, deciding whether it merited his preparation.

Crazy Ray drifted over, his elaborate Mardi Gras Indian headdress casting dancing shadows on the ground. He placed a hand on Jack’s shoulder, his fingers trembling slightly. “Best keep your distance from dat one,” he said quietly, voice rasping like dry leaves. “Duval… he don’t just walk in. He conjures, like somethin’ pulled from the other side.”

Jack tore his eyes away from Duval to look at Ray. “What do you mean?”

Fear and respect widened Ray’s dark eyes. “In the Tremé, in the Quarter, all over this city, folks know better than to cross Victor Duval. You might not see his hand in things, but it’s always there, pulling strings we can’t even see. I’ve watched good people get buried under the weight of favors from men like him.”

Jack’s unease deepened, coiling in his gut like a snake ready to strike. He looked back to where Duval had stood, but the spot was empty. Somehow, without drawing any attention, the man vanished into the dispersing crowd, leaving only a lingering sense of foreboding.

Why do I feel like this just got a lot more complicated? Jack mused.

Leo clapped a hand on his shoulder, trying to inject some levity into his voice but failing to mask his own concern. “Because in this city, Jack, nothing’s ever simple. It’s all layers, like a big pot of jambalaya. And sometimes, when you dig in, you find a bit more spice than you bargained for.”

As they turned to leave, Jack couldn’t shake the feeling that Duval’s appearance had changed something fundamental. The warm, familiar streets of New Orleans suddenly felt different, charged with an energy he couldn’t quite name. Whatever game was being played, he realized the stakes had just been raised.

As Leo and Ray prepared the procession to move on, Jack watched Jeff, hunched and broken in his grief.

“Hey, Jack,” Leo called out. “You coming?”

Jack nodded, then turned to Reggie, who was standing nearby. “Something’s not adding up here, Reg.”

“What do you mean?”

“Jeff and Lynda’s business dealings. After all these years, how come I never realized how little I knew about them?”

“Maybe they kept things close to the vest. Lots of folks with money do that.”

Jack shook his head. “It’s more than that. I can’t shake this feeling that there’s something we’re missing about Lynda’s death.”

“You thinking foul play?”

“I don’t know, but I aim to find out.”

“Be careful, Jack. Digging into this could stir up some shit. Are you sure you want to go down that road?”

Jack’s gaze drifted back to Jeff. “If there’s more to this story, doesn’t he deserve to know the truth?”

Reggie sighed. “Just watch yourself. This city’s got secrets as deep and dark as the Mississippi.”

“Don’t I know it. Whatever it takes, I’m seeing this through. For Lynda’s sake and my own peace of mind.”

As the procession moved away from the river, Jack wondered what lay ahead.

“You, okay?” Reggie asked.

Jack looked silently at Reggie.

Reggie’s face expressionless and emotionally in tune with Jack, “Yeah, it sucks.”

Jack, with a slight smile, “Tru Dat.”

Chrono Nexus – Rivière du Temps

Revision 20241123

Chapter 3: Temporal Threads

As Jackson headed to Voodoo Lounge, his mind wrestled with the day’s random time shifts. The constant temporal flux left him yearning for stability, a respite from the dizzying changes.

“Damn it,” Jack said under his breath, rubbing his temples. “Can’t I get one day without feeling like I’m on a carousel?”

Amidst this turmoil, an old memory bubbled to the surface—a recollection so vivid it felt like yesterday, yet so distant it seemed ancient. Jack paused, leaning against a weathered brick wall.

“Zenin,” he whispered, his voice barely audible above the bustling street noise. “That first meeting… how long ago was it?”

As if in response to his own question, Jack’s mind drifted back to that fateful day on Decatur Street. The memory unfolded before him, as clear as the Mississippi on a calm day…

More than a dozen years ago, he was on his way to a gig at Jax Brewery. He remembered the day was sunny and warm. As he passed Jackson Square, the sun filtered through the trees, casting rippling shadows on the sidewalk. The gentle hum of city life surrounded him—lively conversations and laughter from nearby Café Du Monde mixed with the scent of freshly fried french beignets and chicory coffee. Yet, beneath the surface, Jack’s unease with time troubled his thoughts.

“Another day, another time shift,” he thought, shaking his head. “Can’t I just enjoy a moment without feeling like I’m caught in a dream?”

The shifts had become more than just uneasy feelings—they now seemed to follow patterns, fragments of memories bridging separate timelines in his mind.

Jack struggled living with what seemed to be a constant dream state. He experienced reality as a the kind of dream one has while waking up from a deep sleep—everything seems logical and natural until the dream fades. And when the dream evaporates, that other reality pours back in in an unsettling fashion. “I can’t keep doing this.”

At Jackson Square, he paused, surveying the vendors and their colorful artwork. Tourists snapped pictures and haggled for discounts, much to the annoyance of both the vendors and Jack. “Hey! That painting isn’t just a trinket—it’s a piece of my heart!” he overheard a vendor say sharply.

He passed the mule carts lining Decatur Street, their drivers waiting patiently to share the stories of the French Quarter. “Y’all want a ride? I can take you through history for a price!” one driver called out, smiling at passing tourists.

But just as Jack approached the crosswalk leading to JAX and the Riverwalk, a young woman stepped into his path. “Hey, handsome! I’m Tempest. You need to take a tour with me,” she said, her voice smooth, her smile seductive.

Jack, caught between enjoying the attention of a beautiful young woman and feeling a bit perturbed by the interruption to his deep contemplation, politely replied, “No thanks, Tempest, I don’t need a tour. I live here.”

She stared at him, her focus intense. “I like your style,” she said, still blocking his way, grasping the lapels of his sports coat.

Jack said, “Listen, I’ve got five minutes to get to work.” His eyes focused on hers as he tried to sidestep around her.

The mule driver grabbed his upper arm firmly as he attempted to go around her. “I insist,” her voice resounding deep, her eyes now a fiery emerald green that seemed to pierce through Jack’s defenses.

Jack’s mind raced. Was this a kidnapping? Was he being mugged? The young woman, with a sly smile, said, “And don’t worry, you’ll be on time for work, boo.” Unexpectedly, everything around him slowed and stopped as if the entire French Quarter had frozen in time.

Tempest climbed into the mule cart. Jack started to get into the seat behind her. “No! Upfront with me,” she commanded, her voice cutting through the eerie silence. The frozen scene drew him mysteriously to her side, fascination pulling him closer. As he sat down, everything started slowly moving again, like an old record player gradually coming up to speed.

Four elderly tourists, probably in their mid-sixties, walked up; one shouted, “Hey, can we join you?”

Tempest shot them a stern look. “Sorry, I’m full,” She replied abruptly as the nearly empty mule cart rolled away.

Shocked expressions and indignation crossed their faces, leaving them in a cloud of confusion and disappointment.

“Well, well, Jackson Dupré, how are you?” Tempest asked.

“‘Do we know each other?’ Jack asked, puzzled by the knowing look in her emerald eyes. A sudden crash off in the distance distracted him. In a split second, he looked away and back; Tempest had vanished. In her place sat an old man gripping the reins. The transformation was sudden and jarring, more so than any time shift he had experienced before.

“Of course, you know me,” said the old man.

Jack’s memory was blank, his mind reeling from the rapid changes around him.

The mule driver laughed, “You’ve been dealing with my shit for a while.”

“What shit?”

“Jack, whenever something seems out of place to you, that’s me,” the driver continued, his words weaving a tapestry of mystery and intrigue.

The mule cart took a leisurely right turn off Decatur onto Saint Louis Street. “Who the hell are you?” Jack asked, now impatient with the old man’s vague statements. The stranger’s words unsettled Jack. How could this old man know about his time shifts, let alone claim responsibility?

“You see, Jack, most people are unaware of time,” the mysterious driver continued, his voice calm and reassuring. “They’re just riding the stream in their own lane, going from point A to point B. They’re unaware there are other streams right next to them. You, my friend, are something of an anomaly. An entity not in his timeline but someone who rides in other people’s timelines.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Jack said, now feeling like he was being conned.

The mule driver’s eyes twinkled with a mix of amusement and wisdom. “Jack, have you ever noticed the feeling of being somewhere familiar but knowing you’ve never been there? Or meeting someone and sensing an unexplainable connection? Those are traces of your time shifts. They leave imprints on your mind.”

Jack rubbed his forehead as his head throbbed, confused and trying to grasp what was being said, “So what, I’m crazy?”

“Far from it,” the mule driver replied. “But the question is, how are you coping with it? How does being yanked through time without warning make you feel?”

Jack hesitated, his eyes drifting to the passing scenery, taking in the familiar sights of the French Quarter as if seeing them for the first time. “It’s… disorienting,” he admitted. “Sometimes, it’s like I’m living in a dream. Other times, it’s pure frustration. I can’t control it, can’t predict when it’ll happen. It messes with my head.”

The mule driver nodded. “And how do you handle that frustration? Do you try to fight it or embrace it?”

Jack sighed. “I try to stay grounded. I keep notes, track changes, and look for patterns. But it feels like trying to catch smoke. The more I reach, the more it slips away.”

“Smart approach,” the mule driver acknowledged. “But what about the emotional toll? The sense of isolation? Knowing you’re experiencing something so few can even comprehend?”

Jack tensed. “It’s lonely,” he whispered. “I can’t talk to anyone about it. Not without sounding like a lunatic.”

The mule driver leaned back, letting the reins slacken. “You’re not alone, Jack,” he said, his voice filled with certainty. “That’s why I’m here. I’m Zenin Black. I’m here to help you navigate this, to mentor you. There’s a reason you’re experiencing these shifts. It’s not just random unrelated events.”

Zenin’s words struck a nerve, and a mix of relief and apprehension washed over Jack. Was he on the cusp of understanding? Or was he truly losing his mind? Jack teetered between the familiar world he knew and a new reality as complex and layered as the city of New Orleans itself.

Scene Break

“Then what’s the reason?” Jack asked, a mix of hope and skepticism in his voice.

“That,” Zenin said with a knowing smile, “is something you’ll discover over time. For now, know this: you’re not lost. You’re exactly where you need to be, even if it doesn’t feel like it.”

The mule cart slowed as they approached Chartres Street. Jack felt a strange sense of calm. Zenin’s words, though cryptic, carried a weight of truth he couldn’t ignore.

“How do I start?”

“By trusting your instincts and by trusting yourself. You have more control than you realize. Embrace the journey, Jack. It’s just beginning.”

As the mule cart made its way down Chartres approaching St. Louis Cathedral, Zenin said, “Close your eyes, Jack.”

“What?”

“Close your eyes or just blink. It doesn’t matter.”

As the cart turned up St. Peter, Jack blinked. His vision lost focus. He experienced that disorienting feeling of time changing around him, but this moment passed without the extreme disorientation he usually experienced. As his vision came into focus, Jack was looking at an unbelievable scene. There were no cars, no tourists, only horse-drawn carts, a few Ford Model T delivery trucks, and people busily going about their routines in early twentieth-century New Orleans.

“You see, Jack,” Zenin continued, “there are two ways people perceive time. Most folks experience it as a straight line, moving from past to future, with each moment unfolding one after the other. They drift along, unaware of the other streams running parallel to theirs. This is what we call linear time.”

Zenin gestured around them. “Then there’s another way, a more fluid understanding of time, where all moments exist simultaneously. It’s like being in the middle of a grand symphony, where every note and melody plays at once, and you can choose which part to listen to. This is more akin to how you interact with time and, increasingly, how you are beginning to experience it.”

Jack stared in awe at the bustling scene of the past before him, trying to absorb Zenin’s words.

Jack’s gaze fixed on a building as they traveled up St. Peter.

“Is that… Preservation Hall?”

Zenin nodded. “Or what will become Preservation Hall. Right now, it’s just a private residence.”

“It feels like we’ve gone back in time, but something’s… off.”

Suddenly, Jack’s eyes widened. “Wait, is that… Louis Armstrong? And he’s talking to… Mick Jagger and Elvis? How is that possible?”

Zenin chuckled, shaking his head. “Don’t ask.”

“You’re unique, Jack,” Zenin said, his tone serious yet kind. “You don’t just ride your timeline; you assemble a timeline by navigating through the unique moments of others. This is why your experiences feel like fragmented dreams, always slightly out of sync and out of order. You’re not constrained by linearity in the common sense; your linearity can traverse the entire spectrum of time.”

Scene Break

Just up ahead, two men in early nineteenth-century seafaring garb shouted at them as the mule cart passed Preservation Hall. Jack instinctively turned toward the sound.

Once again, one shouted, “Mon chéri, Tempest!”

Startled and confused, Jack gazed back at Zenin, only to see Tempest back at the reins. She now wore a fitted dress from the early 1800s, its deep teal fabric hugging her curves. Delicate lace trimmed the modest neckline, while a crisp white apron tied with a decorative bow completed her outfit.

Her dark hair, styled in cascading waves with playful curls escaping, was topped with a colorful kerchief accentuating her emerald eyes. Tipping her head with an inviting smile, her movements were deliberate and confident. Jack was enthralled by Tempest, now the embodiment of a coquettish barmaid. With a sly look, she maneuvered the cart toward the two strangers.

The two men approached, their swagger unmistakable.

“Jack, darlin’,” Tempest said in a distinct French accent, each word dripping with a flirtatious charm. “Allow me to introduce you to some old friends. This here’s Jean Lafitte and his brother Pierre.”

Jack struggled to comprehend this latest time shift. “Good day, gentlemen.”

Jean, the taller of the two, tipped his hat. “Enchanté, monsieur. Any friend of Tempest’s is a friend of ours, non?”

“Nice to meet you,” Jack’s voice wavering. “Beautiful day for a stroll through the Quarter, right?”

Pierre narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing Jack. “You speak like no American I’ve ever met. Where are you from, monsieur? And what brings you to New Orleans in these delicate times?”

Jack shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Tempest for support. “I’m, uh… from around here… Just been away for a while.”

“Away?” Pierre pressed, his voice sharp. “Where? England, perhaps?”

Jean laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Easy, Pierre. Let the man speak.”

Jack straightened, quickly recalling this period of New Orleans’s history. “I assure you, I’m no friend to the British. I’m as American as… as Mardi Gras.”

Pierre scoffed. “Mardi Gras? That’s French, you fool!”

Tempest intervened, her voice smooth as honey. “Now, boys, don’t be too hard on poor Jack. He’s been helpin’ me with some… shall we say, special deliveries for our American friends.”

Jean’s eyebrows shot up. “Is that so? What kind of deliveries, chérie?”

Tempest winked. “The kind that go boom, if you take my meaning.”

Pierre’s suspicion wavered. “You’re running guns for the Americans?”

Jack, catching on, nodded vigorously. “That’s right. Can’t say too much, you understand. Loose lips and all that.”

Jean grinned broadly. “Well, why didn’t you say so, mon ami? Anyone who’s protecting New Orleans from those British bastards is a friend of ours!”

Pierre, still not entirely convinced, grunted. “If you’re lying, stranger, you’ll regret it. But for now, I’ll trust Tempest’s word. And trust me, you don’t want to be on the wrong side of this fight. We’ve got plans… big plans.”

“Now, boys, don’t go scarin’ off my new friend here. Jack’s a good sort, even if he is a bit… lost at sea, so to speak.”

With a big smile, Tempest flicked the reins, and the mule cart lurched forward.

Jack sat motionless, his mind overwhelmed by the encounter. The mule cart clattered along the cobblestone streets, but he barely registered the movement. His eyes darted from building to building, taking in the unfamiliar yet strangely recognizable New Orleans of two centuries past.

When he finally turned back to Tempest, he found Zenin in her place, a knowing smile on his face. The transformation had happened so smoothly that Jack wondered if he’d imagined Tempest entirely.

“What… what just happened?” Jack whispered.

Zenin’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “You’ve just had a brush with history, my boy. Quite literally.”

Jack shook his head, trying to clear the fog of confusion. “But why? Why show me the Lafitte brothers? What’s the point of all this?”

“Ah, Jack,” Zenin chuckled, his voice rich with hidden meaning. “You’re asking the right questions, but perhaps not at the right time.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jack frustrated. “Can’t you ever give a straight answer?”

Zenin glanced at Jack, his expression serious. “Consider this, Jack. In the tapestry of time, every thread is connected. That little encounter you just had? It’s not just a history lesson. It’s a key.”

“A key to what?”

“To understanding, of course. To unlocking a mystery that hasn’t even presented itself to you yet.” Zenin paused, letting his words sink in. “Let’s just say your paths may cross again in ways you can’t possibly imagine right now.”

Jack sat quietly, trying to piece together the puzzle Zenin was presenting. “Are you saying… meeting the Lafittes is important for something in my future?”

“Future, past, present – it’s all the same ocean, Jack. You just need to learn how to navigate the currents.”

Scene Break

Jack both fearful and excited, asked, “But why me? Why is this happening?”

Zenin smiled, a knowing look in his eye. “That’s part of the mystery you need to unravel. You’re special, Jack, and there’s a purpose to your ability. Embrace it, and you’ll uncover secrets about yourself and the nature of time that most people can only dream of.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Jack lamented. “First, you tell me I’m living other people’s timelines. Then, you’re telling me time doesn’t exist, but you’re here to help. Now, you tell me it’s a mystery I need to figure out.”

“Not to worry, Jack,” Zenin laughed. “Everything—past, present, and future—has already happened. People maneuver timelines unaware of the path not taken. You have a timeline that blends segments of other people’s timelines to create yours. See, you do understand.”

Jack sighed, trying to piece together everything he’d seen and heard. “You said everything—past, present, and future—has already happened. I still can’t wrap my head around that.”

Zenin smiled, gesturing to the bustling streets of New Orleans. “Think of time as a sea of moments connected by an infinite web, Jack. Each thread represents a timeline, and every choice you make spins a new thread in the web, creating countless possibilities. Most people move through their lives on a single thread, unaware of the other paths they could have taken.”

Jack frowned, trying to grasp the concept. “So, you’re saying there are infinite versions of me living different lives?”

“Exactly, but irrelevant,” Zenin laughed. “Infinite good timelines, infinite bad timelines, and infinite neutral ones. Each decision you make has the potential to create a new thread. If you wish to stay sane, your challenge is navigating away from the bad timelines. That’s where your awareness comes into play because the only relevant timeline is the one you experience.”

Jack’s curiosity deepened. “How do I avoid these bad timelines?”

Zenin turned and stared at Jack. There are two key things: “First, you need to understand the impact of your decisions. Every choice creates ripples that affect your timeline and those you interact with. You can sense these ripples, to feel the shifts, and to adjust your path accordingly.”

“Ok, I need to be careful,” Jack said sarcastically.

“And second, some entities with similar timeline awareness will try to maneuver you into making bad choices for their benefit. Those are the most dangerous to all involved.”

The mule cart traveled north. As it turned on Rampart, Jack caught sight of Beauregard Square.

“Is that… Congo Square?” Jack asked, his voice filled with awe.

Zenin smiled. “Indeed it is. What you’re seeing existed long before its incorporation into your modern-day Louis Armstrong Park.”

Jack’s eyes widened as he watched a scene unfold before him. A group of Africans—men, women, children—had gathered in the center of the square.

“My God,” Jack whispered. “Their clothes… the colors… it’s like they’re dancing even when they’re standing still.”

The air filled with chants and music, growing louder and more defiant.

“What’s happening now?”

Zenin said, “Watch closely. This is a moment of profound significance.”

A man stepped into the circle, leading a call-and-response.

“It’s like… like a living story,” Jack whispered.

“These people, brought to New Orleans in chains, are experiencing a freedom that transcends their physical circumstances.”

The tempo quickened, and the crowd moved as one—stomping, spinning, reaching skyward.

Jack breathless. “I’ve never seen anything like this. I wish I could join them, but…”

“But you know you’re just an observer,” Zenin finished for him. “This moment isn’t for you to participate in, Jack. It’s for you to witness and understand.”

Jack watched, his eyes never leaving the beautiful, strange spectacle before him. “I understand. And I’ll never forget this.”

“See, Jack, you are part of something bigger.”

Jack sat quietly in the mule cart, contemplating what he had just experienced. The sights and sounds of eighteenth and nineteenth-century New Orleans still lingered in his mind, as did the historical figures and timeless architecture of a simpler time. He tried to grasp the magnitude of Zenin’s words, the notion of navigating multiple timelines and perceiving time as a symphony rather than a linear path.

“You see, Jack, there is a key to mastering time.”

“A key?”

“Yes. You need to grasp when you are an observer and when you are a participant. The two are very different.”

“But how will I know that?”

Zenin smiled, “To observe is to observe; to participate is to participate.”

“Damn it, Zenin!”

As they headed back to Jax Brewery, the streets around him began to blur and shift. A wave of warmth and comfort envelops Jack. The horse-drawn carts and period-dressed people slowly dissolve into modern cars, bustling tourists, and overabundant souvenir shops. The French Quarter that Jack experienced as the present-day reasserts itself, returning Jack to what he feels is his own time.

Zenin, sitting beside him, began to morph. The older gentleman with the knowing eyes and wise smile gradually transformed back into Tempest.

“You look deep in thought,” Tempest said, her voice softer but still carrying that timeless resonance.

Jack looked at her. “But what does it mean to navigate these timelines? How do I know where I am or what I’m supposed to do?”

Tempest, her gaze intense. “Jack, you are always where you’re supposed to be.”

Jack’s eyes widened as he absorbed this revelation. “So, it may feel like inconsistent dreams, but over time, I’ll be able to connect these segments and understand the larger picture?”

“Yes,” Tempest said with a laugh. “Your ability to connect the inconsistent time segments will grow until you understand the message. Think of it as a puzzle where each piece you collect reveals more of the image. The disjointed fragments will form a coherent whole with patience and practice.”

Tempest’s expression turned ominous, and her eyes darkened. “Stay vigilant, Jack. Trust your instincts, and remember the lessons you’ve learned. The web of time is vast, and not all who navigate it have benevolent intentions.”

As they approached Jax Brewery, the mule cart seamlessly transitioned back into the familiar present-day surroundings. Tempest flicked the reins, guiding the mule cart smoothly to a halt. Jack climbed down, feeling confused but renewed. As he turned to thank her, she tipped her hat. Her firey emerald eyes shimmered with a captivating intensity, reminding Jack of sunlight dancing on the surface of a bayou.

“Until next time, Jackson Dupré. Don’t be a stranger.”

Jack glanced at his watch, noting with surprise that he was ten minutes early for his gig. “How did you…?” He shook his head, a chuckle escaping his lips. “I don’t know where to begin with you, Zenin.”

“Tempest.” The young woman laughed, a melodic sound that seemed to echo through time. “Just consider it a perk of riding the timelines. Always on time, never late.”

Jack smirked, feeling a strange sense of camaraderie with this enigmatic entity.

“I guess I should be grateful. Most tours don’t come with a crash course in temporal mechanics.”

She winked at him. “Stick with me, Jack, and you’ll see that time is much more flexible than you think. Just remember, embrace the journey, and the answers will come.”

With that, she flicked the reins, and the mule cart disappeared, blending seamlessly into the hustle and bustle of the French Quarter. Jack took a deep breath, contemplating his newfound knowledge. He wondered what lay ahead and if he could uncover the mysteries that awaited him.

He turned and walked through the crowd around the corner to use the side entrance. As he made his way, he stepped and felt his right foot lose grip and slide a bit, making him catch his stumble. Looking down, he noticed what could politely be called the remains of someone’s stomach contents.

“Some timelines really suck,” he chuckled.

Chrono Nexus – Rivière du Temps

Chapter 3: The River’s Farewell

Chrono Nexus – Rivière du Temps

Chapter 3: Temporal Threads

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