Damien Kelly

Monday crossed the water like a prince, sailing in on a raft of golden light.

There were more easterly points than the beach, spots where the light should—strictly speaking—hit first. But they were manmade places: harbour walls, iron railings, grey dockyards. Monday never truly felt like they’d landed until they touched the ground that time alone had made. Worn ground. Beaten ground.

When Monday arrived, they settled on the sand.

No birds heralded them; the gulls headed out to sea the minute they saw the sunrise. A dawn chorus was waiting inland, however, and Monday strolled up the strand towards it.

They only got a few steps, though, before coming to a line drawn in the sand, with a soldier defending it.

“No further, my lord,” the soldier said. “We don’t want you here.”

He was a lone infantryman. His helmet—domed and wide—was an heirloom from an earlier age. He had no rifle, no pistol; instead, he carried a sword. A cavalry sabre, some three feet long and heavy, with brass guard and bars, every inch polished and spotless.

A murmur followed the infantryman’s words, in the darkness, and Monday became aware of more soldiers further up the beach, some on horseback. One of them must have given the infantryman his sword. These others watched, unmoving, as the soldier facing Monday hefted his blade and squared against the coming day.

“Go back,” he told Monday, “or you’ll be cut to shreds.”

“No.”

“I will use force,” the solider pressed. “I can’t allow time to pass.”

“I’m not Time,” Monday replied. “I’m Time’s representative. Who are you?”

“I am the chosen champion, my lord.” A nod indicated the troops behind. “That’s all you need to know about me. That, and I will not allow you to dawn. There will be no day this night.”

“Oh, please.”

Monday found the poetics amusing, but well short of diverting and, having no more time to spare, moved forward again.

The light of day crossed the line in the sand and washed up the unknown soldier’s legs. It then continued up the beach towards the other soldiers.

But didn’t reach them.

The edge of the light snared on a hook. Then two. Then ten, and tens of tens.

Caltrops littered the beach and, though they were pulled along and tipped over as the light tried to flow past them, they slowed Monday’s dawn to a creep. What light had gotten over them ran into larger obstacles, great fences of spikes—chevaux de fries—which caught the light mid-air and skewered it.

Monday was stuck. A stick of lightning hit the waves behind them.

“I am already here,” they barked at the unknown soldier. Then pointed, beyond the barriers and waiting army, to the trees and hills in the distance.

“I’m already there. The sunlight marks the day; it doesn’t make it. I passed here hours ago. Instantly. Motionless, I moved everywhere. This,” gesturing to their snagged and torn edges, “is foolishness.”

Monday tried to shake off the caltrops, hauling at the light  until hooks and spikes jangled all along the beach. At this, the unknown soldier finally made his move, flicking the sabre into the light and twisting it. Its polished surface split the rays of the sun apart, flashing them back onto the water, some into the air, still others into the face of the day themselves. Not a single ray touched the ground behind him, though. He sliced the frayed skirts of morning into ribbons of light which faded and bounced away; making shadows and dying in them.

Monday roared and plunged their tattered edges into the water, bathing their wounds.

“I am the latest in a line almost as long as Time itself, with at least as many coming behind me as went before,” they spat at the unknown soldier. “Have you champions enough for us all?”

“You’re the only enemy, my lord.” The soldier dipped his sword.

“This is just about you. Coming today. Sunday would’ve been proper. But Tuesday would’ve done perfectly well. But you, Monday, are…unacceptable, and you can wait another week.”

Monday’s rage gave way to confusion.

“What? Why? What does a week matter?”

“Oh, it doesn’t, usually. The weeks, the months. Even the days, mostly. None of them matter.” He took a shaky breath. “It’s the years, my lord. The years matter. And if you dawn today, you’ll be the day that makes the year.”

He rattled his sword. In the darkness, other swords rattled in answer.

“But not on my watch.”

Again, the sabre swung out, catching the light and turning it back. This time, though, Monday caught what was thrown at them.

They fashioned a disc, their badge of office. A reflection of the sun, in accordance with their nature.

“What is your objection to me, exactly?”

The soldier levelled his sword to the disc. By its light, his eyes streamed.

“You are the moon, my lord. Your light is Sunday’s borrowed mantle, a mirror robbed of all its warmth. Falling on a beachhead at night. Sudden and revealing. Fair of face, but cold. Uncaring of what you expose. Of who. Then you dawn: you bring the day. And you are a hard day.”

In the dark, the other soldiers began to whisper. Prayers, apologies, and regrets. The names of people they loved.

“Such a day could not—cannot—be host to this particular remembrance. Our honour will not allow it. Our…hearts could not bear it.”

Monday regarded the tearful soldier, and knew themselves unmoved by his admission. Which told them that what he said was true.

“Fine,” they said. “Stay there in your Sunday. But it’s a lie.”

“Not to us,” the soldier replied.

Monday sat in the water. It stayed Sunday on the beach.

*

Tuesday crossed the water, expansively cloaked in rain, until they drew level with Monday. An empty beach awaited them.

“What happened?” Tuesday asked their sibling.

Monday gathered their rags, readying to leave.

“I don’t remember.”