The Map of Chaos

by Félix J Palma

  “Er . . . I am afraid our friend here is no apparition, Inspector,” said Ramsey.

  The young man glanced curiously at the doctor and the old lady and then, raising his head toward the Executioner, tried to make out his face, which was in the shadow of the brim of his hat.

  “And what is he?” he asked suspiciously.

  “He is . . . a foreigner,” replied Ramsey.

  “I see,” said the inspector, visibly suspicious. Then he turned toward Ramsey, whose appearance was much less troubling. “And what brings you here? What strange miracle have you witnessed? I assure you we have received all kinds of reports.” And as if to prove it, he waved the bundle of papers he was holding in the air. “The world and his wife are bumping into characters from novels, fairy tales, and children’s stories.” He glanced at his notes. “One man says he saw Captain Nemo’s Nautilus on the Thames, and a woman claims there is a lion in her yard with the head of a man and the tail of a scorpion. As far as I know, that’s a manticore! There are several creatures we are unable to identify. Have you heard anyone mention a giant gorilla? We’ve been told there is one climbing up Big Ben . . .”

  Just then, a phantom copy of the inspector walked toward them, also waving a bundle of papers, and passed straight through his double without flinching. In despair, the inspector raised his eyes to heaven.

  “Not again . . . It’s impossible to work in these conditions!”

  “If you please, young man,” the old lady’s sweet voice chimed in before he had time to resume his complaints, “we came here to see Special Inspector Cornelius Clayton. Could you kindly tell us where he is?”

  The young inspector looked at her, astonished.

  “I only wish I knew, dear lady!” he exclaimed. “Inspector Clayton has devoted half his life to chasing magical creatures, and the day they decide to throw a party, it seems the earth has swallowed him up!”

  “Inspector Garrett!” someone yelled from the other side of the huge room.

  “I’m coming!” he yelled back. Then, turning toward the old lady, he added, “I’m sorry, but I have no idea where Clayton is, or Captain Sinclair for that matter. In fact, everyone from the Special Branch seems to have vanished! Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” And he made his way toward the officer who had called him.

  “I fear it isn’t going to be easy finding him,” the old lady said despondently.

  “Hmm . . . There might be a way,” Ramsey reflected. “Let’s find somewhere a bit quieter.”

  He opened a nearby door, which happened to lead to an empty office, and they took refuge in there. After blocking the door with a chair so that no one—from that world anyway—could disturb them, Ramsey turned to the Executioner.

  “Special Inspector Cornelius Clayton is a mental jumper,” he told him.

  If this was a revelation to the Executioner or a simple affirmation, no one could have guessed.

  “What is a mental jumper, Doctor?” the old lady asked.

  “An individual who is infected by the virus, but for some as-yet- unknown reason cannot jump physically, only mentally,” explained Ramsey. “Until now, we haven’t detected any other jumper of this type, even among Clayton’s twins. The majority of them, including those bitten by the creature he had the misfortune to fall in love with, suffer from simple narcolepsy, which is completely unrelated to the incident in which they lost their hand. The symptoms appear sooner in some than in others, and some even die without ever developing them . . . However, the appearance of the disease in the Clayton existing in our world coincided with the attack by the natural jumper. And for some reason, which we still don’t understand—perhaps because his emotions were the strongest emotions possible, or due to some other peculiarity of his—his mind uses his disease to visit his beloved. In other words, he has become a mental jumper. Whenever he travels, his body is left behind like an abandoned shell, but his mind is able to reach her. And it so happens that his trail is the most luminous of all. Our Executioners have never hunted him down because he doesn’t cause any damage to the universal fabric and is therefore harmless. But they know his trail well. It resembles a shiny, golden flash of lightning . . .” His face took on a dreamy expression. “It is the molecules of the imagination, the ability to dream . . . those qualities that make this multiverse so special and that may be its only hope of salvation. After all, it was thanks to the blood of this mental jumper that we succeeded in synthesizing an effective vaccine! And his gift might help us to locate him now and so find your husband’s book. Do you think that would be possible, 2087V?”

  “I feel hope,” murmured the Executioner without moving his lips. “His trail is very clear and powerful. It’s possible that, despite the chaos, I might be able to follow Clayton to the world he visits and then retrace his trail to where he has left his body.”

  “Good, then all we need is for Clayton to suffer one of his fainting fits, although there is no guarantee that will happen before the universe—”

  “Excuse me, Doctor Ramsey,” the old lady broke in, her face lit up with excitement. “Did I hear you say they had found an effective vaccine?”

  “Yes. Except that we won’t need it now: thanks to your husband’s map, we could arrive a minute before the first infection and simply prevent it—”

  “And use the vaccine on Newton!” the old lady interjected. “Then he wouldn’t need to be killed . . . would he?”

  Ramsey smiled benevolently.

  “We can try . . . ,” he replied cautiously. “The serum is certainly very effective. But you must understand, Mrs. Lansbury, that if there is the slightest sign that the virus has remained in the animal’s body . . . well, we wouldn’t be able to risk a repetition of all this.”

  “Oh, of course not, I quite understand . . . but it would make a wonderful ending for my book,” said the old lady, and then, turning to the Executioner, she added, “And you could leave me, and my beloved Newton, in some tranquil world where I could finish it in my own time.”

  After a moment, the Executioner nodded imperceptibly.

  “Well, what are we waiting for?” said the old lady. “We must find the lovesick inspector.”

  Ramsey nodded and asked the Executioner to proceed. Placing himself at the center of the cramped office, 2087V waited for Ramsey to pull down the blinds and then raised his cane aloft with the solemnity of a king showing his scepter to his subjects. A moment later, a faint bluish spark flickered up and down the cane, growing in intensity, and the sapphire glow finally began to illumine the encircling darkness, spreading round the room inch by inch, like a piece of paper unfolding, until it enveloped them all. Then, when it had filled almost the entire office, red lines began to emerge on its surface, like a network of veins, mapping out the geography of the multiverse. Before the Day of Chaos, those crimson lines, which represented each of the infinite worlds, had been arranged in parallel, like the strings of a harp, but now they were rippling and bending toward those next to them, touching in places or becoming entangled or even fusing together, producing continuous explosions and purple-tinged rents in the seemingly smooth blue surface that was the fabric of the universe. That chaotic tangle was a faithful replica of what was going on outside, a blueprint of devastation. But among the mass of lines were also hundreds of greenish trails hopping between them, pulling them together like the strings of a corset. Those were the cronotemics, jumping desperately between worlds, as if they thought they could flee that ferocious, unexpected Chaos. But Chaos was inevitable. There was no escape from it. And all the cronotemics achieved with their demented leaps was to make more holes in the beleaguered tapestry of life.

  “This is the true map of Chaos,” whispered the old lady.

  Ramsey nodded. “If Clayton were to fall asleep right now, somewhere on it a golden trail would appear,” he told her, pointing at the glorious haze of light and color, which nevertheless represented the greatest cataclysm the universe had ever known.

  “Then we can only wait,” sai
d Mrs. Lansbury, “and hope that he falls asleep soon . . .”

  37

  PLEASE, GOD, DON’T LET ME fall asleep now, Clayton was thinking at that precise moment. The Villain had snatched Clayton’s pistol and the book from Wells, and both were floating in the air a few yards in front of the inspector.

  “Well, dear friends!” came the Villain’s honeyed voice from behind the weapon, which was pointing first at the couple, then at Clayton. “I’m afraid this pleasant reunion has come to an end. Much as I enjoy your company, there are countless worlds out there that I have yet to explore, and so, regretfully, I must take my leave. George, I promised you I would kill you painlessly, and I am a man of my word. Of all the methods I have used so far, a bullet in the head is the most civilized one, I think. But, of course,” he whispered as the black muzzle of the pistol spun round toward Jane, “ladies first.”

  Wells placed himself in front of his wife, his face deathly pale, but then Clayton guffawed loudly. The pistol paused for a few seconds before whirling round toward the inspector, who was convulsed with laughter.

  “What is it you find so amusing, Inspector?” the creature snapped.

  Clayton took a few deep breaths, trying to compose himself.

  “Oh, forgive me . . . I just couldn’t help remembering the day I shot you in the leg at Mrs. Lansbury’s house . . . That trail of blood appearing out of nowhere, and then vanishing, as if by magic . . . one last drop and then puff! gone.”

  “Believe me, I haven’t forgotten it either, Inspector,” the Invisible Man snarled. “That bullet forced me to jump and leave the book behind . . . after all the trouble I went to, finding the old woman among all the possible worlds!” The pistol drifted toward Clayton, like some menacing insect. “So it was you . . . ,” hissed the voice, oozing hatred. “I didn’t get a good look at you because it was dark on the stairs. I assumed one of the old woman’s stupid servants had shot me . . .”

  “What a shame”—Clayton shrugged—“because if you had known there was a police officer in the house that day, it might have occurred to you that I was the custodian of the book, and you wouldn’t have wasted all that time chasing Wells . . . That was your big mistake!”

  “A trivial one, as it turns out, now that I have it!” roared the creature, waving the book in the air. “Although you are right: if I hadn’t believed it was in George’s possession, we would all have been spared a lot of unpleasantness. But it never occurred to me that the old woman could have entrusted it to anyone else. When I went back to her house to finish what I had started, I realized she had jumped, thanks to some of the remarks made by the policemen searching her house. Once more I was forced to chase her to another world, although I found her more easily that time. My powers were being enhanced, and now I could smell the fresh trail of a jumper. And so, after wandering through a few similar worlds, I managed to track her down. She was living in a humble dwelling, which I entered one night with the aim of stealing the book. The old woman was sleeping, though not very soundly. The tears seeped from her closed eyelids and rolled down her cheeks as she murmured, ‘Forgive me, Bertie, dear . . . I had to do it, I had to give him the book and jump, forgive me . . .’ ” The Villain imitated the old lady’s quavering speech in a reedy voice before resuming his angry tone. “Damnation! I should have woken her up and tortured her until she told me who she was talking about . . . but I just assumed it was the Wells from this world. After all, the note she gave her stupid maid was addressed to him. That was how I first got wind of her plan, and when I overheard those policemen, I assumed she must have somehow got the book to him before she jumped. The book had remained in this world, and Wells had it! I tried for several years to find my way back to this universe, but, believe me, returning to the same world isn’t as easy as it sounds,” he boasted. “Only someone with my immense talent could pull it off . . . I had done it a few days after you shot me by following my own trail! But after I heard the old woman talking in her sleep, my last trail had gone cold, or at least I couldn’t find it, and my search for this world turned into something of an odyssey. But I found it. Not just once, but twice! The first time I appeared at Brook Manor, where I was forced to jump again, this time with a bolt in my shoulder and an eye missing . . .” The pistol seemed to glance sideways at Jane, who shivered in her husband’s arms. “By that time, all of me was invisible—even my clothes, which were shedding molecules at the same rate as my body, and that only increased my power . . . Though I have to admit, George and his friends won that battle. But my peculiar molecular structure not only gives me invisibility, it also causes my wounds, however serious, to heal more quickly than normal. And so, as soon as I had recovered, and before the tracks from my last jump vanished, I came back here. I appeared early this morning at my dear friend George’s house, still believing he had THE MAP OF CHAOS. But George was kind enough to tell me who its true guardian was and even offered to bring me here . . . for which I intend to thank him by giving him a swift and painless death. However, I see no reason why your death should be so merciful, Inspector Clayton. Perhaps I shall blow your kneecaps off and let you bleed to death, as payment for that bullet that brought me so many problems . . . What do you think?”

  Clayton looked at him in surprise and then burst into even louder guffaws than before.

  “Stop that cackling!” yelled the Villain.

  “Oh, forgive me, forgive me . . . I just can’t help laughing when I think of the way you describe as an immense, unique gift a simple disease caused by a tiny virus accidentally brought into this universe . . .” The inspector dried his eyes. “I confess I admire your unwavering belief in yourself. I think we should all take a lesson from your irrepressible optimism, Mr. Rhys . . .”

  “I see you know my name and everything about the cronotemia virus . . . ,” the voice hissed. “The old woman had time to tell you a lot before she jumped.”

  “Oh, no. Alas, Mrs. Lansbury scarcely had time to tell me anything. Actually, it was you who told me everything I know . . .”

  Beaming, Clayton turned around, picked up the kettle sitting on the table, and flicked a small switch on its side. Instantly, the Villain’s voice boomed out, crossing time and space:

  “Very well, George. But I warn you, if you are trying to buy time, it won’t do you any good. I have all the time in all the worlds at my disposal! So, you want to know who I am! Are you sure you want to know? I am the most powerful being in all creation! I am the epilogue of mankind! When the universe comes to an end, only I will remain . . . presiding over all your accursed graves. My name is Marcus Rhys, and I am the God of Chaos!”

  Clayton flicked the switch back and the kettle went quiet. He patted it lightly, as one would a dog that has just performed a trick, before turning to the Villain, smiling.

  “We are very proud of these little gadgets at Scotland Yard’s Special Branch. They can record any conversation and transmit it to a similar terminal on the other side of the city, and they work as remote alarms . . .” Clayton clucked his tongue in admiration. “Thanks to the fact that, courtesy of the Division, Mr. Wells also has one of these kettles, he was able to warn me this morning when he sensed danger. And not just me. As soon as Wells placed his special kettle on the fire, another kettle started whistling in my boss’s house . . . Isn’t that so, Captain Sinclair?” he addressed the air, hands clasped behind his back.

  At this, several police officers popped up from behind the piles of wonders kept in the Chamber, silently aiming their weapons at the empty space where the book and the pistol were floating. Finally, the plump Captain Sinclair stepped out from behind one of the strange columns, his false eye glowing red in the dark, like an infernal lighthouse beacon. He placed one hand on a lever to the side of the column and raised the other slowly, also aiming his pistol at the invisible man.

  “Quite right, lad,” he said to Clayton. “Only, next time, remind me to adjust the volume on that damned thing. My wife is threatening to leave me next time that unbeara
ble whistling wakes her up . . .”

  “Oh, I am sure Marcia would never do such a thing.”

  “Be quiet! Be quiet, both of you!” the voice roared, the book and the pistol gyrating in the air, as if the Villain was spinning round, observing the ring of police officers now surrounding him. “What is this farce? Do you really think you have caught me in your silly trap?” He let out a menacing guffaw and the pistol and the book instantly dropped to the floor. “I am the Invisible Man! You can’t see me, and you can’t stop me from escaping. I can leap into another world! And when I come back for what is mine, you will never know when I am behind you. You will never see me coming!”

  Clayton contemplated him with the weary expression of someone realizing that the most boring guest is still at the party.

  “Invisible, really?” he retorted scornfully. “Take a good look at yourself. Do you still think we can’t see you?”

  At that moment, the captain pressed down the lever on which his hand had been resting, and the strange columns dotted about the Chamber lit up with a subdued hum, emitting a ghostly bluish light. Before everyone’s eyes, clearly traced in the air was the gelatinous outline of a hand, slowly extending to an arm, a rounded shoulder, and part of a chest and neck, as if someone were blowing up a blue bubble in the shape of a human.

  “What the devil is happening to me?” the Villain stammered, his watery hand opening and closing in front of his still-invisible face.

  “I don’t wish to bore you with complex chemical explanations,” replied Clayton amiably, “so I shall try to sum up the most important facts: that book isn’t The Map of Chaos, it is an amusing novella I wrote when I was younger. I had it bound to look like the original, and then our scientists impregnated the cover with a substance you have been absorbing through your skin for the last few minutes, which reacts to a certain kind of light . . . It is now in your bloodstream and, as you can see, is already coloring your cells . . . irreversibly. Soon your body will be visible even in daylight. Congratulations, Mr. Rhys, you have ceased to be a monster! At least in appearance . . .”