“G-Good God, B-Bertie, it happened exactly like . . . ,” Jane stammered, too bewildered and horrified to finish her sentence.
“Yes, exactly as at the end of The Invisible Man. Rhys died in the same way at the hands of the same people as the deranged Griffin.”
“But how can that be?”
“Because I imagined it,” replied Wells.
Jane looked at him, puzzled.
“Haven’t you seen everything that is going on around us? The Island of Doctor Moreau, The War of the Worlds . . . Those are my novels, Jane, but apparently they are also worlds that exist somewhere. And now they are colliding with ours, and I see that somehow my creations, if indeed they ever belonged to me, felt . . . drawn toward me.”
“And you thought that if you concentrated hard enough you could conjure the death scene from The Invisible Man,” Jane concluded admiringly.
Wells nodded and they both looked at Marcus Rhys’s body, the man from the future who had killed them so many times. Crookes’s substance had by now sketched his whole frame, which was gradually becoming more clouded and opaque. He resembled a normal man with an athletic build and harsh, rather crude features, half-obscured by a thick, unkempt beard. His clothes were spattered with blood and torn in several places. His bruised, battered face wore an expression of anger and dismay.
“The Map of Chaos is no longer in danger,” said Wells.
But the world was still coming to an end. They hurried back to the Chamber of Marvels, where they had been obliged to leave Inspector Clayton, Captain Sinclair, and his men at the mercy of the engulfing hole. As they passed the entrance, they avoided looking toward the main door. The cries and explosions from the street were enough to tell them that madness and mayhem were raging outside. Once they had reached the basement, they were guided to the Chamber by the roar of the black hole. They paused in the doorway, contemplating the human chain formed by Sinclair and Clayton, with the addition of Doyle and Murray, who must have arrived at some point. The relentless power of the hole was gradually squeezing reality, sucking up increasingly heavy objects, and tugging furiously at their friends. The only police officer who had so far escaped could hold on no longer: his fingers slipped from the crate they were clasping, and he went spinning toward the interior of the insatiable hole. At that moment, the column the captain was holding on to creaked threateningly.
“The column is giving way!” Sinclair cried.
“They are going to die, Bertie!” exclaimed Jane, clinging to the doorframe, her skirts and petticoats flapping in the air.
Wells nodded dejectedly and gazed wistfully at the book he was holding.
“Damn it! The key to stopping all this is supposed to be in here, but none of us knows how to use it,” he said despairingly.
“I wouldn’t be so sure, Bertie.”
At first he thought it was Jane’s voice. But his wife was standing next to him, looking at him imploringly and in silence. And the voice had come from outside the Chamber. Wells and Jane turned round. Halfway down the corridor they discovered a strange trio. A small, frail old lady was gazing at them in a kindly fashion. Beside her stood a lanky gentleman with a horsey face and the stuffy air of an academic. And finally, behind them stood a striking figure, over six feet tall, wearing a flowing black cape and a broad-brimmed hat that obscured his face. Stifling a shudder, Wells looked again at the old lady, who quickly smiled to put him at ease. And in a flash, he recognized those defiant, intelligent eyes.
“Jane . . .”
She nodded and gazed with sorrow at the book Wells was clutching.
“At last it is with you,” she said softly.
Wells nodded, standing erect in a dismal attempt to appear worthy. After all, he was the last Wells in that long chain of doubles, the Wells who had been entrusted to guard it with his life, to prevent the Villain of the story from destroying it.
“If you will allow me, Mr. Wells,” the well-dressed gentleman said, extending his hand to take the book. “We have to save the world and I don’t think there is much time.”
Wells gave it to him with a sense of relief rather than solemnity. The man began flicking through it with nimble fingers, nodding from time to time, which was more than anyone else had done and which led Wells to deduce that he might be a Scientist from the same universe as the old lady. Then he contemplated Jane’s aged twin, who was gazing at him with a wistful smile, and he felt a sudden surge of admiration. It was clear that despite everything she had been through since the Villain killed her husband, she had never given in, and now, at last, she had succeeded in handing the book over to those who came from the Other Side.
“I am proud of you, Jane,” said Wells, smiling back at her. “And I think I can speak for all the Wellses in the universe.”
The old lady’s smile grew a little broader. Then she stepped toward him and studied his face tenderly for a moment. Wells understood that she was simply contemplating the face of the man she loved, whom she had seen shot in the heart an eternity ago. Then she brought her face closer to his. Wells closed his eyes, expecting her to kiss him, preparing to become the depositary of that posthumous gesture, which, through the invisible threads that linked him to all the other Wellses, would reach the lips for which they were intended. But there was no kiss. Instead he felt the old lady press her forehead against his. She remained like that for a moment, as though listening to the sound of his thoughts, and then pulled away. Afterward, she clasped her twin’s hands and performed the same solemn gesture with her. For a few seconds, the two women remained in that position, one leaning against the woman she would become, the other against the woman she had once been.
Just then, the man poring over the book broke the spell with a triumphant cry. He showed the page to the Executioner, who nodded almost imperceptibly. His fingers touched the handle of his cane, which lit up instantly.
“We must leave,” he said without moving his lips. “I have a multiverse to save, and you a book with a happy ending to finish.”
The old lady nodded, bade the couple farewell with a smile, and placed herself next to the Executioner, who enfolded her in his cape like a conjuror. The air quivered slightly, and Wells and Jane found themselves alone with the Scientist. Then a loud crack made them turn toward the inside of the Chamber, in time to see the column Captain Sinclair was holding on to break in half and their friends fly toward the hole.
“My God!” the couple cried as one.
But just as Inspector Clayton, who was at the front of the chain, was about to pass through the hole, it suddenly vanished as if it had never been there, and with it the whirlwind that was pulling them along. Now that nothing was holding them aloft, the four men dropped to the floor amid a shower of objects. From the doorway to the Chamber, Wells and Jane breathed a sigh of relief. Their friends stood up, groaning in pain and looked around them, bewildered, including Inspector Clayton, whom the crash to the floor appeared to have brought round.
“What happened?” he asked no one in particular.
Jane turned to her husband with a knowing smile and whispered, “You saved the world with your imagination, Bertie.”
40
EVERY MORNING, THE GUARD AT the Natural History Museum, a young lad of eighteen called Eric, would climb the steps and unlock the magnificent door while he dreamed he was Goldry Bluszco, one of the chief lords of Demonland, at war with Gorice XII, the king of Witchland. The crafty sorcerer never went anywhere without his escort of evil magicians, each of them the personification of wickedness, and Eric could almost hear the clashing swords, see the crimson blood oozing from the charred earth during their ferocious battles. That had been his favorite fantasy for the past ten years, ever since he began sketching its scenes and characters in a notebook. And now he had turned to it again to enliven the lowly post of museum attendant that he had obtained, a job far removed from his old aspirations. He would amble through the deserted galleries, switching on the lights and making sure everything was in order befor
e opening time, amusing himself by imagining the exploits Goldry carried out in that world so distant from his own, a world that existed only in his imagination, where sword fights, magic spells, and Machiavellian intrigues were the order of the day. Accompanying him on his stroll was the metallic clink of the cluster of keys on his belt, which opened all the doors but one. There was no doubt that this was the only time of the day when he felt at peace with himself, for, as far back as he could remember, he had always believed that something in his life was not quite right. He often suspected that his soul wasn’t truly his own, that it belonged to a nobleman or an artistic genius—someone destined for greatness, in any case—and that due to some cosmic error it had been placed in this body that lived in a prosaic world where it was relegated to an insignificant role.
However, on the morning of September 23, the young man was too sleepy to escape into his fantasy world. He yawned several times as he climbed the museum steps, unable to understand what the matter was with him: he had gotten out of bed feeling as if he hadn’t slept a wink, but also with the impression that the confused remains of a strange nightmare were trying unsuccessfully to percolate up to the surface of his mind, unable to reach the edges of his consciousness . . . A nightmare in which all he had done was to run, terrified. He shook his head to try to rouse himself while rummaging in his pocket for the keys. He had to stop inventing those stories all the time or he would end up going mad, he thought. And in the end, what good did they do him? He wasn’t a writer, as he had dreamt of being when a child; he wasn’t even a senior civil servant at the Board of Trade or some similar respectable position. He was a lowly museum attendant and would probably always be one. He should be grateful for that, as his mother would tell him whenever he dared mention his fantasies to her. Imagination is all very well if you have money, Eric, she would say, but it won’t put food on the table . . .
Just as he was about to insert the key in the lock, the museum door swung open, almost knocking him over, and a man with a long, horsey face came striding out.
“Ah . . . look. The universe is saved!” he exclaimed, throwing his arms out wide. Then, winking at the strange couple behind him, he added, “And all thanks to the imagination!”
The couple, who to Eric’s surprise were in their nightclothes, formed part of a tiny, eccentric procession that now emerged from the museum all wearing the same expression of amazement. The young man surveyed the group with interest. Besides the couple, who were gazing up at the sky in wonder, and the man with the horsey face, who was glancing about in raptures, there were two well-built men. One had a wispy blond beard and the other, who sported a bushy mustache, was the spitting image of the famous author Arthur Conan Doyle. Both of them also appeared to be celebrating the fact that the sky that morning was a radiant blue and kept clapping each other vigorously on the back and giggling like a pair of naughty schoolboys. Finally, a lanky fellow with a somber face emerged from the gloomy interior, dressed in black from head to toe, followed by a plump older man with a strange glass lens over one eye. The eye glared at Eric, who, plucking up his courage, decided it was time for him to intervene:
“Er . . .” He gave a timid cough. “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, but . . . may I ask what you were doing in the museum at this time of the morning? No one is allowed in here before opening time. I’m afraid I shall have to inform the police . . .”
The plump man and the lanky youth with the somber face, who was busy screwing a metal hand into one of his sleeves, exchanged faint smiles. The lens of the plump man gave a muffled buzz as it focused on him. Eric recoiled instinctively.
“What is your name and your position in this museum, lad?”
“Eric R-Rücker Eddison,” he stammered. “I—I’ve only b-been working here a few days . . .”
“Ah, that explains why we have never met before. Still, I am sure you have already heard about the Guardians of the Chamber, isn’t that so?”
The two men loosened their shirt collars slightly, and Eric could see the two little keys with angel’s wings round their necks.
“Oh . . . are those keys to the . . . ?” he whispered. The two detectives nodded. “Well, I never . . . I was wondering what was in there . . .”
“Nothing much. Imagining it is more interesting than seeing it,” the younger of the two replied with a wink that seemed to Eric more arrogant than friendly.
“Er, excuse me a moment, lad,” the horsey-faced man piped up. “You didn’t happen to have noticed anything out of the ordinary in the last couple of hours, did you?”
“Out of the ordinary? What exactly do you mean, sir?”
“Anything, for example . . .” The man looked hesitantly at his companions. “Well, I don’t know . . . anything odd, different. An impression of multiple edges when looking at a building, or passersby with a translucent quality about them . . . Anything resembling a . . . mirage, or that gave you a feeling of . . . unreality.”
Eric shook his head, puzzled.
“For the love of God! What sort of questions are these?” the burly man with the wispy beard exclaimed impatiently. “Now, listen, lad . . . have you seen a hole in the air that sucked in everything around it? Did an army of elves pass right through you? Has an automaton from the future fired at you?”
“No, sir. As you can see, everything is as it should be,” replied Eric somewhat nervously, gesturing toward Cromwell Road with a sweep of his arm.
The big man snorted exasperatedly while the others contemplated the scene of a sunny autumn morning spreading across the street: a few early risers were strolling on the pavements while carriages rolled sleepily along the road and a couple of white clouds drifted over from the north . . .
“It is as if nothing had ever happened . . . ,” murmured the man who looked like Arthur Conan Doyle. “And yet, only moments ago, I saw my own creation, Sherlock Holmes, fighting with Moriarty at the edge of the—”
Eric’s eyes popped out of his head.
“Good Lord, then you are . . . Arthur Conan Doyle!”
“Yes, my boy, at least I think I am . . . ,” Doyle replied, still staring intently at the nearby buildings.
“I can’t believe it!” exclaimed the young lad excitedly. “I’m a great admirer of your work, Mr. Doyle! You see, I . . . this is just a temporary job. Actually, I’m a writer, too . . . Well, not a real one, of course,” he added in a modest voice. “I’m only an amateur . . . I’m writing my first novel, although, now that I am only able to write in my spare time, I doubt I’ll ever finish it—”
“Young man,” Doyle interrupted in an authoritative voice, “it is up to you whether you invent excuses or stories. I created Sherlock Holmes at my medical practice, where I had no patients. A real writer!” he snorted. “I wish I knew what the devil that is. Why don’t you think of yourself as a make-believe attendant?”
Eric’s face broke into a smile.
“Yes . . .” He nodded thoughtfully. “In fact, that is precisely how I feel, as if everything that takes place in my life should be happening differently, as if this weren’t my real life . . .” Then he stood squarely in front of Doyle. “Sir, may I send you the manuscript I am working on so that you can give me your opinion?”
Responding to Doyle’s alarmed look, Murray came to the rescue.
“If you want a famous author’s opinion about your work, lad, I suggest you send it to H. G. Wells here.” He pointed a thumb at the diminutive gentleman in his nightclothes, to whom Eric had been too polite to pay much attention. “I’ve never known anyone more sincere in his opinions or more discreet when it comes to giving them.”
“Oh . . . Mr. Wells,” the guard exclaimed. “I . . . I beg your pardon, I didn’t recognize you in your . . . ahem . . . Naturally, I am also a fervent admirer of yours . . . I have read all your novels several times, in particular The Island of Doctor Moreau, which is my favorite—” He broke off suddenly and screwed up his eyes exaggeratedly. “That’s odd: I think I had a dream about it last night,
though I don’t remember what exactly . . .”
“Perhaps the beast folk were chasing you through the museum?” Wells suggested nonchalantly.
The attendant looked at him openmouthed.
“Yes, that’s exactly right. H-How did you know?”
Wells played it down with a wave of his hand. “It is a fairly common dream among, er . . . budding writers and museum staff.”
“Other parts of that dream are coming back to me . . . ,” Eric went on, slurring his words as if he had just emerged from a long bout of drinking. “Ouroboros, my dragon, was in it, too, setting the whole neighborhood alight from the air, and . . .”
“Ouroboros?” the man with the horsey face inquired.
“Yes, that’s the title of my novel: The Worm Ouroboros.” Eric grinned timidly. “It’s a Scandinavian myth: a sort of dragon or snake that devours its own tail, symbolizing eternal rebirth. You see, I’ve always been fascinated by the Norse myths, and my novel is an attempt to imitate—”
“Yes, yes,” the man with the metal hand cut in, exchanging a meaningful glance with the others, who nodded as one. “I think you should return to your post, lad. The museum will be opening soon, and I expect you have things to do . . .” He placed his prosthesis on the young man’s shoulder and shepherded him gently inside while Eric observed his metal hand nervously. “Ah, and don’t be alarmed if you come across a few officers from the Yard in the museum taking notes and samples . . . It is simply a routine inspection, nothing of any importance, though we trust we can count on you to be discreet. If you prove you are able keep quiet, I’ll bring you Mr. Doyle’s and Mr. Wells’s details, so that you can send them your manuscript . . . all right?”
The Map of Chaos Page 59
