The Map of Time

by Félix J Palma

  Once he had arrived back in his own time, he heard voices and the noise of plates in the dining room, and discovered he had stopped his machine the Thursday after his departure. After pausing for a few moments to catch his breath, the inventor appeared before his guests, not so much out of a desire to share his experiences with them, but because he was attracted by the delicious smell of roast meat, which, after the diet of fruit he had been forced to live on in the future, was an irresistible temptation. After sating his appetite voraciously in front of his astonished guests, who gaped in awe at his ghastly pallor, his scratched face, and the peculiar stains on his jacket, the traveler finally recounted his adventure. Naturally, no one believed his fantastic voyage, even though he showed them his pockets still filled with strange blossoms or the sorry state of his time machine. In the novel’s epilogue, Wells had the narrator, who was one of the traveler’s guests, finger the exotic flowers, reflecting with optimism that even when physical strength and intelligence has died out, gratitude will live on in men’s hearts.

  When the novel finally came out under the title The Time Machine, it caused a sensation. By August, Heinemann had already printed six thousand paperbacks and one thousand five hundred hardbacks. Everyone was talking about it, though not because of its shocking content. Wells had been at pains to present a metaphorical but devastating vision of the ultimate price of a rigidly capitalistic society. Who would not see in the Morlocks the evolutionary result of the working class, brutalized by appalling conditions and exhausting hours working from dawn until dusk, a class which society slowly and discreetly began to move below ground, while the surface of the earth was reserved for the wealthy classes to parade about in? With the aim of stirring his readers” consciences, Wells had even inverted the social roles: the Eloi— futile and decorative as the Carolingian kings—were fodder for the Morlocks, who, despite their ugliness and barbarism, were at the top of the food chain. However, to Wells’s astonishment, all his attempts to raise society’s awareness paled before the excitement his notion of time travel stirred in people.

  One thing was clear: whatever the reasons, this novel written under such adverse conditions, and which at little more than forty thousand words had even required padding out with a publicity booklet, had secured him a place in the hall of fame, or had at least brought him to its threshold. And this was far more than he had ever expected when he began penning the first of those forty thousand words.

  Like a murderer removing all trace of his crime, the first thing Wells did on becoming a successful author was to burn as many copies he could find of that childish drivel The Chronic Argonauts. He did not want anyone to discover that the excellence they attributed to The Time Machine was the end result of such lengthy fumbling and had not emerged in its finished state from his apparently brilliant mind. After that, he tried to enjoy his fame, although this did not prove easy. There was no doubting he was a successful author, but one with an extended family to support.

  And while Jane and he had married and moved to a house with a garden in Woking (the basket sticking out like a sore thumb among Jane’s hatboxes), Wells had to take care not to let down his guard. There was no question of him stopping for a rest. He must carry on writing, it did not matter what, anything to take advantage of his popularity in the bookshops.

  This was not a problem for Wells, of course. He only had to turn to the basket. Like a magician rummaging in his hat, Wells pulled out another novel called The Wonderful Visit. This told the story of how one balmy August night an angel fell out of the sky and landed in the marshes of a little village called Sidderford.

  When the local vicar, an amateur ornithologist, heard about the arrival of this exotic bird, he went out to hunt it with his shotgun and succeeded in destroying the angel’s beautiful plumage before taking pity on it and carrying it to the vicarage where he nursed it back to health. Through this close contact, the vicar realized that, although different, the angel was an admirable and gentle creature from which he had much to learn.

  The idea for the novel, like the plot of The Island of Dr. Moreau, which he would write some months later, was not his. Yet Wells tried not to see this as stealing, rather as his own special tribute to the memory of a remarkable man. Joseph Merrick died in the horrible way Treves had predicted two years after the unforgettable invitation to tea. And as tributes went, he considered his far more respectful than the surgeon’s own, for, according to what he had heard, Treves was exhibiting Merrick’s deformed skeleton in a museum he had opened in the London Hospital. As Wells had said to him that afternoon, Merrick had gone down in history.

  And who could say, that The Time Machine, which owed so much to him, would do the same for Wells. In the meantime, it had brought him more than one surprise, he said to himself, remembering the time machine, identical to the one he had written about in his novel, that was hidden in his attic.

  Dusk had begun to submerge the world in a coppery light that lent an air of distinction to everything, including Wells who, sitting quietly in his kitchen, looked like a sculpture of himself made out of flour. He shook his head, banishing the doubts stirred up by the harsh review in the Speaker, and picked up the envelope that had appeared in his postbox that afternoon. He hoped it was not a letter from yet another newspaper asking him to predict the future. Ever since The Time Machine had been published, the press had held him up as an official oracle and kept encouraging him to display his supposed powers of divination in their pages.

  But when he tore the envelope open he discovered he was not being asked to predict anything. Instead, he found himself holding a publicity leaflet from Murray’s Time Travel, together with a card in which Gilliam Murray invited him to take part in the third expedition to the year 2000. Wells clenched his teeth to stop himself from unleashing a stream of oaths, scrunched up the leaflet, and hurled it across the room, as he had the magazine moments before.

  The ball of paper flew precariously through the air until it hit the face of a young man who should not have been there. Wells stared with alarm at the intruder who had just walked into his kitchen. He was a well-dressed young man, now rubbing his cheek where the ball of paper had made a direct hit, and shaking his head with a sigh, as though chastising a mischievous child.

  Just behind him was a second man, whose features so resembled those of the first they must be related. The author studied the man nearest to him, unable to decide whether he ought to apologize for having hit him with the ball of paper or ask what the devil he was doing in his kitchen. But he had no time to do either, for the man responded first.

  “Mr. Wells, I presume,” he said, raising his arm and pointing a gun at him.

  14

  A young man with a bird like face.

  This was what Andrew thought when he saw the author of The Time Machine, the book that had transformed all England while he was wandering like a ghost amid the trees in Hyde Park. Finding the front door locked, instead of knocking, Charles had led him silently round the back of the house. After crossing a small, rather overgrown garden, they had burst into the small, narrow kitchen whose cramped space the two of them seemed to fill completely.

  “Who are you and what are you doing in my house?” the author demanded, remaining seated at the table, perhaps because in that way less of his body would be exposed to the pistol aimed at him, which was also undoubtedly the reason why he had asked the question in such an incongruously polite manner.

  Without lowering the gun, Charles turned to his cousin and nodded. It was Andrew’s turn to take part in the performance.

  He suppressed a sigh of displeasure. He deemed it unnecessary to have burst into the author’s house at gunpoint, and he regretted not having given some thought during the journey to what they would do once they reached the house, instead of leaving everything up to his cousin, whose impetuosity had put them in a very awkward situation. But there was no turning back now, and so Andrew approached Wells, determined to improvise. He had no idea how to do so, only th
at he must mimic his cousin’s severe, determined manner. He reached into his jacket pocket for the cutting, and, with the abrupt gesture appropriate to the situation, placed it on the table between the author’s hands.

  “I want you to stop this from happening,” he said, trying his best to sound commanding.

  Wells stared blankly at the cutting, then contemplated the two intruders, his eyes moving from one to the other like a pendulum, and finally consented to read it. As he did so, his face remained impassive.

  “I regret to tell you that this tragic event has already occurred, and as such belongs to the past. And as you are fully aware, the past is unchangeable,” he concluded disdainfully, returning the cutting to Andrew.

  Andrew paused for a moment then, a little flustered, took the yellowing piece of paper and put it back in his pocket. Visibly uncomfortable at being forced into such close proximity by the narrowness of the kitchen, which did not seem big enough to squeeze in another person, the three men simply gawked at one another, like actors who have suddenly forgotten their lines. However, they were wrong: there was room for another slim person, and even for one of those newfangled bicycles that were all the rage, with their aluminium spokes, tubular frames, and modern pneumatic tires, which made them much lighter.

  “You’re wrong,” said Charles, suddenly brightening up.

  “The past isn’t unalterable, not if we have a machine capable of traveling in time.” Wells gazed at him with a mixture of pity and weariness.

  “I see,” he murmured, as though it had suddenly dawned on him with dreary disappointment what this business was all about. “But you’re mistaken if you imagine I have one at my disposal. I’m only a writer, gentlemen.” He shrugged, apologetically.

  “I have no time machine. I simply made one up.” “I don’t believe you,” replied Charles.

  “It’s the truth,” sighed Wells.

  Charles tried to catch Andrew’s eye, as though his cousin would know what to do next in their madcap adventure. But they had come to a dead end. Andrew was about to tell him to lower the gun, when a young woman walked into the kitchen wheeling a bicycle. She was a slim, small, amazingly beautiful creature, who looked as though she had been delicately wrought by a god tired of churning out inferior specimens. But what really grabbed Andrew’s attention was the contraption she had with her, one of those so-called bicycles that were replacing horses because they allowed people to ride round peacefully on country roads without exerting themselves too much. Charles, on the other hand, did not let himself be distracted by the thing, and, having instantly identified the girl as Wells’s wife, he swiftly grabbed her arm and placed the barrel of the gun against her temple. Andrew was amazed at his speed and agility, as though he had spent his whole life making this kind of movement.

  “I’ll give you one more chance,” Charles said to the author, who had suddenly turned pale.

  The exchange that followed was as inconsequential as it was idiotic, but I will reproduce it word for word, despite it being scarcely worth mentioning, simply because I am not trying to make any one episode in this story stand out: “Jane,” said Wells, in a faint, almost inaudible voice.

  “Bertie,” replied Jane, alarmed.

  “Charles … ,” Andrew began.

  “Andrew,” Charles interrupted him.

  Then there was silence. The afternoon light threw their shadows into relief. The curtain at the window billowed slightly.

  Out in the garden, the branches of the tree that rose from the ground like a crooked pikestaff rustled eerily as they shook in the breeze. A group of pale shadows nodding their heads, embarrassed by the clumsy melodrama of the scene, as if this were a novel by Henry James (who, incidentally, will also make an appearance in this story).

  “Very well, gentlemen,” declared Wells at last in a good-natured voice, rising from his chair. “I think we can solve this in a civilized way without anyone getting hurt.” Andrew looked beseechingly at his cousin.

  “It’s up to you, Bertie.” Charles gave a sardonic smile.

  “Let go of her, and I’ll show you my time machine.” Andrew stared at the author in amazement. Were Gilliam Murray’s suspicions true then? Did Wells really have a time machine? Obviously pleased, Charles released Jane, who crossed the very short distance separating her from her beloved Bertie and threw her arms around him.

  “Don’t worry, Jane,” the author calmed her. “Everything will be all right.” “Well, then,” said Charles, impatiently.

  Wells gently extricated himself from Jane’s embrace and contemplated Charles with visible distaste.

  “Follow me to the attic.” Forming a sort of funeral procession with Wells leading the way, they climbed a creaking staircase that seemed as though it might give way beneath their feet at any moment. The attic had been built in the roof space above the second floor and had an unpleasantly claustrophobic feel to it due to the low sloping ceiling and the extravagant collection of assorted bric-a-brac.

  Over in a corner under the window, which acted as an air vent and through which the last rays of sunlight were filtering, stood the strange contraption. Judging from his cousin’s awed expression and the way he practically bowed down before it, Andrew assumed this must be the time machine. He approached the object, examining it with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.

  At first sight, the machine capable of breaking down the barriers confining man to the present looked like some sort of sophisticated sleigh. However, the rectangular wooden pedestal to which it was fixed suggested it was not designed to travel through space, but would need to be dragged along: something that would be difficult owing to its size. The apparatus was surrounded by a waist-high brass rail, a flimsy barrier that had to be stepped over to gain access to the sturdy seat in the middle.

  The seat vaguely resembled a barber’s chair, to which had been attached two exquisitely carved wooden arms, and was upholstered in rather lurid red velvet. In front of it, supported by two elegant bars also made of brass, was a medium-sized dial, the control panel with three monitors showing the day, the month, and the year. A delicate glass lever protruded from a wheel to the right of the dial. The machine seemed to have no other handles, and Andrew deduced that the whole thing worked by pulling on this single lever. Behind the seat was a complicated mechanism resembling distilling mechanism. This had a shaft sticking out of it which supported a huge round disc that was covered in strange symbols and looked as if it might spin round. Apparently designed to protect the machine, it was bigger than a Spartan shield and was undoubtedly the most spectacular thing about the whole contraption. Finally, a little plaque screwed to the control panel read: “Made by H. G. Wells.” “Are you an inventor, too?” Andrew asked, taken aback.

  “Of course not; don’t be absurd,” replied Wells, pretending to be annoyed. “As I already told you, I’m only a writer.” “Well, if you didn’t build it, where did you get it from?” Wells sighed, as though annoyed at having to explain himself to these strangers. Charles pressed the revolver into Jane’s temple again, even harder this time: “My cousin asked you a question, Mr. Wells.” The author shot him a black look, then gave another sigh.

  “Soon after my novel was published,” he said, realizing he had no choice but to comply with the intruders, “I received a letter from a scientist who told me that for years he had been secretly working on a time machine very similar to the one I described in my book. He said it was almost finished, and he wanted to show it to somebody, but he didn’t know whom. He considered, not without good reason, that it was a dangerous invention, capable of arousing an unhealthy interest in people.

  My novel had convinced him I was the right one to confide in.

  We met a couple of times, with the aim of getting to know one another, of finding out whether we could really trust each other, and we instantly realized we could, not least because we had very similar ideas about the many inherent dangers of time travel. He built the machine here in this very attic. And the little plaqu
e was his affectionate way of showing his gratitude for my collaboration. I don’t know if you remember my book, but this amazing machine is nothing like the hulking great thing illustrated on the cover. It doesn’t work in the same way, either, of course, but don’t ask me how it does, because I’m not a man of science. When the time came to try it out, we decided he should have the honor; I would oversee the operation from the present. As we had no way of knowing whether the machine would withstand more than one journey, we decided to travel far into the past, but to a time that was peaceful. We chose a period prior to the Roman invasion, when this area was inhabited by witches and druids, a period which should not have entailed much danger, unless the druids wanted to sacrifice us to some deity. My friend boarded the machine, set it to the agreed date, and pulled on the lever. I watched him disappear before my very eyes. Two hours later, the machine came back without him. It was perfectly intact, although there were a few worrying fresh bloodstains on the seat. I haven’t seen my friend since.” There was a deathly silence.