The Map of Time

by Félix J Palma

  Finally, Charles lowered his pistol for a moment and asked: “Have you tried it?” “Yes,” confessed Wells, a little shamefaced. “But only a few brief exploratory journeys into the past, no more than four or five years. And I was careful to change nothing, because I was afraid of the consequences that might have on the fabric of time.

  I didn’t have the courage to venture into the future. I don’t know.

  I don’t share the same spirit of adventure as the inventor in my novel. This is all too much for me. In fact, I was thinking of destroying the thing.” “Destroying it?” Charles exclaimed in horror. “But why?” Wells shrugged, giving them to understand he was not quite sure of the answer to that question.

  “I don’t know what became of my friend,” he replied. “Perhaps there is a guardian of time, who fires indiscriminately at anyone trying to change events in the past to their own advantage. In any case, I don’t know what to do with his extraordinary legacy.” He frowned at the machine, as though contemplating a cross he had to bear every time he went for a walk. “I dare not tell anyone about it, because I cannot even begin to imagine how it would change the world, for better or for worse. Have you ever wondered what makes men act responsibly? I’ll tell you; they only have one go at things. If we had machines that allowed us to correct all our mistakes, even the most foolish ones, we would live in a world of irresponsible people. Given its potential, all I can really do is use it for my own rather futile purposes. But what if one day I yield to temptation and decide to use it for my own personal gain, for example, to change something in my past, or to travel into the future in order to steal some incredible invention with which I could improve my present circumstances? I would be betraying my friend’s dream …” He gave a despondent sigh. “As you can see, this amazing machine has become a burden to me.” With these words, he looked Andrew closely up and down with an intimidating air, as though sizing him up for an imaginary coffin.

  “However, you wish to use it to save a life,” he almost whispered. “What nobler cause could there be than that? If I let you do it and you succeed, it will justify the machine’s existence.” “Quite so, what nobler cause could there be than to save a life?” Charles reaffirmed hurriedly, seeing that Wells’s unexpected consent had apparently left his cousin speechless. “And I assure you Andrew will succeed,” he said, going over to his cousin and clapping him heartily on the shoulder. “My cousin will kill the Ripper and save Marie Kelly.” Wells paused. He glanced at his wife, seeking her approval.

  “Oh, Bertie, you must help him,” declared Jane, full of excitement, “it’s so romantic.” Wells looked again at Andrew, trying to conceal the flash of envy his wife’s remark had triggered in him. But deep down he knew Jane had used the right adjective to describe what the young man intended to do. There was no place in his ordered life for love like that, the sort that caused tragedies or started wars requiring the construction of giant wooden horses: love that could easily end in death. No, he would never know what that kind of love was. He would never know what it meant to lose control, to be consumed, to give in to his instincts. And yet, despite his inability to abandon himself to these passions, as ardent as they were destructive, despite his pragmatic, cautious nature, which only allowed him to pursue harmless amorous liaisons that could not possibly degenerate into unhealthy obsessions, Jane loved him.

  All of a sudden, this seemed like an inexplicable miracle, a miracle for which he ought to be thankful.

  “All right,” he declared, suddenly in good spirits. “Let’s do it.

  Let’s kill the monster and save the girl!” Infected by this burst of enthusiasm, Charles took the cutting about Marie Kelly’s murder out of his bemused cousin’s pocket and approached Wells so that they could study it together.

  “The crime took place on November 7, 1888, at about five in the morning,” he pointed out. “Andrew needs to arrive a few minutes earlier, lie in wait for the Ripper near Marie Kelly’s room, then shoot the ogre when he appears.” “It sounds like a good plan,” Wells agreed. “But we must bear in mind that the machine only travels through time, not space, which means it won’t move from here. Your cousin will need several hours” leeway to reach London.” Like an excited child, Wells leapt over to the machine and began adjusting the monitors on the control panel.

  “There we are,” he declared, after he had set the date. “I’ve programmed the machine to take your cousin back to November 7, 1888. Now all we have to do is wait until two in the morning to begin the journey. That way he’ll arrive in Whitechapel in time to prevent the crime from being committed.” “Perfect,” exclaimed Charles.

  The four of them looked at one another in silence, not knowing how to fill the time before the journey began. Luckily, one of them was a woman.

  “Have you had supper yet, gentlemen?” asked Jane, showing the practical nature of her sex.

  Less than an hour later, Charles and Andrew were able to discover for themselves that Wells had married an excellent cook.

  Squeezed around the table in the narrow kitchen, tucking in to one of the most delicious roasts they had ever eaten was a most agreeable way of passing the time until the early hours. During supper, Wells showed an interest in the voyages to the year 2000, and Charles spared no detail. Feeling as if he were recounting the plot of one of those fantasy novels he was so fond of, Charles described how he and the other tourists had traveled across the fourth dimension in a tramcar called the Cronotilius, until they reached the ruined London of the future, where, hidden behind a pile of rocks, they had witnessed the final battle between the evil Solomon and the brave Captain Derek Shackleton. Wells bombarded him with so many questions that after he had finished his story, Charles asked the author why he had not gone on one of the expeditions himself if he was so interested in the outcome of that war of the future. Wells suddenly went quiet, and Charles realized during the ensuing silence that he had unwittingly offended the author.

  “Forgive my inquisitiveness, Mr. Wells,” he apologized hurriedly. “Of course not everyone can afford a hundred pounds.” “Oh, it isn’t the money,” Jane broke in. “Mr. Murray has invited Bertie to take part in his voyages on several occasions, but he always refuses.” As she said this, she glanced at her husband, perhaps in the hope he might feel encouraged to explain his systematic refusals. But Wells simply stared at the joint of lamb with a mournful smile.

  “Who would want to travel in a crowded tramcar when they can make the same journey in a luxurious carriage?” Andrew interposed.

  The three others looked at the young man, exchanged puzzled glances for a moment then nodded slowly in agreement.

  With renewed enthusiasm, Wells declared, wiping the grease from his mouth with a napkin, “But let’s get back to the matter in hand. On one of my exploratory trips in the machine, I traveled six years back in time, arriving in the same attic when the house was occupied by the previous tenants. If I remember correctly, they had a horse tethered in the garden. I propose that you climb down the vine quietly, so as not to wake them. Then jump on the horse and ride to London as fast as you can. Once you have killed the Ripper, come straight back here.

  Climb onto the machine, set the date for today, and pull on the lever. Do you understand?” “Yes, I understand …” Andrew was able to stammer.

  Charles leaned back in his seat and gazed at him affectionately.

  “You are about to change the past, cousin …” he mused. “I still can’t believe it.” Then Jane brought in a bottle of port and poured a glass for the guests. They sipped slowly, from time to time glancing at their watches, visibly impatient, until the author said: “Well, the time has come to make history.” He set down his glass on the table and nodding solemnly steered them once more up to the attic.

  “Here, cousin,” Charles said, handing Andrew the pistol. “It’s already loaded. When you shoot the swine, make sure you aim at his chest.” “At his chest,” echoed Andrew, his hand shaking as he took the pistol, quickly slipping it i
nto his pocket so that neither Wells nor his cousin would see how terrified he was.

  The two men each took him by one arm and guided him ceremoniously towards the machine. Andrew climbed over the brass rail and sat in the seat. Despite his feeling of unreality, he could not help noticing the dark splatter of blood on the upholstery.

  “Now listen to me,” said Wells in a commanding tone. “Try to avoid making contact with anyone, even with your beloved, no matter how much you want to see her alive again. Just shoot the Ripper and come straight back the same way you went, before you meet your past self. I don’t know what the consequences of such an unnatural encounter might be, but I suspect it would wreak havoc in the fabric of time and could bring about a catastrophe that could destroy the world. Now, tell me, have I made myself clear?” “Yes, don’t worry,” murmured Andrew, more intimidated by the harsh tone of Wells’s voice than by the possible fatal consequences of his desire to save Marie Kelly if he made a mistake.

  “Another thing,” said Wells, returning to the fray, although this time in a less menacing voice. “Your journey won’t be anything like in my novel. You won’t see any snails walking backwards. I confess to having used a certain amount of poetic license. The effects of time travel are far less exhilarating. The moment you pull on the lever, you’ll notice a surge of energy, followed almost immediately by a blinding flash. That’s all. Then, quite simply, you’ll be in 1888. You might feel dizzy or sick after the journey, but I hope this won’t affect your aim,” he added sarcastically.

  “I’ll bear that in mind,” Andrew muttered, absolutely terrified.

  Wells nodded, reassured. Apparently, he had no other advice to give him, because he then began to hunt for something on a shelf full of knickknacks. The others watched him without saying a word.

  When at last Wells found what he had been looking for, he declared: “If you don’t mind, we’ll keep the cutting in this little box. When you come back, we’ll open it and find out whether you have managed to change the past. I imagine that if your mission has been successful, the headline will announce the death of Jack the Ripper.” Andrew nodded feebly, and handed Wells the cutting. Then Charles went over to his cousin, placed his hand solemnly on his shoulder, and gave him an encouraging smile, in which Andrew thought he glimpsed a hint of anxiety. When his cousin stepped aside, Jane approached the machine, wished Andrew good luck, and gave him a little peck on the cheek. Wells beamed as he watched the ritual, visibly pleased.

  “Andrew, you’re a pioneer,” he declared once these displays of encouragement were over, as though he felt he must close the ceremony with a lofty remark of the sort carved in stone. “Enjoy the journey. If in the next few decades time travel becomes commonplace, changing the past will doubtless be considered a crime.” Then, adding to Andrew’s unease, he asked the others to take a few steps back to avoid being singed by the burst of energy the machine would give off as soon as its occupant pulled the lever.

  Andrew watched them step back, trying to conceal his helplessness. He took a deep breath, struggling to control the panic and confusion overwhelming him; he was going to save Marie, he told himself, trying to feel emboldened. He was traveling back in time, to the night of her death, to shoot her killer before he had a chance to rip her guts out, thus changing history and at the same time erasing the eight years of suffering he had gone through. He looked at the date on the panel, the accursed date that had ruined his life. He could not believe it was in his power to save her, and yet all he had to do to overcome his disbelief was to pull that lever. Nothing more. Then whether or not he believed in time travel would become irrelevant. His trembling hand glistened with sweat as he grasped the handle, and the coolness of the glass lever in his palm seemed both unbelievable and absurd because it was such a familiar, commonplace sensation. He glanced at the three figures waiting expectantly by the attic door.

  “Go on, cousin,” prompted Charles.

  Andrew pulled the lever.

  To begin with, nothing happened. Then he became aware of a faint persistent purring sound, and the air seemed to quiver slightly, as though he were hearing the world’s insides rumble. All of a sudden, the hypnotic drone was broken by an eerie cracking sound, and a bright flash of blue light pierced the attic’s gloom. A second deafening crack was followed by another flash of light, then another, with sparks flying in all directions as though they were trying to light up every corner of the room.

  Suddenly, Andrew found himself at the center of a continuous burst of life-sized blue lightning bolts. On the far side of it stood Charles, Jane, and Wells, who had stretched his arms out in front of the other two, whether to protect them from the shower of sparks or to prevent them from rushing to his aid, Andrew could not tell. The air, perhaps the world, possibly time, or everything at once, disintegrated before his eyes. Reality itself fragmented.

  Then, suddenly, just as the author had described, an intense light blinded him, making the attic disappear. He gritted his teeth to stifle a scream, as he felt himself fall through the air.

  15

  Andrew had to blink at least a dozen times before he could see properly again.

  As the attic went back to apparent normality, his wildly racing heart began to slow down. He was relieved not to feel dizzy or sick. Even his panic had begun to subside once he realized he had not been burnt to a crisp by the flashes of lightning, which had left a smell of singed butterflies in the air. His only discomfort was that his whole body felt tense as a result of his anxiety, but in the end, he was even glad about that. This was no picnic he was going on. He was about to change the past, to alter events that had already taken place. He, Andrew Harrington, was going to shake up time. Was it not better to be on the alert, to be on his guard? When the effects of the flash had finally died away and he was able to see properly, he plucked up the courage to step down off the machine, as quietly as possible. The solidity of the floor surprised him, as if he had been expecting the past to be made of mist or fog or some other equally ethereal or malleable substance, simply because the time that corresponded to it had already been used up. However, as he discovered when he placed his foot tentatively on the ground, that reality was just as solid and real as the one he had left. But was he in 1888? He glanced suspiciously around the attic, still plunged into darkness, even savoring a few mouthfuls of air like a gourmet, looking for evidence, some detail to prove he was in the past, that he had indeed traveled in time. He discovered it when he peered out of the window: the road looked the same as he remembered it, but there was no sign of the cab that had brought them, and in the garden he saw a horse that had not been there before. Was a simple nag tied to a fence enough to distinguish one year from another? As evidence it seemed rather flimsy and unromantic. Disappointed, he carefully surveyed the peaceful backdrop of the night sky studded with stars, like rice grains randomly scattered. He saw nothing strange there either. After a few moments of fruitless search, he shrugged and told himself there was no reason why he should notice any significant differences since he had only traveled back in time eight years.

  Then he shook his head. He could not waste time collecting evidence like an entomologist. He had a mission to fulfill, in which time was very much of the essence. He opened the window and, after testing the creeper’s resistance, followed Wells’s instructions and began climbing down it as quietly as possible so as not to alert the occupants of the house. This proved easy, and once he reached the ground, he crept towards the horse, which had been impassively watching him climb down the creeper. Andrew gently stroked its mane in order to allay any suspicions the animal might have about him. The horse had no saddle, but Andrew found one with stirrups hanging on the fence. He could not believe his luck. He tied it on the horse, avoiding any sudden gestures that might make the animal nervous, keeping an eye on the darkened house all the while. Then he took the animal by the reins and coaxed it out into the road with affectionate whispers. He was amazed at himself for taking everything so calmly. He mounted the
horse, glanced back one last time to ensure everything was still as disappointingly calm, and set off towards London.

  Only when he was far enough away, a fast-moving blur in the darkness, did it finally dawn on Andrew that soon he was going to see Marie Kelly. He felt a pang inside and became tense again.

  Yes, incredible though it might seem to him, in the year he was in now, at this time in the morning, she was still alive: she had still not been murdered. She would probably be in the Britannia at that very moment, drinking to forget her spineless lover before stumbling back home into the arms of death. But then he remembered he was not allowed to see her, not allowed to embrace her, to nestle his head on her shoulder and breathe in her longed-for odor. No, Wells had forbidden it, because that simple gesture could alter the fabric of time, bring about the end of the world. He must limit himself to killing the Ripper and returning the way he had come, as the author had ordered. His action must be swift and precise, like a surgical intervention, whose consequences would only be visible when the patient came to, that is to say, once he had traveled back to his own time.

  Whitechapel was immersed in a deathly silence. He was surprised at the absence of the usual hurly-burly, until he remembered that during those weeks Whitechapel was an accursed, feared neighborhood, in whose alleyways the monster known as Jack the Ripper roamed, doling out death with his knife. He slowed his mount as he entered Dorset Street, aware that in the intense silence its hooves hammering on the cobblestones must produce a din like a smithy’s forge. He dismounted a few yards from the entrance to Miller’s Court and tethered the animal to an iron railing, away from any streetlamps so that it was less likely to be noticed. Then, after making sure the street was empty, he darted through the stone archway leading to the flats. The tenants were all asleep, so he had no light to guide him through the pitch-darkness, but Andrew could have found his way blind-folded. The further he ventured into that powerfully familiar place, the more overwhelmed he was by a mournful sadness that culminated when he reached Marie Kelly’s room, which was also in darkness. But his nostalgia gave way to a feeling of profound shock when it dawned on him that while he was standing there, before the modest abode that had been both heaven and hell to him, his father was also slapping his face in the Harrington mansion. That night, thanks to a miracle of science, there were two Andrews in the world. He wondered whether his other self might be aware of his existence, too, in the form of goose pimples or a sharp pain in his stomach, as he had heard sometimes happened with twins.