The Map of Time

by Félix J Palma

  “If you allow me, I’d like to make you a proposition, Captain,” Solomon went on, while his guard broke ranks, opening up like a metal cocoon at the center of which stood their king. “I propose we fight a duel.” One of the automatons had rescued a wooden box from the toppled throne, which he now presented to Solomon. The automaton ceremoniously pulled out a magnificent iron sword, the tip of whose blade glinted in the faint light from the sky.

  “As you see, Captain, I had a broadsword identical to yours made so that we could fight with the same weapon humans have been using for centuries. I’ve been practicing these last few months, waiting for the moment when I would be able to challenge you.” (To show he was not joking, he sliced through the air with a two-handed thrust.) “Unlike the ignoble pistol, the sword requires skill, deftness, and a knowledge of your enemy, which makes me think that if I succeed in piercing your entrails with its razor-sharp blade, you will acknowledge my expertise and consent to die.” Captain Shackleton mulled over Solomon’s proposal for a few moments, looking wearier and more disgusted than ever by the war of attrition. Now he had his chance to end it all by placing all his bets on a single card.

  “I accept your challenge, Solomon. Let’s decide the outcome of this war here and now,” he replied.

  “So be it,” Solomon declared gravely, scarcely able to contain his joy.

  The automatons and human soldiers stepped back a few paces, forming a circle around the duelists. The third and final act was about to begin. Shackleton unsheathed his sword with a graceful movement and made several feints in the air, aware perhaps that he might never again perform the gesture. After this brief demonstration, he coolly studied Solomon, who was desperately trying to strike a gallant swordsman’s pose, but was hindered by his rigid limbs.

  Circling the automaton slowly and nimbly, like a wild animal stalking its prey, Shackleton tried to work out where to strike first, while Solomon simply watched his assailant, sword clumsily raised. Naturally, he had given his rival the honor of commencing the duel. With a swift, agile movement, Shackleton traced an arc in the air with his sword, which came crashing down on Solomon’s left side. But the two-handed blow only produced a loud metallic clang, like a pealing bell that hung in the air for a few moments. Following the pathetic outcome of his first strike, Captain Shackleton stepped back a few paces, visibly dismayed: the brutal blow had scarcely made Solomon teeter, while it had almost snapped his wrists. As though seeking to confirm his weak position, Shackleton struck again, this time aiming for the automaton’s right side. The result was the same, but this time he could not afford to brood over it, as he had to avoid Solomon’s counterattack. After dodging the tip of his sword, which sliced through the air almost grazing his helmet, Shackleton once more put a distance between them, and, momentarily safe from attack, studied his enemy again, shaking his head slowly in a gesture that betrayed his despair.

  Solomon’s blows were slow and thus easy to evade, but the captain was aware that if one of them struck home, his armor would not offer the same protection. He had to discover his opponent’s weak point as quickly as possible. Continuing to aim two-handed blows at the automaton’s ironclad armor would only make his arms grow stiff, and the momentous effort would end up exhausting him, slowing him down, and making him careless: leaving him, in short, at the automaton’s mercy. Making the most of still feeling fresh, Shackleton dodged another blow and ended up this time behind his enemy’s back. Before Solomon had time to turn around, he thrust his sword as hard as he could into the steam engine that gave the automaton life. There was a great clatter as cogs and rods flew out of the opening in all directions, but also an unexpected burst of steam that hit Shackleton full in the face, blinding him. Solomon wheeled round with astonishing agility and landed a blow on his dazed enemy. The sword struck the captain’s side with such force that it shattered his metal armor. The brutal blow sent Shackleton spinning across the floor like a top.

  Claire raised her hand to her mouth to stop herself from screaming. She heard the stifled cries of the others around her.

  Once he had stopped spinning, Shackleton tried to get to his feet, clutching his wounded side, with blood streaming over his hip and down his leg, but his strength failed him. He remained on his knees, as though prostrating himself before the king of the automatons, who approached him slowly, savoring his sure victory.

  Solomon shook his head for a few moments, showing his disappointment at the poor fight put up by his opponent, who dared not even raise his head to look at him. Then he lifted his sword with both hands, preparing to bring it down on the captain’s helmet and split his skull asunder. He could think of no better way to end this cruel war, which had established without a doubt the automatons” supremacy over the human race. He brought the sword down on his victim with all his might, but to his astonishment, Captain Shackleton leapt out of the way at the very last moment. Robbed of its target, the automaton’s sword embedded itself in the stony ground with a loud clang. Tugging in vain, Solomon tried to pull it out, while Shackleton rose up beside him like a majestic cobra, oblivious to the wound in his side. Slowly, as though taking pleasure from the movement, he raised his sword, and brought it down, with one swift surgical blow, on the joint between Solomon’s head and his body. There was an almighty crunch, and the automaton’s head rolled across the floor, giving out a series of clangs as it bounced against the rocks before finally coming to a halt next to the crown it had worn during its reign.

  There was a sudden silence. The headless, motionless automaton stood in a grotesque posture, bowed over the sword, whose blade was still embedded in the rubble. As a final gesture, the brave Captain Shackleton placed his foot on his lifeless enemy’s flank and tipped him over onto the ground. And this deafening sound, like scrap metal being loaded onto a cart, put an end to the long war that had devastated the planet.

  22

  Mazursky tried in vain to silence the applause unleashed by Captain Shackleton’s victory at the top of the rocky promontory. Fortunately, it was drowned out by the cheers down in the street a few yards below, where the men were fervently acclaiming their brave captain. Oblivious to the surrounding clamor, Claire remained crouched behind her rock. She was bemused by the overwhelming storm of emotions that caused her soul to flutter like a flag in the breeze. She had known how the duel would end, and yet she had been unable to avoid jumping each time Shackleton was in danger, each time Solomon’s blade greedily sought out his flesh, or when he attempted in vain to chop the automaton down with his sword, as one fells an oak. She knew this was not so much because she feared the human race might lose the duel, but because of what might happen to the captain himself. She longed to carry on watching events down below, even to make sure Shackleton had exaggerated the severity of the wound inflicted on him by the automaton as part of his strategy, but Mazursky had ordered them to line up before beginning the return journey to their own time, and she had no choice but to obey. The time travelers began their descent of the tiny hillock like an unruly herd of goats, discussing among themselves the exciting highlights of the battle.

  “Is that all?” asked Ferguson, apparently the only dissatisfied passenger. “That poor excuse for a battle is what decided the fate of the planet?” Mazursky did not even deign to reply, taken up as he was with making sure the matrons did not trip over and end up rolling down the slope with their skirts flying up with unintentional coquettishness. Claire followed them in silence, ignoring both the insufferable Ferguson’s comments, and Lucy, who had taken her arm again. One thought hammered persistently in her mind: she had to separate from the group. And she had to do it now, not only because it would no longer be possible once they reached the tram, but because the group was in such high spirits they had still not managed to form an orderly column, and this would facilitate her escape. Furthermore, she must not stray too far from Shackleton and his men: it would be pointless to get away only to become lost in a maze of ruins. If she was going to act, the time to do it was n
ow, for the further they went the less chance she had. But she must break away from Lucy first. As though in answer to her prayers, Madeleine Winslow came up to them excitedly, to ask whether they had seen the elegant boots the soldiers were wearing. This was something Claire would never have taken into account, although she seemed to be the only person not to have noticed this important aspect of the future. Lucy said she had and immediately went on to discuss the amazing originality of the footwear. Claire shook her head in disbelief, and when Lucy let go of her arm for a moment took the opportunity to lag behind. She dropped behind the marksman, who had not yet received the order to take up the rear, and was strolling along leisurely, no longer bothering to keep an eye on the shadows. Behind him came Charles Winslow and Inspector Garrett, immersed in a lively conversation while they walked. Finally, when she found herself at the back of the group, she hitched up her skirts and made a clumsy dash for it, ducking behind a conveniently placed remnant of wall.

  Claire Haggerty stood still, her back against the wall, her heart pounding wildly, listening to the murmur of the group growing fainter and fainter, without anyone apparently having noticed she was missing. When at last they were out of earshot, dry-throated, parasol clasped firmly between her sweaty palms, she poked her head out cautiously and saw that the procession had disappeared round a bend. She could not believe it. She had done it! At once she felt a rush of panic as it dawned on her she was alone in that dreadful place, but she quickly told herself this was what she had wanted. Events were unfolding exactly as she had planned when she climbed aboard the Cronotilus. Unless something went horribly wrong, she was going to be able to stay behind in the year 2000. Wasn’t this what she had wished for? She drew a deep breath and stepped out from behind the wall.

  All being well, they would only discover her absence when they reached the time tram, but even so, she must hurry up and join Shackleton and his men before the guide found out. After that, there would be nothing Mazursky could do, and she would be safe. As he had told them himself during the journey, they were in the year 2000 as simple spectators: they must not let themselves be seen by people from the future, still less make contact with them. Finding the captain, then, was her primary objective. Claire marched off in the opposite direction to her companions, trying not to think of the consequences her unexpected act might have on the fabric of time. She only hoped she would not destroy the universe in her bid to be happy.

  Now that she found herself alone, the surrounding devastation seemed even more disturbing. “What if she could not find Shackleton?” she wondered uneasily. And what if the captain snubbed her, refusing to admit her into his ranks? She could not believe that a true gentleman would abandon a woman to her fate in that terrible world. Besides, she had some knowledge of first aid, which might prove useful, judging from how easy it was to get wounded there, and she was courageous and hardworking enough to be able to help them rebuild the world. And, of course, she was in love with him. Although she preferred not to let that show until she was completely sure. In the meantime, it was simply a notion, as outrageous as it was exhilarating. She shook her head. She had to admit she had not given enough thought to what she would do when she met the captain, because she did not really believe her escape plan would work. She would just have to improvise, she told herself, walking round the promontory, before hiking up her skirts in readiness to climb down the steep path, which if her sense of direction had not failed her, would lead to the street where the ambush had taken place.

  She paused when she heard footsteps coming up the path towards her. They were unmistakably human, but Claire followed her instinct and leapt behind the nearest rock. She waited in silence, her heart beating furiously in her chest. The owner of the footsteps stopped near to where she was hiding. Claire was afraid he had seen her and would order her to come out with her hands up, or still worse, that he would point his gun at the rock and wait for her to make the first move. But instead of that, the stranger began singing: “Jack the Ripper’s dead And lying on his bed He cut his throat With Sunlight Soap Jack the Ripper’s dead.” Claire raised her eyebrows. She knew that song. Her father had learned it from East End kids and used to sing it softly to himself as he shaved before going to church, which is why Claire suddenly imagined herself immersed in the aroma of the newfangled lathered soap made from pine oil rather than animal fat. She wished she could travel back to her own time simply to tell her father that the song which had so tickled him had survived over the years. Except that she would never go back, come what may.

  She tried not to think of this, but to concentrate on the present moment, the moment that would mark the start of her new life.

  The stranger carried on singing with even greater gusto. “Had he come to that secluded place simply to try out his voice?” she wondered. Whatever the case, it was time she made contact with the inhabitants of the year 2000. She gritted her teeth, plucked up all her courage, and stepped out of her hiding place, ready to introduce herself to the stranger who was so casually destroying one of her favorite songs.

  Claire Haggerty and the brave Captain Shackleton stared at one another in silence, each reflecting the other’s surprise, like two mirrors facing one another. The captain had removed his helmet, which was resting on a nearby stone, and Claire did not need to look twice to realize that the reason why he had strayed from the others was not in order to practice his singing, but to perform a far less noble act, to which the ditty he was singing was a simple adjunct. She could not prevent her jaw from dropping in surprise, and her fingers let go of the parasol, which made a crunching sound like a shell breaking as it hit the ground. After all, this was the first time her delicate eyes had glimpsed the part of a man she was apparently not meant to see until the day her marriage was consummated, and even then probably not quite in such a plain and naked fashion. She saw that as soon as he got over his surprise, Captain Shackleton hastened to tuck away this unseemly part of his anatomy beneath the folds of his armor. Then he stared at her again without a word, his embarrassment giving way increasingly to curiosity. Claire had not had time to speculate about other details, but Captain Derek Shackleton’s face was certainly as she had imagined it would be. Either the Creator had fashioned it according to her precise instructions, or the ape this man was descended from had a superior pedigree. But for whatever reason, Captain Shackleton’s face unquestionably belonged to a different era. He had the same graceful chin as the statue and the same serene expression around his mouth, and his eyes, now that she could see them, were in perfect harmony with the rest of his features. Those beautiful, big, gray-green eyes, like a forest immersed in mist where all who ventured were destined to be lost, set the world alight with a gaze so intense, so profound that Claire realized she was in the presence of the most alive man she had ever seen. Yes, beneath that armor plate, that bronzed skin, those sculpted muscles, was a heart that beat with extraordinary force, pumping through its network of veins a stubborn impulsive life that death itself had been unable to conquer.

  “I’m Claire Haggerty, Captain,” she introduced herself, trying to stop her voice from quaking, “and I’ve come from the nineteenth century to help you rebuild the world.” Captain Shackleton went on staring at her, ashen-faced, through eyes that had seen the destruction of London, raging fires, and piles of dead bodies, eyes that had seen the most atrocious side of life but had no idea how to cope with this delicate, exquisite creature in front of him.

  “There you are, Miss Haggerty!” she heard someone cry out behind her.

  Taken aback, Claire wheeled round and saw the guide coming down the steep path towards her. Mazursky was shaking his head disapprovingly but was clearly relieved to have found her.

  “I thought I told you all to stay together!” he cried shrilly, as he walked up to her and seized her roughly by the arm. “You could have stayed behind forever!” Claire turned towards Shackleton to implore his aid, but to her astonishment the captain had gone, vanished as though he had been nothing bu
t a figment of her imagination. Indeed, his departure had been so abrupt that as Mazursky dragged her towards where the others were waiting for them, Claire wondered in all seriousness whether she had really seen him or if he had been a product of her inflamed imagination. They rejoined the group, and before heading back to the Cronotilus, the guide made them get in a line with the marksmen at the rear, and, visibly irritated, ordered them not to wander off again.

  “It’s a good thing I noticed you were missing,” Lucy told her, taking Claire’s arm. “Were you dreadfully afraid?” Claire sighed and let herself be guided by Lucy like a convalescent patient, unable to think of anything except Captain Shackleton’s gentle eyes. But had they looked at her with love? His speechlessness and bewilderment were definite symptoms of infatuation and suggested that he had. In any era they were the typical signs of being smitten. But even if it were true, what good was it to her if Captain Shackleton had fallen in love with her since she was never going to see him again, she thought, as she passively let herself be helped onto the time tram, as if she had no will of her own. Dejected, she leaned back in her seat, and when she felt the violent judder of the steam engine starting up, she had to stop herself from dissolving into a puddle of tears. As the vehicle shunted through the fourth dimension, Claire wondered how she would endure having to go back and live in her own boring time, forever, especially now she was sure that the only man with whom she could be happy would be born long after she was dead.

  “We’re on our way home, ladies and gentlemen,” announced Mazursky, unable to conceal his contentment at nearing the end of that eventful journey.

  Claire looked at him with annoyance. Yes, they were on their way home, home to the dreary nineteenth century, and they had not jeopardized the fabric of time. Of course Mazursky was pleased; he had prevented a silly young girl from destroying the universe and avoided the telling-off he would have received from Gilliam Murray had he failed. What did it matter if the price had been her happiness? Claire was so infuriated she could have slapped the guide there and then, even though in the end she realized that Mazursky had only been doing his duty. The universe was more important than the fate of any one person, even if she was that person. She gritted her teeth, trying to curb her irritation at the guide’s beaming face. Fortunately, part of her rage evaporated when she looked down and saw that her hands were empty. Mazursky had not done such a perfect job after all, although how far could a mere parasol affect the fabric of time?