The Map of Time

by Félix J Palma

  “I’m George Wells,” he introduced himself, once he had finished his examination. “How may I help you?” “How do you do, Mr. Wells,” the man from the future greeted him. “Forgive me for barging in on you so early in the morning, but it’s a matter of life or death.” Wells nodded, smiling inwardly at the rehearsed introduction.

  “I’m Captain Derek Shackleton and I’ve come from the future.

  From the year 2000 to be precise.” The young man stared at him expectantly, waiting for him to respond.

  “Does my name ring a bell?” he asked, on seeing the author was not overly surprised.

  “Naturally, Captain,” Wells replied, grinning slightly as he riffled through a wastepaper basket next to a set of book-lined shelves. A moment later, he extracted a ball of scrunched-up paper, which he unfolded and handed to his visitor, who cautiously took it from him. “How could the name not ring a bell? I receive one of these leaflets every week without fail. You are the savior of the human race, the man who in the year 2000 will free our planet from the yoke of the evil automatons.” “That’s right,” the young man ventured, slightly unnerved by the author’s mocking tone.

  A tense silence followed, during which Wells simply stood with his hands in pockets contemplating his visitor with a disdainful air.

  “You must be wondering how I traveled to your time,” the young man said finally, like an actor obliged to prompt himself in order to be able to carry on his performance.

  “Now you mention it, yes,” said Wells, without attempting to show the slightest curiosity.

  “Then I’ll explain,” said the young man, trying to ignore Wells’s manifest indifference. “When the war first started, our scientists invented a machine capable of making holes in time, with the aim of tunneling from the year 2000 to your time. They wanted to send someone to kill the man who made automatons and prevent the war from happening. That someone is me.” Wells carried on staring at him solemnly for a moment. Finally he let out a guffaw that took his visitor aback.

  “I’ll grant you have an impressive imagination, young man,” he said.

  “You don’t believe me?” the other man asked, although the tinge of regret in his voice gave his question the air of bitter acknowledgment.

  “Of course not,” the author declared, cheerily. “But don’t be alarmed, it’s not because you failed to make your ingenious lie sound convincing.” “But, then …” the youth stammered, bewildered.

  “The problem is I don’t believe it’s possible to travel to the year 2000, nor that man will be at war with the automatons then.

  The whole thing is just a silly invention. Gilliam Murray may be able to fool the whole of England, but he can’t fool me,” exclaimed Wells.

  “So … you know the whole thing is a fraud?” murmured the young man, utterly flabbergasted.

  Wells nodded solemnly, glancing at Jane, who also looked bewildered.

  “And you’re not going to denounce him?” the lad asked finally.

  The author heaved a deep sigh before giving his reply, as though the question had been eating away at him for too long.

  “No, I haven’t the slightest intention of doing so,” he replied.

  “If people are prepared to part with good money to watch you defeat a lot of phony automatons, then maybe they deserve to be swindled. And besides, who am I to deprive them of the illusion of having traveled to the future? Must I destroy their fantasy simply because someone is getting rich from it?” “I see,” murmured the visitor, still mystified, and then with a hint of admiration he added: “you’re the only person I know who thinks it’s all a hoax.” “Well, I suppose I have a certain advantage over the rest of humanity,” replied Wells.

  He smiled at the youth’s increasingly bemused face. Jane was also giving him puzzled looks. The author heaved a sigh. It was time he shared his bread with the apostles, and then they might help him bear his cross.

  “A little over a year ago,” Wells explained, addressing them both, “shortly after The Time Machine was published, a man came here wanting to show me a novel he had just written. Like The Time Machine, it was a piece of science fiction. He asked me to read it and if I liked it to recommend it to my editor, Henley, for possible publication.” The young man nodded slowly, as though he had not quite understood yet what all this had to do with him. Wells turned around and began scouring the books and files lining the sitting room shelves. Finally he found what he had been looking for—a bulky manuscript, which he tossed onto the table.

  “The man’s name was Gilliam Murray, and this is the novel he gave me that October afternoon in 1895.” With a wave of his hand he invited the lad to read the title page. The young man moved closer to the manuscript and read aloud clumsily, as though chewing each word: “Captain Derek Shackleton: The True Story of a Brave Hero of the Future, by Gilliam F. Murray.” “Yes,” confirmed Wells. “And do you want to know what it’s about? The novel takes place in the year 2000 and tells the story of a battle between the evil automatons and the human army led by the brave Captain Derek Shackleton. Does the plot ring a bell?” The visitor nodded, but Wells deduced from his confused expression that he still did not fully understand what he was getting at.

  “Had Gilliam written this novel after he set up his business, I would have no other reason, besides my natural skepticism, to question the authenticity of his year 2000,” he explained. “But he brought me his novel a whole year before! Do you understand what I’m saying? Gilliam has staged his novel, and you are its main protagonist.” He picked up the manuscript, searched for a specific page, and, to the young man’s dismay, started to read out loud: “Captain Derek Shackleton was a magnificent specimen of the human race, with his statuesque muscles, noble face, and eyes brimming with ferocity like a cornered panther.” The lad blushed at the description. Was that what he looked like? Did he really have the eyes of a cornered animal? It was quite possible, for he had been cornered since birth, by his father, by life, by misfortune, and lately by Murray’s thugs. He stared at Wells, not knowing what to say.

  “It’s a ghastly description by a talentless writer, but I have to confess you fit the part perfectly,” said Wells, hurling the manuscript back onto the table with a gesture of utter contempt.

  A few moments passed in which no one spoke.

  “Even so, Bertie,” Jane finally stepped in, “this young man needs your help.” “Oh, yes. So he does,” responded a reluctant Wells, who assumed that with his masterful exposure of Murray he had resolved the reason for the visit.

  “What’s your real name?” Jane asked him.

  “Tom Blunt, ma’am,” replied Tom, bowing politely.

  “Tom Blunt,” Wells echoed mockingly. “It doesn’t sound quite so heroic, of course.” Jane shot him a reproachful look. She hated it when her husband resorted to sarcasm to compensate for the terrible feeling of physical inferiority that usually assailed him when he was in the presence of someone bigger than himself.

  “Tell me, then, Tom,” Wells went on, after clearing his throat, “how may I help you?” Tom sighed. No longer a brave hero from the future, just a miserable wretch, he stared down at his feet, ceaselessly wringing his hat as though trying to squeeze it dry, and attempted to tell the couple everything that had happened since his pressing need to empty his bladder had compelled him to find a quiet place on the set of the year 2000. Trying not to gabble, he told them about the girl named Claire Haggerty who had appeared out of nowhere just after he had taken off his helmet and armor, how she had seen his face, and the problems that would cause him. He was obliged to tell them about the unpleasant ways Murray had of assuring his cast of actors did not give away the hoax, and about what had happened to poor Perkins. His speculations caused the author’s wife to gasp in horror, while Wells simply shook his head as if to say he had expected as much of Gilliam Murray. Tom then told them how he had bumped into Claire Haggerty at the market and had made her agree to meet him, driven, he confessed shamefully, by his male instinct.
He described how he was then forced to make up the story about the letters in order for her to agree to go with him to the boardinghouse. He knew he had done wrong, he told them, not daring to raise his eyes from the floor, and he regretted it, but they should not waste time judging his behavior because his actions had given rise to unforeseen consequences.

  The girl had fallen in love with him, and, believing every word to be true, had duly written the first letter, which she had left at Harrow-on-the-Hill. He fished the letter out of his pocket and handed it to Wells, who took it from him, stunned at everything he was hearing. The author unfolded the letter and, after clearing his throat noisily, began reading aloud so that his intrigued wife could also know what it contained. He tried to read in a modulated voice, like a priest reciting the lesson, but could not avoid his voice catching when he read out certain passages. The emotions expressed were so beautiful he could not help feeling a pang of resentment towards the young man in front of him, who had undeservingly become the object of a love so absolute it forced him to question his own emotions, to reconsider his whole way of experiencing love. The look of compassion that had overtaken Jane’s face confirmed his wife was feeling something similar.

  “I tried writing to her,” said Tom, “but I can barely even read.

  I’m afraid if there’s no letter waiting for her on the hill tomorrow, Miss Haggerty might do something foolish.” Wells had to admit it was most likely, given the feverish tone of her missive.

  “The reason I came here was to ask you to write to her on my behalf,” the young man went on to confess.

  Wells looked at him, incredulous.

  “What did you say?” “Three letters, that’s all, Mr. Wells. It’s nothing for you,” pleaded the youth, and then after a moment’s thought, he added: “I can’t pay you, but if you ever have a problem that can’t be dealt with in a civilized way, just call on me.” Wells could scarcely believe his ears. He was about to say he had no intention of getting involved in this mess, when he felt Jane’s hand pressing his firmly. He turned to look at his wife, who smiled at him with the same dreamy expression she wore when she finished one of her beloved romantic novels: then he looked back at Tom, who in turn was gaping at him expectantly. And he realized he had no choice: he must once more save a life using his imagination. He gazed for a long time at the pages he was holding, covered in Claire Haggerty’s neat, elegant script. Deep down, he had to confess he found it tempting to carry on this fantastic story, to pretend to be a brave hero from the future caught up in a bloody war against the evil automatons, and even to tell another woman he loved her passionately, and with the approval of his own wife. As though suddenly the world had decided to nurture man’s deepest feelings, instead of keeping them in check, giving rise to a harmonious cohabitation on a planet cleansed of jealousy and prejudice, where licentious behavior had been sublimated into an almost tender, respectful friendship. The challenge excited him enormously, it was true, and as he had no choice but to accept it, he cheered himself with the notion that he might find corresponding with the unknown young woman at once amusing and exciting.

  “Very well,” he agreed reluctantly. “Come back tomorrow morning and you’ll have your letter.”

  30

  The first thing Wells did when he was left alone in the sitting room while Jane accompanied the young man to the door was to place Gilliam Murray’s manuscript once more out of his field of vision. Although he had not let it show, he found the appalling manner in which Gilliam kept his masquerade going deeply disturbing. Naturally, he had to surround himself with people who could keep their mouths shut, and although he could have achieved this with incentives, threats seemed to work much better. The discovery that Gilliam resorted so casually to such gruesome methods sent a shiver down his spine; not for nothing was the man his adversary, or at least that was what his behavior seemed to indicate. He picked up the leaflet Gilliam sent him religiously every week and looked at it with distaste. Sickening though it was, Wells had to accept that it was all his fault. Yes, Murray’s Time Travel existed thanks to him, thanks to the decision he had made.

  He had only had two meetings with Gilliam Murray, but for some men that was enough to establish an enmity. And Gilliam was one of those, as Wells soon discovered. Their first meeting had taken place in that very room one April afternoon, he recalled, glancing with horror at the wing chair into which Gilliam Murray had squeezed his bulky frame.

  From the moment he had appeared in the doorway with his visiting card and his unctuous smile, Wells had been in awe of his huge oxlike body, although even more astonishing was the extraordinary weightlessness of his movements, as though his bones were hollow. Wells had sat down in the chair facing him, and while Jane served the tea, the two men had studied one another with polite discretion. When his wife had left the room, the stranger gave him an even broader syrupy smile, thanked him for agreeing to see him at such short notice, and, without pausing for breath, showered him with rapturous adulation for his novel The Time Machine. However, there are those who only admire a thing in order blow their own trumpet, to show off their own understanding and intelligence to others, and Gilliam Murray belonged to this group of men. He launched into a furious eulogy of the novel, extolling with lofty speech the symmetry of its structure, the power of its imagery, even the color of the suit he had chosen for his main character. Wells simply listened courteously and wondered why anyone would choose to waste their morning inundating him with praise when they could put it all in a polite letter like the rest of his admirers. He weathered the glowing tributes, nodding uneasily, as one caught in an irksome yet harmless shower of rain, praying that the tedious panegyric would soon end and he could go back to his work. However, he soon discovered it had been no more than a preamble aimed at smoothing the man’s way before he decided to reveal the real reason for his visit.

  After finishing his fulsome speech, Gilliam plucked a voluminous manuscript from his briefcase and placed it delicately in Wells’s hands, as though he were handing over a sacred relic or a newborn infant. Captain Derek Shackleton: The True Story of a Brave Hero of the Future, Wells read, dumbfounded. He could no longer recall how they had agreed to meet again a week later, after the giant wheedled him into promising to read his novel, and if he liked it, to recommend it to Henley.

  Wells embarked upon the task of ploughing through the manuscript that had unexpectedly come into his hands, like someone undergoing torture. He had no desire to read anything issuing from the imagination of that self-important braggart whom he considered absolutely incapable of interesting him, and he was not mistaken. The more he read of the pretentious prose, the more his mind became fogged with boredom, and he quickly made a conscious decision never again to meet any of his admirers. Gilliam had given him an overwritten, monotonous piece of tripe; a novel which, in common with the many that were swamping bookshop windows, had copied the one he had written speculated about the future. Such novels were brimming with mechanical artifacts, veritable paper depositories of junk, which, drawing inspiration from the growing impact of science, exhibited every type of outlandish machine aimed at satisfying man’s most secret longings. Wells had read none of them, but Henley had related many of their hilarious plots to him over a meal; such as those of the New Yorker Luis Senarens, whose main characters explore the planet’s far-flung territories in airships, abducting any indigenous tribe they happen across on the way. The one that had stuck in his mind was about a Jewish inventor who built a machine that made things grow bigger. The image of London attacked by an army of giant wood lice, which Henley had described to him with contempt, had actually terrified Wells.

  The plot of Gilliam Murray’s novel was equally painful. The pompous title concealed the madcap visions of an unhinged mind. Gilliam argued that as the years went by, the automatons—those mechanical dolls sold in some Central London toy shops—would eventually come to life. Yes, incredible though it might seem, beneath their wooden skulls an almost human form of awarenes
s would begin to stir, so human in fact that the astonished reader would soon discover that the automatons harbored a deep resentment towards man for the humiliating treatment they had endured as his slaves. Finally, under the leadership of Solomon, a steam-powered automaton soldier, they swiftly and mercilessly decided the fate of the human race: extermination.

  Within a few decades the automatons had reduced the planet to a mound of rubble and mankind to a handful of frightened rats, from amongst whose ranks, however, arose the brave Captain Shackleton. After years of futile combat, Shackleton finally put an end to the automaton Solomon’s evil plans, defeating him in a ridiculous sword fight. In the final mind-boggling pages of his already preposterous tale, Gilliam had the temerity to draw an embarrassing moral from his story, with which he hoped to give the whole of England— or at any rate the toy manufacturers— something to think about: God would end up punishing man if he went on emulating him by creating life—if indeed these mechanical creations could be described as possessing such a thing, Wells reflected.

  It was possible a story like this might work as satire, but the problem was Gilliam took it terribly seriously, imbuing it with an air of solemnity which only made the plot seem even more ludicrous. Gilliam’s vision of the year 2000 was utterly implausible. In all other respects, his writing was infantile and verbose in equal measure, the characters were poorly drawn, and the dialogue dull as dishwater. All in all, it was the novel of someone who believes anyone can be a writer. It was not that he strung words together willy-nilly without any aesthetic pretensions; if he had, it would have made for dull but palatable reading. No, Gilliam was one of those avid readers who believed good writing was akin to icing a cake—a conviction that resulted in overblown, horribly flowery prose that was full of ridiculous verbal displays, indigestible to the reader. When Wells reached the final page he felt aesthetically nauseated. The only fate the novel deserved was to be flung on the fire; furthermore, if time travel were to become the order of the day, Wells would be honor-bound to journey into the past and beat the fellow to a pulp before he was able to disgrace future literature with his creation.