The Basingstoke Chronicles

by Robert Appleton

  "It's the time machine, then," I said, "and let's pray it's undamaged."

  Pacal and I raced back along the river until we breached the forest. We chanced a crossing where another fissure had wrenched the river bed up to a steep angle. The water had drained away, leaving slick mud. We slid across. The enormous antelope herd we had seen stampeding from east to west now raced uphill toward the northern tree line. Pacal and I held our breaths as they raced out of our path. We pressed on for the opening in the forest from which Rodrigo and I had emerged that first day, but I failed to locate it. The ash-filled air now rendered the east vague and ethereal. I could barely identify an orange glow in the direction of the volcano.

  "Lava?" I uttered.

  "Where?" asked Pacal.

  "There...can you see? That glow...spreading over the valley."

  "It could just be fire."

  "No, " I replied. "It's across the ground churned by the stampede. There's nothing there left to burn. It has to be molten."

  A deafening roar made us turn northwest. The two of us looked on in horror as Yaku village, together with half the western continent, collapsed into the sea. I crushed my palms against my ears to try to smother the awesome noise. The earthquake ripped me from my feet. I barely scrambled upright before a second collapse occurred, this time even closer. Geyser streams threw boiling water hundreds of feet in the air, falling narrowly short of where we stood. These quickly merged into one huge cloud of billowing steam.

  We tore through the rainforest at a dangerous speed, but dared not slow for an instant. The devastation behind us prized life itself from the heart of the island. Dozens of beasts darted by us, including a zebra, a brace of panthers and a small herd of red deer. I twisted my ankle on a camouflaged root but limped on without saying a word. Pacal Votan perhaps fared worse than I, for his large frame was less agile; where I was able to dodge or duck jutting foliage, he could not. This slowed him down, more or less evened our paces. By the time we reached the far side of the forest, his flesh was cut quite badly.

  There was no time for treatment. The dark ocean below slashed, frothed. I gasped for every breath, as if my blood fought against my heart with each beat. The stairway entrance lay only a quarter mile west along the cliff top.

  "Pacal, the old man said he versed you in the basics of the vessel. What is the occupant supposed to do for oxygen? Is the air in there fit to breathe?"

  "Yes," he answered. "He mentioned something about a material that converts water to oxygen. The supply should be infinite."

  "At least that's something," I replied. "Now all we have to do is swim for it. You ready?"

  "Ready, Lord."

  Off we went. Our final dash along the cliff top was truly precarious. The two hundred feet to sea level seemed like two hundred miles, while searing inland heat forced us to shield our faces. From above, a blizzard of ash and steam choked our path. Even the rock beneath our feet strained, cracked, as if the entire island buckled under its own weight.

  I entered the stone passage first. We coughed as we made our way through the close, dank cavern. Our footsteps scuffed and scraped the serpentine stairway as it trembled, until we at last emerged.

  Pallid daylight reflecting across the water in the cave was the only illumination. I shimmied along the ledge, grateful for the refrigerated air. Fifty feet beyond the cave mouth, or was it a hundred?

  A violent quake knocked Pacal from his feet. He hit his head on the wall and collapsed in a heap, dazed, while a faint yellow glow from behind lit the stone all about him. In moments, it flared to a deep orange. I scrabbled back across and finally succeeded in dragging his body onto the ledge. With all my might I launched him into the water. A torrent of molten lava erupted from the passage, scorching my right shoulder. It hurt like hell, but I managed to dodge the full lava stream.

  I sprang into the ocean beside Pacal. The wound stung but the pain slowly eased as we swam.

  "Lord!" he exclaimed, "you made it!"

  The lava stream smothered our scuba tanks. A dense, white cloud rose as water boiled and lava cooled, and there, in the loneliest place on Earth, fate itself seemed to hiss in protest. The native, who should have died, now swam beside me for the open, uncharted sea.

  A cloud ceiling lower than most ship masts hung over us as we reached the spot where the time machine rested. I dove to confirm the geography.

  "This is it," I assured Pacal. "Take a deep breath and stay close."

  "I'm with you, Lord."

  A horrendous crack ripped through the air, followed by a roll of thunder. The noise was far greater than anything we had witnessed thus far. "The last eruption?" I said.

  Pacal looked on, awestruck. The cliff wall itself staggered back and forth in the ocean, like a drunk teetering on a tightrope. One fell jolt looked enough to topple it directly onto us. I wasted no time. With a gigantic breath, I plunged and made straight for the sea bottom.

  Not a sound met my ears, yet the rumblings of destruction lingered, a gravel undercurrent. I paid no mind to the extraordinary sea garden. Feeling my way over the time machine's invisible surface, I prayed for the island to stay its plunge.

  The chamber was serene, empty, even mournful as I climbed up through the keel. I hardly registered the pure air that greeted us. After helping Pacal to his feet, we made straight for the inlaid panel. His expression was one of restrained wonderment, his eyes brighter than twin constellations.

  "We'll find my own time and plan ahead from there. Agreed?"

  "Agreed, Lord."

  Right...as far away as possible, the big jump first. As soon as I'd activated that function, the vessel was hurled into a violent spin. We crashed around the chamber, hapless, like marbles in a rolling tin can. The spin continued for a full minute. It seemed to subside at a natural pace, as if the initial force had been external, throwing the time machine into a swirl just before its temporal journey began.

  "What do you suppose caused that?" asked Pacal, staggering to his feet as the sphere stopped spinning.

  "I'd rather not know," I said. "We vanished along with the island and everyone else. That's all that matters."

  The native kept me engaged. He must have known I was not thinking straight, and in a critical situation, that is not what a voyage needs from its captain.

  "I'm certain the majority of the fleet escaped," he said. "At last reckoning, I counted twelve ships. Which land do you suppose they'll reach, Lord?"

  "Either North or South America. Puma has your compass and sextant. Rodrigo is no fool."

  "I'm sure he's leading them to safety as we speak. Tell me of England and your own time. I'd like to know more about it before I choose when to settle."

  I began a brief overview of the twentieth century. Wars came and went in less time than it took to race by them. Great leaders rose, nations crumbled as frequently as Rodrigo flashed through my mind. So enwrapped in the turbulent tale were we that a full half hour disappeared in its telling. When the time machine finally came to rest, we remained on the bed of the Caribbean, in discussion.

  "Well, my friend, I think we've arrived," I said at last. "Where we go from here is up to you."

  Pacal leant forward with a look of great excitement. "My decision's already made. I want to discover this birth of technology. I'm going to see the twentieth century from its beginning, if that's all right. Will you take me to nineteen hundred?"

  This surprised me. "You realize you'll likely endure many hardships. It's been a savage century so far."

  "After what we've just survived, Lord, savage will be a welcome stroll."

  I didn't agree with him, but nodded anyway. After all, this tall fellow from the past should not have been here at all. "A life for a life?" I had solved the mystery and saved Pacal Votan, but at what cost? Was the native worth more to me than brave Rodrigo? Had fate replaced one with the other, collecting a debt even time travel could not cancel?

  If so, I alone was the guarantor. So eager to challenge the laws of Nature
, that foolish whim had lost me everything I set out with. Rodrigo and I had bought the native a second chance; the price was that I now felt utterly lost.

  "Nineteen hundred it is, Pacal."

  "You mean to stay there with me?"

  "No," I replied. "That century is no home to me now."

  "Where will you go?"

  "Hmm... someplace I can get a moment's peace."

  Pacal smiled and traced his finger across the base of the control panel. To my surprise, the display flipped to reveal an entirely new set of functions. The first symbol he pressed dissolved the walls of the chamber until they were completely transparent. This also revealed, for the first time, the propellers atop the machine. The beautiful, hypnotic wonders of the sea bed also appeared before us. I was most impressed.

  "What else can you do with this thing?" I asked.

  Pacal pressed another function. The propellers rotated like a giant whisk. The vessel lifted from the sea bottom and rose, with a gentle purr, to the surface. There we bobbed on the waves beneath a blinding afternoon sun, yet I could feel no heat. I glimpsed an unusual shape afloat on the surface, not fifty feet away. It was dark, lifeless and about the size of a man.

  Oh my god!

  I shuddered and turned away. The adventure had indeed come full circle. Pacal Votan never saw his own dead body adrift on the ocean. Watching him solve the strange functions on the propulsion display, I came to realize what a remarkable task I had in fact accomplished. "What a strange thing," I thought, "to bring a man back to life!"

  Chapter 22

  Being the protégé of that crusty old time-traveler, Pacal figured out the vessel's mechanics in no time. The propellers, it turned out, were central to each function. Reconfigured at the press of a button, they provided thrust in any chosen direction.

  The pictorial symbols proved easy to memorize, though the increments of time travel were difficult for me to comprehend, particularly at the higher end of the scale. The native showed me how to combine values of this fresh numeration to reach pinpoint destinations through time. It is fair to say that, under Pacal's tutelage, I mastered the futuristic craft.

  After reaching the year nineteen hundred and one, we pilfered a few choice supplies from a Cuban harbor master. Pacal lifted a rather unpleasant cask of water and a rusty sextant, I found delicious fruit and a compass. We then set off on the long voyage to England.

  The blades of our vessel spun just beneath the waves for many days and nights, but neither of us had any practical experience of navigation. Pacal had the clever idea of trailing an ocean liner bound eastward. Though much slower than we were able, this proved a highly effective means of crossing the Atlantic. We rationed our supplies and spoke at great length about Pacal's plans for settling down in southern England.

  "I'll be content with any job I can find," he insisted.

  As money was an alien concept to him, I knew he was ill-equipped to tackle such a greedy century.

  "We need to give you a head start," I said. "We've cheated just about every law of Nature. What's an extra little swindle going to change?"

  "I'm not sure I like the sound of this, Lord."

  "There's nothing to it, Pacal! My plan is this: we have a game in England called football. Each year, a large number of teams compete for a trophy. It is known as the FA Cup. Now, in 1902, Sheffield United win the FA Cup by two goals to one against Southampton. With this information, you can win enough money to at least live comfortably."

  "How?"

  "By placing a bet. OK, think of it as guessing the outcome of the match. People place wealth in the hands of others as an investment for their guess. If they guess correctly, they win an amount greater than their investment. The less likely the outcome beforehand, the greater their return. If they guess incorrectly, they lose everything."

  "I see. So it's a game of chance?"

  "Exactly! It's all in the risk."

  "Like you and the time machine, Lord," he said. "Risk nothing, lose nothing...gain nothing?"

  "Well, now you have a way to cheat that rule, don't you? You'll have another year to earn the money for the bet. Remember, Sheffield United 2; Southampton 1."

  "Just one thing," he added, "how could you possibly remember that?"

  "Oh, I know them all," I answered. "Past results are my expertise."

  The duel promontories enclosing Ten Gulls Beach on the Devonshire coast prodded my ambivalence as we approached. The sheer, unforgiving rock formation reminded me of the cove through which Puma, Darkly and the fleet of Apterona had escaped. Were Rodrigo and K'achita with them? Did they ever reach land? If so, their ancestors likely existed somewhere in the world today. By chance, would Pacal and I ever greet one of them? It was a bittersweet thought, for our friends, possible survivors mere days before, had certainly perished over eleven thousand years ago.

  Such are the relative realities of a time-traveler--jigsaw mysteries of memory forming constant memories of mystery. Perhaps the only untouched certainty is one's physical aging. Will that one day be stemmed by science in the future? If so, what will become of us and our dreams? If all of Nature's laws are one day superseded, with what will we explorers have to contend? Merely our imagination, as the old man suggested?

  * * * *

  Where Lord Henry Basingstoke left me for he did not say. The item he left me with, however, articulated a great deal. As he unwrapped the small bundle of towels and clothes from his plastic carrier, a piece of parchment dropped to the ground. It was folded many times over. A quiet intrigue held us as he unraveled it.

  "There's something written inside," he said.

  "And something spilling from it as well," I warned, noting a few dry granules sliding down one of the folds.

  He inspected them closely. "They're seeds."

  We eyed each other with genuine surprise.

  "What does the writing say?"

  "It's in English. It says 'FROM HER MAJESTY, TO A FRIEND.'"

  His grin all but reignited the dwindling embers of the campfire. But I was perplexed. "Rodrigo wrote this?"

  "Yes!" he replied, "and sneaked it in my bag before we left Yaku for the last time. I remember Chasca Quilla placed something in her pocket as we knelt among the t'ika plants. My guess is she intended these seeds as a present for me, but after thinking me dead, she gave them to Rodrigo instead."

  "And he passed them on to you after all."

  Lord remained silent while re-packing his carrier. As he slung it over his shoulder, he held out his hand, before speaking his final words to me.

  "Grow them well and be wary, my friend. God speed, Pacal. Oh and by the way, for a native name, how about Patrick Walton?"

  I took the folded parchment and clasped it in both hands. "Thank you, Lord, for everything, and fair fortune to you, my friend."

  There he smiled and walked across the shingle to the cold sea. I watched as he swam out to the craft that bobbed alone on dark waves, to the restless future awaiting him. As the vessel vanished, I turned to face inland, a new man on a new shore, never more excited in my life. For if an Englishman could conquer history, what could I, a man out of history, make of England?

  Epilogue

  Eleven years have passed since that Devonshire farewell. The flowers' aroma has grown more pungent of late. The seeds are now a garden, but I hesitate to inhale the pollen. Am I fearful of knowing too much about the future?

  My name is Patrick Walton, formerly Pacal Votan. I have been a science teacher at the Whorley Acres Primary School for the past four years. My previous jobs were as a fisherman and a shop assistant in Torquay. Through the latter, I met and married a wonderful girl named Claire, the rarest flower in all of England. That was ten years ago. For a wedding present, I brought home a fortune won on the FA Cup. My promise to visit each of the finalists' home venues, Sheffield and Southampton, has, as of today, been fulfilled.

  All told, Lord Basingstoke's tale has taken me eighteen months to write. Hopefully, one day, he will come to read it.
As I put the finishing touches to this account, Claire and I wait in Southampton for a voyage I know he would be proud of. England is without doubt the centre of the world, yet I am ever hungry for new horizons. We set sail in two days for America--from what I hear, a land of great opportunity. What a fitting turn of fate this is, to at last undertake a journey denied me eleven thousand years ago.

  Embarking on her maiden voyage, the vessel to give us passage is causing quite a stir in England. Alas, what mere ship could ever usurp the esteem of a time-traveler, a man literally reborn through the bravery of two fellow men?

  Indeed, what greater achievement is there than turning epilogue into prologue?

  Patrick H. Walton

  April 8, 1912

  About the Author

  An Englishman with a telescope, Robert Appleton maintains he was born a century too late. His love of science fiction began with boyhood jaunts through the worlds of Wells, Verne and E.R. Burroughs. A natural adventurer, he often writes stories set in Earth orbit, or survival-themed odysseys on alien planets. Dogged Englishness abounds! But like those speculative authors', his tales are tinged with hope and the excitement of discovery.

  When he isn't reading, Robert can be found either gliding on the sea in his kayak or racing around the football pitch like a madman.

  To catch up with him, go to http://www.robertappleton.co.uk, or visit his blog at http://www.robertbappleton.blogspot.com

  * * * *

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