Mirrorman

by Trevor Hoyle

  Of course it was all speculative, just one possible extrapolation into the future out of the millions of possibilities that awaited him. Harmless fantasy with a dash of wish-fulfilment.

  And yet, Gribble reasoned, one of those futures had to be the right one. In a sense it existed already in a limbo of time yet to be, just waiting to happen. That was Delphi’s task (when he got the Beast working!): to compute the odds against this or that event happening, and to plot a ‘probability curve’ for the subject in question. The intriguing aspect of this theory, to Gribble, was that all these infinite probabilities existed side by side. So that, for instance, you could hypothetically live through each one, leading a countless number of separate lives that might vary just fractionally from all the rest. Over the entire spectrum, some lives would vary just a tiny fraction, while others would be totally different from one another. But you’d be living them all, simultaneously and continuously, that was the point.

  Was this all a bit far-fetched? he wondered. You could make it work out on paper, get the math right, construct a watertight theory, but what about in practice? Each person had only one life that they could live. There may be millions of other possible lives, but you were aware of only one because you were stuck in your own separate timespace. Timespace? Where had that come from? Had he just coined a new word?

  Gribble glanced round, clicking his fingers. A tail wagged. ‘Here, boy. Come on, Heisenberg!’

  The rust-coloured dog jumped down from the sofa, trotted forward, and licked his hand. ‘Want to go walkies, boy? Sniff around a few hydrants? Chase a piece of tail?’

  The mutt had a better sex life than he had, Gribble reflected. Sad but true. Sometimes he wished he could change everything, lead a life of excitement, danger even. Well, he thought, maybe in one or other of his probable lives that’s precisely what he was doing.

  ‘And good luck to him,’ Gribble murmured. ‘I mean, to me.’

  He patted the dog’s head, stretched himself, and got up out of the chair. He’d had enough for one day. He’d take Heisenberg for a stroll and stop off somewhere for a sandwich and a beer. What an exotic life he led.

  The screen faded to grey as he switched off. Peeping over the Columbia Library, the sun’s last rays beamed into the room and flared brightly as they struck an object on his workbench. Gribble picked it up. As with nearly everything else, it was an item that had just accumulated, along with the rest of his stuff. He couldn’t even remember if he’d found it on the street somewhere or bought it in a junk shop. A gold pin (not real gold of course) in the shape of a butterfly. Or was it meant to be a bow tie? He didn’t suppose it mattered. Nothing special, anyway, and certainly of no value.

  Yet looking at it resting in his palm now, Gribble realised he was rather fond of the piece of junk. As if it held a memory for him, or some romantic association. Though for the life of him he hadn’t the vaguest notion what that might be.

  2

  The Salamander was prepared and ready to depart. Jefferson Cawdor had stowed his belongings below and now he was eager to see the gap of foul water widen between ship and shore and to wave farewell to the smoky haze of Plymouth. He had few regrets. England was a place of persecution and bigotry. Other sects, besides his own Telluric Faith, were leaving, he had noticed. There were Methodists and Catholics on board, and he had observed a group of monklike figures in black robes standing in a circle in silent prayer. It comforted him to think they were praying for a safe voyage. If they were to be protected and afforded a sound passage, then it followed that so were he, Saraheda and Daniel.

  Up on deck there was a frantic bustle, men hanging in the rigging and getting ready the sails for when the vessel reached the harbour mouth. Three men stood at the gangplank, awaiting orders to raise it. Others leant over the side, coiling ropes as they were released from the mooring blocks.

  It was a beautiful evening, the air soft and balmy. Cawdor lifted his face to feel the last heat of the setting sun. Though in the Colonies, he knew, he would get as much sun as he cared for.

  ‘God in heaven!’ Saraheda exclaimed, wrinkling her nose. ‘Do we have to live with that smell down below for three whole months? I feel nauseous already, Jefferson.’

  ‘You won’t once we get going. The sea breeze carries it away.’

  ‘Before they carry me away, I hope,’ Saraheda replied darkly.

  Cawdor laughed and squeezed her to him.

  ‘What’s holding us up?’ Daniel asked, hopping impatiently from foot to foot. He looked up at his father. ‘We have to catch the tide, you said. Suppose it goes before we’re ready?’

  ‘We’re ready now.’

  ‘But we’re not moving.’

  ‘The captain won’t miss it, Daniel. He’s an experienced seafarer, I’m told. Look! That’s the reason.’

  Cawdor pointed, and lifted Daniel up to see. One of the ship’s officers, in cocked hat and dress coat, was remonstrating with a man in a torn filthy shirt and ragged breeches, lank hair hanging over his face like a clump of matted straw. The man was waving a scrap of paper, though the officer would have none of it. He shook his head, beckoned a couple of seamen forward, and waved the man from his sight.

  ‘Why, see there – they’re throwing him off,’ Saraheda said. ‘Poor man.’

  ‘Why “poor” man?’ Cawdor said. ‘He might be a felon. Looks like a rogue to me.’

  ‘You oughtn’t to judge by appearances,’ Saraheda chided him primly, and stifled a whoop as Cawdor pinched her bottom.

  Everyone craned to watch as the man was frogmarched to the gangplank and sent staggering down it, almost losing his footing and nearly ending up in the poisonous turd-swilling harbour. Then the order was given, the gangplank raised, and the man stared balefully up at the ship, fists clenched at his sides, his lower teeth showing like a mongrel about to bite.

  ‘He’s got a funny eye,’ Daniel announced blithely, and Saraheda dug her elbow into his ribs. ‘Well, he has!’

  ‘That’s not his fault. Shush!’

  Daniel fell silent, gladly, because now the Salamander was actually moving, turning about, being pulled towards the harbour mouth by longboats. The sails were unfurled, the vast yardage of canvas stretching and filling out, rosily pink in the light of the sunset.

  Seeking a better vantage point, Daniel leapt on to a bale, and spotted something else.

  ‘Mr Gryble! Mr Gryble, you’re being robbed!’

  A boy of eight or nine, half his backside hanging out, was in the act of removing Gryble’s astrolabe from his sack. Evading Gryble’s swipe, he hugged the instrument close to his chest and ducked and weaved through the passengers’ legs, dodging out of harm’s way. Cawdor stuck out his foot. The boy did a spectacular somersault, but as Daniel jumped down to retrieve the astrolabe from where it had rolled into the drainway the boy came up spitting like a wildcat. Daniel stood his ground, but regretted he had a moment later when he received a terrific sock in the mouth. He sat down, spitting out blood and bits of teeth. The boy came for him again, so it was just as well that Cawdor got there first, stepping in between and hoisting the ragamuffin up by the scruff.

  ‘That’s the brat who came aboard with Kershalton,’ a voice called out. ‘Why didn’t the captain evict him too?’

  The boy was wriggling in Cawdor’s grasp. He swung around, snarling foul abuse, and spat in Cawdor’s face.

  ‘Toss him over the side. Let him sink or swim.’

  Cawdor moved as if to do so, and the boy squirmed and whined, ‘No, sir, please. Don’t, sir. I’ll drown.’

  ‘Let him drown, then. Good riddance to bad rubbish,’ a woman said.

  Cawdor wiped the spittle from his face, holding the boy at arm’s length. ‘You’d better calm down, then. And show some decent manners. Or I will feed you to the fishes.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Oh yes, sir.’

  He held up both hands in supplication, and Cawdor saw they were oddly shaped, with an extra, withered finger and a curved nail on the outside of eac
h one. ‘What’s your name, boy?’

  ‘Sam, sir.’

  ‘D’you belong to the man who was thrown off?’

  ‘I don’t belong to nobody,’ the boy answered sullenly. He jerked his head. ‘Least of all a murderer who escaped the gallows by the skin of his teeth. I got my pride.’

  Cawdor laughed and set the boy down. At once the little ruffian grabbed the hand that had been holding him and sank his teeth into it. The boy’s eyes grew round. Slowly he drew back, saliva dripping from his open mouth, a look of mortal terror on his face.

  ‘What’s the matter, boy?’ Cawdor asked mildly. ‘Too tough for you? Have another chew.’ He offered the same unmarked hand and the boy shrank away.

  ‘Must have skin like bull leather,’ somebody muttered.

  ‘Naw, the lad’s toothless,’ another decided.

  ‘If you misbehave once again on this voyage,’ Cawdor said softly, holding up his left hand, ‘I’ll wallop you with this. I don’t think you’d like that.’

  Cawdor winked, as if the two of them shared some secret understanding, and turned back to the rail. Saraheda had cleaned the blood from Daniel’s face. Cawdor inspected his teeth. One lost; one chipped. ‘It’ll spoil your handsome looks for a while, but never mind.’ He ruffled his son’s hair.

  ‘He won’t do it again. Next time I’ll be ready for him,’ Daniel announced.

  ‘There won’t be a next time,’ his father promised him. ‘Believe me.’

  ‘Jefferson, your hand.’

  ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. Positive.’

  The lines from the longboats had been cast off and the ship was now clear of the harbour. Above their heads the topsails cracked open and filled with wind. The three of them took a long last look at receding England and then turned away.

  Cawdor lifted Daniel up to perch on his shoulder and put his arm round his wife. His spirits were soaring. Flying along with the ship. A new life in the New World! Out there in the Colonies a golden future awaited them. He was convinced of it. Indeed, he knew it for a fact.

  Under full sail, the Salamander surged forward confidently to meet the open sea.