by Mike Ashley
“Well, they agreed not to overshoot.”
“Why aren’t they back already?”
The question hung in the air. The laboratory remained silent and bare in the glare of the electric lights.
“Who was it,” I asked, “who said, ‘You can never step into the same river twice’?”
“Heraclitus.”
“Heraclitus was right. But our learned friend is trying to do just that. I suppose it’s what we all long to do – to re-live some moment of our lives, but live it better.”
“Yes, indeed. You drop a precious crystal goblet, your favourite – and it shatters into a hundred pieces. Gone for ever. If only you could have ten seconds back! And once I lost a woman patient – and just afterwards thought of a different treatment, which might have saved her. Oh, to go back just one day! But one never can. Time’s arrow is relentless, Hillyer. What’s done is done, once and for all. And Time Travel does not alter that – as Welles proved the other night. Because of the zig-zag effect. You can never have things over again—”
As he was yet speaking, I felt a familiar qualm of dizziness, a blast of air – and there was the Time Machine, solidifying, only feet in front of me. I cried out, and reeled backward. Browne also jumped back. The Machine was moving – rolling on its wheels. As it came to a stop against the wall, I saw that there were three figures on it. The two men were in modern trousers and shirt-sleeves; Welles had the handle of a revolver drooping from his trouser pocket.
In front of Welles, almost in his lap, sat a young girl, blonde, fair-skinned, blue-eyed. She wore a short white tunic trimmed with gold, and gilded sandals. She looked terrified. She was clutching the waist of the Traveller, just ahead of her, and crying out in an unknown musical language: “Periu, Periu, puio isu olo!” In spite of her fear, the quality of her voice was strangely beautiful, and warmer than I would have expected: contralto or mezzo-soprano, clear but not shrill. As she held the Traveller by the waist, so Welles also held her firmly round her slim waist on that long saddle. I realised that he must have been holding her so through all their journey back across the years. Lucky man, I thought, to hold so sweet a little creature!
The Traveller now jumped down from his saddle, and reached up for her. “It’s all right, Weena!” he laughed. “You’re safe! No more Morlocks!” Then he added: “Laio, laio – pu Molokoi alo.”
They were all off the Machine now, all facing us. The Traveller and the girl had their arms round each other.
“Everything is fine!” said the Traveller, laughing. “And this is certainly Weena – my Weena! I rescued her from the river, just like last time, and rescued her from the Morlocks. No second version of me appeared. I suppose Welles is right in his basic theory – just as well, or we couldn’t have rescued her. But otherwise – it was just the same – or a little better! Weena slept on my arm, those nights in the big grey house – and by day, she crowned me with flowers . . . She’s the same girl, I tell you – just as sweet, just as loving – but this time she’s saved!”
“So much for Heraclitus,” I murmured. “Doctor, you can have things over again.”
“Well, I am glad, very glad,” said Browne. “And Weena . . .”
His voice trailed away. I too, for a while, could do nothing but gaze at her. She was not quite as small as I had first thought – under five feet, certainly, but not by much. I could not tell her age at all: she might be anything between fourteen and twenty, and even of those limits I was not confident. Age seemed not to apply to her. Her skin was flawless, not dead white but slightly kissed by the sun; her features were symmetrical, her curly hair a rich golden colour; and her eyes were very bright, with a green sparkle within their blue. Her beauty was indeed awesome. Like a Greek goddess on a small scale: a nymph, immortal and ageless.
“You–you did not really tell us—” I began.
But this nymph was still frightened. She raised a shapely fair arm, and pointed at Browne. “Moloko?” she cried.
Welles laughed. “No, no.” He caressed Weena’s bare shoulder. “Pu Moloko, Wini – niio, pereno.” He turned to Browne. “She thought you might be a Morlock, Doctor. It’s your beard. I’m glad I shaved mine off. The Morlocks are – hairy.”
Weena said a few more rapid musical words, looking wildly all about her. The Traveller replied quickly, reassuringly, in the same language. He stroked her hand.
“She doesn’t like this place,” Welles explained. “It’s dark, it’s enclosed. For her, it has a Morlockish feel. I don’t blame her. She doesn’t know about Time Travel: we told her we were taking her away to a different place – Beriten – Britain – where there’d be no Morlocks. It’ll take her a long while before she realises the truth.”
“You all seem quite fluent,” said Browne. “I thought . . .”
The Traveller turned to us. “That was another thing that went better. I at least knew some of the language from the start. We picked up much more before we even met Weena. And since . . . Now, come on – we’ve got to get her out of here, make her comfortable.”
“After that,” said Browne, “I’d like to examine her. Thoroughly. Superficially she looks . . . but after 800,000 years . . .”
“Not today,” said the Traveller. “You’d frighten her.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Welles. “Where we came from, the Morlocks—”
“Enough, Welles!” said the Traveller, sharply. “Now, out.”
So we all left the laboratory; and Weena was introduced to the household, and the household to her. The sun came out of the clouds, the house brightened, and when Weena entered the sumptuous drawing-room, she quickly lost her fear. She slipped off her sandals, and stood on the carpet in very shapely bare white feet. Mrs Watchett gasped when she saw the newcomer – “Oh, what a pretty young lady!” – and James the manservant goggled, and Ellen the maid, who was young, fell over in making her curtsy. Weena laughed; she had a very lovely laugh. Then she seized Ellen’s hand, and kissed her on the cheek. She kissed Mrs Watchett also. Perhaps she would have kissed more of us – including James – if Mrs Watchett had not grasped her firmly by the arm.
“She’s just a child, Mrs Watchett,” said the Traveller.
“Oh Sir, maybe so – but she’s too old to go about in them clothes!”
I knew what was offending the good housekeeper: Weena’s tunic hem-line. It came only a little way below her knees, revealing lovely bare legs as well as feet; and in 1891, even ankles . . .
“Yes of course,” said the Traveller. “You shall measure her presently, Mrs Watchett, and get proper things made. But give her a little time . . .”
Weena was now marvelling at everything she saw. She ran her hands over the furniture, and laughed when Welles demonstrated sitting on the sofa. She bounced up and down on that. Then she ran, amazed, to stare at the coal fire in the fireplace.
“Don’t they have no fires in that Silvania?” said Mrs Watchett.
“It’s a warm country,” said the Traveller hastily. “They don’t need them.”
Now Weena wanted to know all our names. She had a great affection for the Traveller, whom she called “Periu” – a version of his first name – but she was also on very good terms with Welles, whom she called “Abio” (Herbert). “Mr Hillyer” was too much of a mouthful for her, and “George” was quite impossible, so she quickly christened me “Ilio”.
“These are also meaningful words in Eloic,” Welles smiled. “Abio means ‘coloured glass’ or ‘jewel’ and ilio means ‘clear glass’.”
“Charming,” I said.
Weena also could not manage “Mrs Watchett”, but took to calling her, from her first name, Meri or sometimes Meri-a.
“The a-ending is honorific,” said Welles. “From the way Mrs Watchett is bossing her, I think she imagines she is the head of things here.”
Weena now laughed, pointing to each of us in turn, beginning with the women. “Meri-a na Eleni . . . na Periu na Abio na Ilio . . . na Baranu na Demu. Oli perenoi, sa?”
“She asks if we are all friends,” said Welles. He turned to her. “Sa, Wini – oli perenoi.”
The Traveller coughed. “Really, Welles! No Socialism now, please!”
“Well, Sir, we’re not enemies, are we? We’re as much perenoi to each other as all the Eloi are – nearly. We don’t eat, dissect or enslave each other.”
“Oli laii, laii Taweloi!” exclaimed Weena.
“She says we are all good people,” said Welles. “And Taweloi – that means, Big or Great Eloi.”
The only thing Weena disliked about us was – our clothes. These she thought ogo – ugly. She was asking, evidently, why we wore such things – so sombre, so heavy. To that there was no answer. I noticed that though she was very lightly clad, and the day was not warm, she did not feel the cold. Mrs Watchett remarked on that.
“Oh,” said Welles cheerfully, “in Transylvania, Mrs Watchett, they bring up children not to mind the cold. You’d be surprised how little the young ones wear.”
The Traveller frowned. But at that moment, Weena kissed Mrs Watchett again.
“Oh, the darling little pet!” cried Mrs Watchett. “Oh, I do beg your pardon, Sir—”
“That’s all right,” said the Traveller. “See, it’s exactly what I told you all before – she’s just like a child.”
As the servants left the room, Browne said: “A child of what age?”
“That we still don’t know,” said the Traveller. “Probably she won’t know herself. All the Eloi who are adult look about the same age – no visible ageing. She thought the lines on my forehead were wounds – scars. Their youthfulness – there’s probably a sinister reason for that – which we can all guess.”
I shuddered, looking at lovely white-and-gold Weena. She had won all our hearts, and I was very glad that the Traveller had, after all, succeeded in saving his little girl-woman from the horrible Morlocks. Moreover, she struck me now as not altogether mindless. I had feared, from the Traveller’s first tale, that we might have a sweet idiot on our hands. Not so: she was obviously full of curiosity about “Beriten” – and many of her sentences were longer than just two words.
At the cold luncheon which followed, things went on like that. According to the Traveller’s custom, no servants waited at table – Browne had laid out vegetarian dishes for Weena, and we other carnivores had bread, cheese and discreetly cut up bits of ham. Weena quite liked her food. Of course, she ate at first with her hands; she laughed in astonishment when she saw us plying forks. And then she began to learn that trick too: rapidly she began impaling sections of her apple.
“It’s just a game to her,” said the Traveller.
“But a game she’s good at,” said Welles. He sat next to her, on the other side from the Traveller, and helped her to place her fingers correctly on the fork and knife. “See – we’ll soon be able to pass her off as an English lady!”
Then Weena rapidly kissed him on the cheek. I laughed. “Not if she does things like that!”
“Just a child,” said the Traveller. But he frowned; and Welles was flushing.
“Come now!” I said. “Your adventures in the Far Future! Surely they couldn’t have been exactly the same as the first time?”
“Well, not exactly,” the Traveller admitted. “The thunderstorm on our second day – corresponding to my first day, the other time – that was a very mild affair – no hail, just a little rain. And we roamed to a few different places.”
“And I,” said Welles, “I had to shoot a Morlock just as we were escaping. We had to wheel the machine out on to the lawn in front of the Sphinx – so as to arrive just in the laboratory – and it was broad daylight, and the Morlocks erupted out of the base of the Sphinx, wearing black goggles and shooting metal arrows at us . . . And there were – other differences.”
“But not in Weena,” said the Traveller. “And that’s all that matters.”
After that, he became rather uncommunicative; and Welles, noticing his mood, also remained silent.
When the meal was over, Browne lingered to help with arrangements; but Welles and I had our own affairs to attend to – some of them recently rather neglected. So we took our leave, Welles making it clear to Weena that he would return the next day. She gave him a fervent hug – he had difficulty getting away.
Since our lodgings were close together, in Putney, Welles and I shared a cab home. As soon as we were clip-clopping on our way, Welles leaned towards me.
“Hillyer – he is deceiving himself!”
“What do you mean?” I said
“Two things. First, she is not a child: I have spent enough time with her to know that. She is a bit puzzled by the way he treats her – by the things he doesn’t do, if you take my meaning.”
“I do take it, Welles. And I’ve known you long enough to know you would know. Well, what’s the other thing?”
“The other thing is possibly metaphysical. Across the parallel time lines, what does it mean when we say a person is ‘the same’ or ‘not the same’? But if you alter history – alter conditions noticeably, say, for the year 802,701 – can a person in that altered year be ‘the same person’? He kept trying to convince himself, in that future world, that nothing important was different. But things were different. Some he might have failed to notice on his first journey, but certainly not all. Not all nonhuman mammals were extinct, for a start. There was a species of nocturnal deer: I saw it as I stood watch the fourth night, and the Morlocks were hunting it, with crossbows. And once in the distance, I saw beasts like large sheep . . . There would be no need in that world for the Morlocks to eat Eloi, and I suspect they didn’t – unless for the pleasure of revenge. The Eloi feared them, yes. In the Grey House, they told frightening stories . . . But the Eloi were not mindless. Each House had organization – with a head-woman, and orchards owned by particular Houses. And that Sphinx: even he agreed it was less dilapidated. And the language: the roots were the same, but I’m sure the structure was more complex. He is not a linguist, but I have good German – and in the end I was becoming more fluent than he. Nouns had plurals: singular Elo, plural Eloi. Similarly, Moloko and Molokoi. That means, of course, ‘Morlocks’ – and the Eloi were not averse to discussing them. To me, she hinted things, once when he was not there: midnight kidnappings by Morlocks, medical examinations in the bowels of the earth, piercings. It sounded more like vivisection than cannibalism.”
I shuddered. “Just as horrible – worse!”
“Yes. But it shows intelligence – in both species. Those Morlocks were scientists – among other things. And in the far distance, the London area had a wall round it – like the Great Wall of China. The area inside, with the great Eloi Houses – she called that ‘Lanan’ – the Land, maybe derived from ‘London’. Outside the Wall was ‘pulan’ – the Uncountry. I think the Morlocks ruled there, on the surface. Once when he was tired, she led me up a hill near the Wall. I suppose it was near Croydon, and from the crest we saw beyond the Wall: I think, that was the area of our Bromley. The Morlocks had great machines there, mirrors collecting the sun’s rays, I presume for power. If any Eloi lived in the Uncountry, they were mere slaves of the Morlocks. I think we saw a few: they were naked and brown, herders of the big sheep-like animals. She called them ‘pu-Eloi’ or ‘poi-Eloi’ – Unpeople, Dead People. Within the wall, the Eloi paradise was only a reservation – or a zoo. Oh yes, and the Morlock Uprising had happened not all that long before. I gathered from her that it was only about ten lifetimes ago: there were traditions surviving from the time before ‘the Molokoi became great’.”
“Phew,” I said. “That’s a lot of stuff you’ve gathered in a few days from pretty little Weena.”
“She is not pretty,” he said, “she is beautiful. And her name is not Weena.”
“What!”
“No. It’s he who keeps calling her that, and she tolerates it – it’s a joke, for her, because the – a ending is honorific, it sounds as if he’s flattering her. Her real name is Wiyeni �
�� or Wini. Most Eloi names mean something, and wiyeni means something like ‘female organizer’, or ‘junior leader of a House’ – you might say, ‘princess’. But she likes it when I use the short form, Wini.”
“You’re in love with her,” I said.
“Yes,” said Welles.
5
The name problem, for our nymph, was luckily soon settled, or rather evaded. The Traveller decided that to mislead the curious she ought to have a proper English name. He chose Winifred. And he told Mrs Watchett that her full name was Winifred Jane Driver – she had been christened “Winifred Jane” by her late English father, albeit in Transylvania the name had become somewhat mangled. At times he still called her “Weena”, but to most other people she was “Winnie”. I called her that, too; but secretly I thought of her as Wiyeni – the Princess.
She had a wild, pagan quality, which did not really disappear, not even when Mrs Watchett clothed her in Victorian garb, first in things borrowed from Ellen. Wiyeni showed her mettle over that business! The lendings dismayed her – why underclothes? And then, when the tailored things appeared, she flatly refused to wear them. “Puio, ogo!” she cried. The things were bad, ugly. And corsets – no, never; did they want to kill her? And the shoes – she would rather go barefoot, and round the house she did. (She had very beautiful feet, which certainly did not deserve to have their toes cramped, or distorted by high heels.) In the end, the matter was compromised. The hemline was taken up, daringly revealing her ankles, so that she would not trip over; and less stylish but more comfortable shoes were ordered for her. The mode of bodice and collar for ladies, that year, was a little masculine. I thought, in the end, she looked like an angelic choirboy – or like Hebe come to earth, disguised as Ganymede.
The bedroom reserved for “Winnie” was another shock for her. The bed and the other furnishings were wonderful – she had been used to sleeping on bare stone floors – but what was this? Was she to sleep alone? She had never done such a thing in her life! It was too frightening! That first night, she stood at the door and argued with Mrs Watchett and the Traveller. Already she had a few words of English; with those, and gestures, and some Eloic, she made her meaning plain.
