Daedalian Muse

by Jamie Crothall

The vicar, Mr. Grisham, knelt before us, his hands clenching a rosary and locked in prayer. As he finished his benediction he lowered the rosary, and the field behind us seemed to glow a stronger shade, turning nearly red. He then stood, weakly returning to his knees and brushing off his trousers. While he seemed to greet us with his usual congenial demeanour, we were at a loss for words or actions. Had he followed us to this place, or was he, as he suggested, the architect of this disturbance as well as its caretaker.

  “It is terribly unfair in its notion, realizing that you will one day cease to exist, wiped from earth’s clean slate. What treasures await us in Heaven, and yet what of us who are not yet prepared to receive them? I was never alone in the fear that led me to deplore the idea of leaving this mortal coil, yet unlike everyone one else I actually sought to do something about it. It was an achievement worthy of praise. A discovery worthy of commendation. Well, let’s be honest lad, it was damn well worth bragging about, but as the good book says, modesty at all times, hm?”

  We did not respond.

  “I found the merging of those two dysfunctional entities, science and religion, and utilized the tool I needed to make my experiment work - the infinite weight of sin. Mankind is ripe with feelings of guilt and the will to do bad things, and it is just a matter of learning to exploit those feelings and transfer them into the valuable commodity that, over time, I have collected. Be it a petty theft of a murderous crime of passion, people always feel a weight lifted from their shoulders when they confess their sins to me, and I, in turn, transfer that weight upon the central locus of my scheme - a crucifix. A tad predictable, but it serves its purpose. This modern age is a veritable breeding ground for ill will and torrid behaviour. Collective minds are easily open to suggestion, whether it be through subtle coercion planted through a comforting conversation or outright manipulation and hypnotic suggestion. The world was my oyster! For the past fifty years I have been administering faith and absolving people’s sins, but there’s no age like the modern age to really get the ball rolling.”

  I shook my head. “This is inconceivable. How can religious theory affect or alter scientific law? How can the unseen and immeasurable weight of sin tear apart space-time? It is all so preposterous! Why, even if you did collect the nigh-infinite mass required to make the cylinder work, how could you possibly find a device to provide the overwhelming speed of the rotational requirement?”

  To this he simply smirked and replied, “Orffyreus.”

  The implications were bewildering, but alas Jill did not seem to bare understanding.

  “...who?”

  “Johann Bessler,” I asserted. “By his cryptic name he is known as Orffyreus. In the 18th century he presented his first model of a self-moving wheel, subsequently creating larger models until he unveiled one that was nine feet in diameter and could lift a weight of 4 pounds. It is said that he built one as large as 12 feet in diameter, but he locked it away for fear of someone stealing his invention. In the end, out of sheer paranoia, he destroyed his wheel and took his secret to the grave.”

  “And what secret would that be?” she asked impatiently

  “Perpetual motion.”

  “Oh.”

  “A series of papers were discovered,” the vicar added, “personal notes of no obvious value, but they were theorized to contain cryptic notes and instructions on how to replicate his creation. Perhaps even perfect it.”

  “Absurd,” I declared. “At best Bessler’s wheel turned fifty revolutions per minute. Though I’m sure this could be improved with today’s technology, but...”

  “Mr. Fugit, never underestimate a man who has nothing but time. And patience.” He shook his head and laughed, possibly at me. “You seem so quick to refute and deny that which stands right before you, a phenomenon that you yourself have experienced.”

  “My eyes behold what they see, but the perhaps do not see what they behold, Mr. Grisham.”

  He smiled at me, like a tutor pitying his student's naiveté. “Ockham’s Razor, Mr. Fugit. The simplest conclusion, no matter how unlikely, is the correct one.”

  His point was taken, but it would be amiss if I did not clarify that his was the modern phrasing. In its true form, Ocham's theorem stated “entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem”, which translates to “entities should not be multiplied beyond necessity”. But I digress...

  “I am sure, Mr. Grisham, that in the 14th century William of Ockham could not possibly conceive of such events, lest he reconsider his theory.”

  He chuckled to himself. “Mr. Fugit you are the definition of obstinate.”

  “And you, Mr. Grisham, the definition of charlatan.”

  This did not please him, but rather than appear vexed, he instead grew wistful.

  “I don’t know how many lifetimes ago it was, countless, that it began. The idea of death never appealed to me, you see. Why should the world exist without me? It simply would not be fair. Called to the war when I was eighteen, I was quickly demoted to a first aid camp, where skilled doctors and nurses brought me back from the brink of death. I knew then that life was precious, and when I returned home I sought an education in medicine, but it pleased me very little. Disguising myself as a consummate bachelor, I locked myself away in the Mews, the home my father had raised for himself, and spent years in quiet research. When society dictated that I take a wife I nonetheless complied, though I cared very little for her. I suppose I neglected her, which is perhaps why she began torrid affairs with every servant we had. Even the maids were not safe from her appetites, and yet when the public became aware of our strained union it was myself that was blamed for being unfaithful. I was no fool, but as a woman of great faith she nonetheless felt a great sense of shame, and she confessed to me her wrongs. The potency of that engagement was intoxicating, and at best it is quite selfish, for when one confesses they transfer the weight of their wrongs from their shoulders to another. Yet in an instant I knew how to utilize that transfer, and I knew I had a life’s work ahead of me. Thirty people died in that blaze. Well, twenty nine, actually. A horrible sacrifice, but I had to erase my presence from this earth and prepare for my new life. One as a man of God.”

  “Dear God,” was all that I could muster.

  Jill scoffed. “So wait...you’re saying that you’re the guy? The bachelor son of Lord Morrow?”

  He bowed in mock chivalry. “Gordon Randal Morrow,” he said, introducing himself. “King’s soldier, tinkerer of medicine, and discoverer of the greatest scientific phenomenon that the world shall never know. There have been many theories of closed timelike curves from the turn of the century - Gödel, Kerr, Van Stockum...”

  “Sounds like just a bunch of angry Germans,” Jill snapped.

  “Frank J. Tipler, an American, would later reveal his theory to the world, but by that point I was well underway. Besides,” he said with a jaunty laugh, “his version was needlessly cumbersome and contingent upon vast interplanetary mining. Absurd business, mindlessly complicated.”

  “'Rotating Cylinders and the Possibility of Global Causality Violation',” I stated. “I'm familiar with it. I'm also aware of the fact that Tipler advocates intelligent design and viewed as a crackpot by many fellow scientists.”

  “And yet here we are,” was the only retort that the vicar felt was required.

  Begrudgingly accepting this all to be true in order to advance the argument, I anticipated the next steps of his plot. “So to finalize your experiment, you returned to the site of the Mews, a place hidden from the modern world, and a place where after a fifty year absence no one recognizes you or would have reason to suspect who you are when it is firmly held that Gordon Randall Morrow is indeed quite dead.”

  “At last!” the vicar proclaimed. “He understands!” He then shook his head, as though ashamed at my slow grasp of his tale. “Mr. Fugit, I get so tired of explaining this to you. Time and time again.”

  And with that s
aid he produced a revolver, took aim, and shot Jill through the heart.

  It is likely she died before she even hit the floor.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN