The Map of Time Collection, page 188
“My God!” the couple cried as one.
But just as Inspector Clayton, who was at the front of the chain, was about to pass through the hole, it suddenly vanished as if it had never been there, and with it the whirlwind that was pulling them along. Now that nothing was holding them aloft, the four men dropped to the floor amid a shower of objects. From the doorway to the Chamber, Wells and Jane breathed a sigh of relief. Their friends stood up, groaning in pain and looked around them, bewildered, including Inspector Clayton, whom the crash to the floor appeared to have brought round.
“What happened?” he asked no one in particular.
Jane turned to her husband with a knowing smile and whispered, “You saved the world with your imagination, Bertie.”
40
EVERY MORNING, THE GUARD AT the Natural History Museum, a young lad of eighteen called Eric, would climb the steps and unlock the magnificent door while he dreamed he was Goldry Bluszco, one of the chief lords of Demonland, at war with Gorice XII, the king of Witchland. The crafty sorcerer never went anywhere without his escort of evil magicians, each of them the personification of wickedness, and Eric could almost hear the clashing swords, see the crimson blood oozing from the charred earth during their ferocious battles. That had been his favorite fantasy for the past ten years, ever since he began sketching its scenes and characters in a notebook. And now he had turned to it again to enliven the lowly post of museum attendant that he had obtained, a job far removed from his old aspirations. He would amble through the deserted galleries, switching on the lights and making sure everything was in order before opening time, amusing himself by imagining the exploits Goldry carried out in that world so distant from his own, a world that existed only in his imagination, where sword fights, magic spells, and Machiavellian intrigues were the order of the day. Accompanying him on his stroll was the metallic clink of the cluster of keys on his belt, which opened all the doors but one. There was no doubt that this was the only time of the day when he felt at peace with himself, for, as far back as he could remember, he had always believed that something in his life was not quite right. He often suspected that his soul wasn’t truly his own, that it belonged to a nobleman or an artistic genius—someone destined for greatness, in any case—and that due to some cosmic error it had been placed in this body that lived in a prosaic world where it was relegated to an insignificant role.
However, on the morning of September 23, the young man was too sleepy to escape into his fantasy world. He yawned several times as he climbed the museum steps, unable to understand what the matter was with him: he had gotten out of bed feeling as if he hadn’t slept a wink, but also with the impression that the confused remains of a strange nightmare were trying unsuccessfully to percolate up to the surface of his mind, unable to reach the edges of his consciousness . . . A nightmare in which all he had done was to run, terrified. He shook his head to try to rouse himself while rummaging in his pocket for the keys. He had to stop inventing those stories all the time or he would end up going mad, he thought. And in the end, what good did they do him? He wasn’t a writer, as he had dreamt of being when a child; he wasn’t even a senior civil servant at the Board of Trade or some similar respectable position. He was a lowly museum attendant and would probably always be one. He should be grateful for that, as his mother would tell him whenever he dared mention his fantasies to her. Imagination is all very well if you have money, Eric, she would say, but it won’t put food on the table . . .
Just as he was about to insert the key in the lock, the museum door swung open, almost knocking him over, and a man with a long, horsey face came striding out.
“Ah . . . look. The universe is saved!” he exclaimed, throwing his arms out wide. Then, winking at the strange couple behind him, he added, “And all thanks to the imagination!”
The couple, who to Eric’s surprise were in their nightclothes, formed part of a tiny, eccentric procession that now emerged from the museum all wearing the same expression of amazement. The young man surveyed the group with interest. Besides the couple, who were gazing up at the sky in wonder, and the man with the horsey face, who was glancing about in raptures, there were two well-built men. One had a wispy blond beard and the other, who sported a bushy mustache, was the spitting image of the famous author Arthur Conan Doyle. Both of them also appeared to be celebrating the fact that the sky that morning was a radiant blue and kept clapping each other vigorously on the back and giggling like a pair of naughty schoolboys. Finally, a lanky fellow with a somber face emerged from the gloomy interior, dressed in black from head to toe, followed by a plump older man with a strange glass lens over one eye. The eye glared at Eric, who, plucking up his courage, decided it was time for him to intervene:
“Er . . .” He gave a timid cough. “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, but . . . may I ask what you were doing in the museum at this time of the morning? No one is allowed in here before opening time. I’m afraid I shall have to inform the police . . .”
The plump man and the lanky youth with the somber face, who was busy screwing a metal hand into one of his sleeves, exchanged faint smiles. The lens of the plump man gave a muffled buzz as it focused on him. Eric recoiled instinctively.
“What is your name and your position in this museum, lad?”
“Eric R-Rücker Eddison,” he stammered. “I—I’ve only b-been working here a few days . . .”
“Ah, that explains why we have never met before. Still, I am sure you have already heard about the Guardians of the Chamber, isn’t that so?”
The two men loosened their shirt collars slightly, and Eric could see the two little keys with angel’s wings round their necks.
“Oh . . . are those keys to the . . . ?” he whispered. The two detectives nodded. “Well, I never . . . I was wondering what was in there . . .”
“Nothing much. Imagining it is more interesting than seeing it,” the younger of the two replied with a wink that seemed to Eric more arrogant than friendly.
“Er, excuse me a moment, lad,” the horsey-faced man piped up. “You didn’t happen to have noticed anything out of the ordinary in the last couple of hours, did you?”
“Out of the ordinary? What exactly do you mean, sir?”
“Anything, for example . . .” The man looked hesitantly at his companions. “Well, I don’t know . . . anything odd, different. An impression of multiple edges when looking at a building, or passersby with a translucent quality about them . . . Anything resembling a . . . mirage, or that gave you a feeling of . . . unreality.”
Eric shook his head, puzzled.
“For the love of God! What sort of questions are these?” the burly man with the wispy beard exclaimed impatiently. “Now, listen, lad . . . have you seen a hole in the air that sucked in everything around it? Did an army of elves pass right through you? Has an automaton from the future fired at you?”
“No, sir. As you can see, everything is as it should be,” replied Eric somewhat nervously, gesturing toward Cromwell Road with a sweep of his arm.
The big man snorted exasperatedly while the others contemplated the scene of a sunny autumn morning spreading across the street: a few early risers were strolling on the pavements while carriages rolled sleepily along the road and a couple of white clouds drifted over from the north . . .
“It is as if nothing had ever happened . . . ,” murmured the man who looked like Arthur Conan Doyle. “And yet, only moments ago, I saw my own creation, Sherlock Holmes, fighting with Moriarty at the edge of the—”
Eric’s eyes popped out of his head.
“Good Lord, then you are . . . Arthur Conan Doyle!”
“Yes, my boy, at least I think I am . . . ,” Doyle replied, still staring intently at the nearby buildings.
“I can’t believe it!” exclaimed the young lad excitedly. “I’m a great admirer of your work, Mr. Doyle! You see, I . . . this is just a temporary job. Actually, I’m a writer, too . . . Well, not a real one, of course,” he added in a modest voice. “I’m only an amateur . . . I’m writing my first novel, although, now that I am only able to write in my spare time, I doubt I’ll ever finish it—”
“Young man,” Doyle interrupted in an authoritative voice, “it is up to you whether you invent excuses or stories. I created Sherlock Holmes at my medical practice, where I had no patients. A real writer!” he snorted. “I wish I knew what the devil that is. Why don’t you think of yourself as a make-believe attendant?”
Eric’s face broke into a smile.
“Yes . . .” He nodded thoughtfully. “In fact, that is precisely how I feel, as if everything that takes place in my life should be happening differently, as if this weren’t my real life . . .” Then he stood squarely in front of Doyle. “Sir, may I send you the manuscript I am working on so that you can give me your opinion?”
Responding to Doyle’s alarmed look, Murray came to the rescue.
“If you want a famous author’s opinion about your work, lad, I suggest you send it to H. G. Wells here.” He pointed a thumb at the diminutive gentleman in his nightclothes, to whom Eric had been too polite to pay much attention. “I’ve never known anyone more sincere in his opinions or more discreet when it comes to giving them.”
“Oh . . . Mr. Wells,” the guard exclaimed. “I . . . I beg your pardon, I didn’t recognize you in your . . . ahem . . . Naturally, I am also a fervent admirer of yours . . . I have read all your novels several times, in particular The Island of Doctor Moreau, which is my favorite—” He broke off suddenly and screwed up his eyes exaggeratedly. “That’s odd: I think I had a dream about it last night, though I don’t remember what exactly . . .”
“Perhaps the beast folk were chasing you through the museum?” Wells suggested nonchalantly.
The attendant looked at him openmouthed.
“Yes, that’s exactly right. H-How did you know?”
Wells played it down with a wave of his hand. “It is a fairly common dream among, er . . . budding writers and museum staff.”
“Other parts of that dream are coming back to me . . . ,” Eric went on, slurring his words as if he had just emerged from a long bout of drinking. “Ouroboros, my dragon, was in it, too, setting the whole neighborhood alight from the air, and . . .”
“Ouroboros?” the man with the horsey face inquired.
“Yes, that’s the title of my novel: The Worm Ouroboros.” Eric grinned timidly. “It’s a Scandinavian myth: a sort of dragon or snake that devours its own tail, symbolizing eternal rebirth. You see, I’ve always been fascinated by the Norse myths, and my novel is an attempt to imitate—”
“Yes, yes,” the man with the metal hand cut in, exchanging a meaningful glance with the others, who nodded as one. “I think you should return to your post, lad. The museum will be opening soon, and I expect you have things to do . . .” He placed his prosthesis on the young man’s shoulder and shepherded him gently inside while Eric observed his metal hand nervously. “Ah, and don’t be alarmed if you come across a few officers from the Yard in the museum taking notes and samples . . . It is simply a routine inspection, nothing of any importance, though we trust we can count on you to be discreet. If you prove you are able keep quiet, I’ll bring you Mr. Doyle’s and Mr. Wells’s details, so that you can send them your manuscript . . . all right?”
Eric nodded and, after one last dazed glance at the remarkable group, entered the museum.
“Remember, you are only living one of your many possible lives. There are others. An infinite number!” Doyle shouted after him.
“And for the love of God, if you want to be a writer, shorten your name!” added Wells.
When the doors closed, Murray remarked, “That’s incredible! He doesn’t remember anything. He thinks it was all a dream! And his writer’s fantasies also appeared to him! Just like my Captain Shackleton!”
“And my Sherlock Holmes!” exclaimed Doyle.
“And I saw Martian tripods,” Wells chimed in, “and, as I told you, when Rhys was chasing us, I even conjured—”
“Well, I’m damned,” Doyle interrupted. “That means everything we imagine exists somewhere!”
“But . . . where are all those creatures now? And what happened to the damaged buildings? And the dead bodies?” said Jane. “Look at everyone: they are all strolling along calmly . . . no one seems to remember a thing!”
“It’s true,” said Murray. “Does that mean the end of the world didn’t happen?”
“But we remember it,” Jane reflected. “And that young man dreamt . . .”
Sinclair asked them to calm down and turned to Dr. Ramsey.
“Doctor, if I understood correctly what you were telling me on our way up from the Chamber, you come from the same world as Mrs. Lansbury, a world far in advance of ours. Perhaps you can shed some light on this matter.”
“Yes, Doctor, what is going on?” Clayton interjected. “Clearly the Executioner managed to prevent the infection, and now everything is as it would have been had that dog never bitten Mr. Wells. And yet all of us remember perfectly what happened just now.”
“And we also remember Baskerville, and the evil Rhys . . . ,” said Wells. “But if the epidemic never took place, how could we have met them? And, more important, why are my wife and I still in our nightclothes?”
Ramsey gave them a paternal smile.
“Mrs. Wells, gentlemen . . . I don’t think any of you fully appreciate what a wonderful, magical universe you live in. Although that is not your fault. In fact, the reason your universe is so special is precisely because none of its inhabitants understands it in its entirety. You live in a fascinating universe where everything is possible, where everything you dream or imagine exists somewhere . . . and perhaps at this very moment in another place, someone is also dreaming you or imagining you . . . Did the end of the world happen? Yes. Did it not happen? The answer is also yes.”
“But both things can’t be true at the same time!” protested Murray.
“Of course they can, Gilliam! Didn’t you hear what the doctor said?” exclaimed Doyle, a feverish look in his eyes. “Everything is possible! Everything! That means somewhere all the realities we encountered and experienced exist exactly as we remember them, and because we remember them. All those lost worlds: the epidemic, Baskerville’s adventures, Rhys’s odyssey, the Day of Chaos . . . But the world we are living in now, where none of that happened, where we managed to prevent the epidemic and therefore its devastating consequences, could also be in the process of being remembered or recounted by someone at this very moment. It also exists . . . Perhaps we are all a memory of a memory of a memory, and so on until infinity.”
“What the devil does that mean?” Murray muttered.
“Perhaps you are right, Mr. Doyle.” Ramsey nodded with satisfaction. “Existence is no more than an endless, repeated imitation of itself, like that snake devouring its own tail . . .”
“Or one of those things that simply happens because it can happen . . .” Jane added with a mysterious smile.
Wells looked at her in bewilderment.
“And why are we the only ones who seem to remember anything?” asked Clayton.
“You have all been in contact with the Supreme Knowledge. You have understood the profound truth of what has been happening. You have become Observers and, as a result, in some sense foreigners in your own universe, at least for a short time. However, for them,” said Ramsey, pointing at the passersby in front of the museum, “the Day of Chaos never existed, because they have never stopped belonging to this world, in which that day never actually happened. How could they remember something that never happened? But you have privileged minds, minds that are practiced in the art of imagination, minds that are open to every possibility, and that have allowed you, for a few moments, to become spectators and actors simultaneously. That is why you can’t forget. You have seen what didn’t happen, but also what might have happened, and for that very reason it did happen . . .” Ramsey looked at them one by one, his eyes radiant with joy, searching among their expressions of puzzlement and concentration for a glimmer of excitement that matched his own. He sighed, pointing vehemently toward the door of the museum. “Like that young attendant. He possesses a mind similar to yours, which is why he can sense that he has other lives. Who knows, perhaps deep down he is aware that there are parallel worlds where things have turned out differently for him. But clearly, thanks to having a mind capable of imagining other possible realities, he is able to remember what happened, though only in the form of a dream, because, unlike you, he hasn’t been touched by the Supreme Knowledge. Do not attempt to understand this. Be content . . . simply to experience it. Therein lies the true beauty of your world. The supremacy of the emotions, magic, mystery . . . Today you were touched by the Supreme Knowledge . . . But tell me, can you say you feel happier than any of those people quietly strolling along? Of course not. The thirst for knowledge, the tyranny of reason . . . those are the viruses that destroyed my world and almost caused us to destroy yours. Since the dawn of our civilization, we on the Other Side tried so stubbornly to scrutinize every mystery around us that all we achieved was to speed up the disintegration of our universe . . . I am convinced that the true fabric of existence, the final layer below the subatomic level, is the imagination. And whoever tries to fathom its enigma destroys it forever. Some of us have finally learned this lesson, and we will have to teach it to our own civilization, now that we will be reborn in one of your worlds. Perhaps we will need your help, my friends. The help of those of you who have not forgotten . . .”
“You can always count on the help of Scotland Yard’s Special Branch in this world, Doctor Ramsey,” Sinclair assured him.
“Thank you, Captain. Inspector Clayton, you told me just now that Sir William Crookes designed those splendid columns you used to imprison Rhys.” Clayton nodded. “Good. I believe I have some unfinished business with my old friend, whom I let down in the past, and to whom I have a great deal of explaining to do—a very great deal.” Ramsey looked absentmindedly up at the sky. “There is so much to be done! The Church of Knowledge should change its name, perhaps to the Church of Dreams . . .”
