Burton placed his arm around Swinburne’s shoulders, and the group walked out of the Theosophic hall in search of the nearest pub. Burton smiled down at the diminutive poet, glad to have his friend back. He asked a few questions, which Burton tried to answer as best he could, but for the most part they spoke of other things, chiefly the poet’s desire to get as drunk as possible. It felt good. It felt normal, though Burton wondered for how long that feeling would last. The world was no longer as simple as he once thought it was, but he also knew, whatever challenges lay ahead, he would never have to face them alone. For he was but one facet of a greater All.
PART IV
THE MAP OF TIME
“I was in the death struggle with self: God and Satan fought for my soul those three long hours. God conquered—now I have only one doubt left—which of the two was God?”
“The past is but the beginning of a beginning, and all that is or has been is but the twilight of the dawn.”
“It’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.”
1. 802,701
The Time Traveler awoke, his mind reeling as he struggled to remember where—and when—he was. He was in the throes of the strangest dream. He had been running through a nighttime London street with two other souls, something monstrous chasing them, a thing like jelly, with many eyes. He shook off the vestiges of the nightmare and rolled over, finding Weena lying soft and warm beside him beneath the covers he had brought on one of his trips from home. He sat up with a grin when he realized his bedclothes were over eight hundred thousand years old.
He eased out of the bed—which had also been brought piecemeal from the past and assembled here in this strange future time—and stood by the windowless portal of the dome-shaped building on the hill they had taken for themselves. The Moon shone bright and clear over the green landscape, the eternally warm breeze tickling his naked flesh. Below him the glistening Thames, now purified and stretched miles from its original course, snaked languidly across the lush landscape. To the Time Traveler’s right stood the great White Sphinx, a silent sentinel to a civilization now long dead, perhaps built by the last fully intelligent creatures on the face of the Earth.
“Herbert?”
Weena’s voice trilled like a bird. The Time Traveler turned at the sound, like the soft tinkling of a bell. “It is all right, darling. Go back to sleep.”
The tiny Eloi did as instructed, resting her small head back down on the pillow. She was asleep in seconds. The Time Traveler watched her for a long moment, smiling at the sound of his name that had come from her lips. He had accomplished much in six years working with Weena and the other Eloi. They could speak at least a little English, proving themselves to be much brighter than the livestock the awful Morlocks had bred them to be. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. It would take centuries to remake what man in his foolishness had undone, but centuries the Time Traveler had in abundance. In just six short months he had freed the Eloi from the Morlocks and taught them how to fend for themselves. It went against their breeding, but mankind had once again shown itself to be an endlessly adaptable species. By day they toiled for their survival, and by night they gathered in the central area of their main gathering place while Herbert read Shakespeare and Aristotle to them. He knew they lacked the intellectual capacity to understand even a tenth of it, but they loved to hear the cadence of the King’s English, and they parroted snippets of what they heard, adding it to their growing vocabulary. In another year, who knew? Perhaps they could put on one of the Bard’s plays, performing the lines themselves. But that was a project for a much later date.
The Time Traveler donned his clothes and stepped out of the little dome-shaped structure. He felt safe and secure, even at night. There had been no sign of the Morlocks since he had set fire to their underground caverns and freed the Eloi—including Weena—from their clutches. His eyes followed the path of the Thames, which inevitably, even in this far distant time, led out to sea. He hoped to build a sailing ship someday, venturing across what was left of the English Channel to the Continent to see what time-ravaged remnants of humanity he would find there. Perhaps there were other pockets of docile Eloi who needed freeing from the cruel Morlocks. He would free them all, and they would be a great civilization once more. What the descendants of the Time Traveler’s kind had wrought he would single-handedly undo. Even if it took the rest of his life.
He heard a slight rustle of the grass behind him and spun round, his heart hammering. Fearing a Morlock, he reached in his pocket for his pistol.
“Hello? Herbert? Is that you? Don’t shoot. It’s me. Burton.”
“Who?” said Herbert, stepping around the hut and back into the moonlight. A figure stood there, tall and somewhat gaunt. As different from the short, pudgy form of the Morlocks as he was from the diminutive, lithe bodies of the Eloi.
“It’s me, Burton,” the figure said again.
The Time Traveler stared at the apparition, blinking. Could it be true? Or was it some Morlock trick? The man standing before the Time Traveler was older, wearing a dark greatcoat and top hat that, while right at home in the London of his time, was out of place and stifling in the humid hothouse the world had become over the succeeding millennia. What most easily identified the figure as Captain Sir Richard Francis Burton was the long, Y-shaped scar that ran down his left cheek, a souvenir from his army days. “Captain Burton! By Jove. I never expected to see you again. What in God’s name are you doing here?” He stepped closer, extending his hand.
“Bismillah,” said the figure, “you look a sight, man.” They shook hands.
The Time Traveler raked his hand through his long beard. It was itchy at first, but he was getting used to it. “I suppose I do. But you are a sight for sore eyes. What brings you to the End of Time? And how did you arrive here?”
“The how is simple,” said Burton, pulling his coat sleeve away from his right wrist. “I came here with the help of this.” Attached to the explorer’s wrist was some strange apparatus that glittered in the moonlight. Herbert turned Burton’s wrist this way and that, examining the contraption. As his eyes adjusted to the moon glow glinting off brass, he made out more detail. A tiny brass disk gleamed atop what appeared to be an ordinary wristwatch housing. In place of the winding mechanism were two small nodes that protruded from the side of the device. A chill fled down the Time Traveler’s spine.
“Good God. Is that what I think it is?”
“If you think it is a miniature, wrist-mounted version of your Time Machine, then yes,” Burton said.
“But how? Who made this?”
“You did,” said Burton. “After a fashion. It is based on your original design, constructed in the year 1945 or thereabouts.” He pulled his sleeve back down, covering the device. “As for why I’m here, that will take a bit longer to explain.”