Time Travel Omnibus Volume 2 Read online

  I let them pass me, and followed behind. Salleen, walking beside me, kicked out at my ankles.

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Because you’re a little pig!”

  I ignored her. We could see the end of the covered way ahead. It had become dark soon after we started crossing the bridge—a presage of the evening of the day we were leaving—but now daylight shone again and I saw pale blue morning light, misty shapes of trees. I paused, seeing my parents and sisters silhouetted against the light. Therese, holding Mother’s hand, took no notice of me, but Salleen, whom I secretly loved, strutted proudly behind Father, asserting her independence of me. Perhaps it was because of her, or perhaps it was that morning light shining down from the end of the tunnel, but I stayed still as the rest of the family went on.

  I waved my hands, watching the fingertips blur as they moved across the flux field, and then I walked on slowly. Because of the blurring my family were now almost invisible. Suddenly I was a little frightened, alone in the flux field, and I hastened after them. I saw their ghostly shapes move into daylight and out of sight (Salleen glanced back towards me), and I walked faster.

  By the time I had reached the end of the covered way, the day had matured and the light was that of mid-afternoon. Low clouds were scudding before a stiff wind. As a squall of rain swept by I sheltered in the bridge, and looked across the Park for the family. I saw them a short distance away, hurrying towards one of the pagoda-shaped shelters the Park authorities had built. Glancing at the sky I saw there was a large patch of blue not far away, and I knew the shower would be a short one. It was not cold and I did not mind getting wet, but I hesitated before going out into the open. Why I stood there I do not now recall, but I had always had a childish delight in the sensation of the flux field, and at the place where the covered way ends the bridge is still over a part of the Channel.

  I stood by the edge of the bridge and looked down at the flux fluid. Seen from directly above it closely resembled water, because it seemed to be clear (although the bottom could not be seen), and did not have the same metallic sheen or quicksilver property it had when viewed from the side. There were bright highlights on the surface, glinting as the fluid stirred, as if there were a film of oil across it.

  My parents had reached the pagoda—whose colourful tiles and paintwork looked odd in this dismal rain—and they were squeezing in with the two girls, as other people made room for them. I could see my father’s tall black hat, bobbing behind the crowd.

  Salleen was looking back at me, perhaps envying my solitary state, and so I stuck out my tongue at her. I was showing off. I went to the edge of the bridge, where there was no guard rail, and leaned precariously out above the fluid. The flux field prickled around me. I saw Salleen tugging at Mother’s arm, and Father took a step forward into the rain. I poised myself and jumped towards the bank, flying above the few inches of the Channel between me and the ground. I heard a roaring in my ears, I was momentarily blinded, and the charge of the flux field enveloped me like an electric cocoon.

  I landed feet-first on the muddy bank, and looked around me as if nothing untoward had happened.

  IV

  Although I did not realize it at first, in leaping from the bridge and moving up through a part of the flux field, I had travelled in time. It happened that I landed on a day in the future when the weather was as grey and blustery as on the day I had left, and so my first real awareness, when I looked up, was that the pagoda had suddenly emptied. I stared in horror across the parkland, not believing that my family could have vanished in the blink of an eye.

  I started to run, stumbling and sliding on the slippery ground, and I felt a panicky terror and a dread of being abandoned. All the cockiness in me had gone. I sobbed as I ran, and when I reached the pagoda I was crying aloud, snivelling and wiping my nose and eyes on the sleeve of my jacket.

  I went back to where I had landed, and saw the muddy impressions of my feet on the bank. From there I looked at the bridge, so tantalizingly close, and it was then that I realized what I had done, even though it was a dim understanding.

  Something like my former mood returned then and a spirit of exploration came over me. After all, it was the first time I had ever been alone in the Park. I started to walk away from the bridge, following a tree-lined path that went along the Channel.

  The day I had arrived in must have been a weekday in winter or early spring because the trees were bare and there were very few people about. From this side of the Channel I could see that the tollbooths were open, but the only other people in the Park were a long way away.

  For all this, it was still an adventure and the awful thoughts about where I had arrived, or how I was to return, were put aside.

  I walked a long way, enjoying the freedom of being able to explore this side without my family. When they were present it was as if I could only see what they pointed out, and walk where they chose. Now it was like being in the Park for the first time.

  This small pleasure soon palled. It was a cold day and my light summer shoes began to feel sodden and heavy, chafing against my toes. The Park was not at all how I liked it to be. Part of the fun on a normal day was the atmosphere of shared daring, and mixing with people you knew had not all come from the same day, the same time. Once, my father, in a mood of exceptional capriciousness, had led us to and fro across the Today and Yesterday Bridges, showing us time-slipped images of himself which he had made on a visit to the Park the day before. Visitors to the Park often did such things. During the holidays, when the big factories were closed, the Park would be full of shouting, laughing voices as carefully prepared practical jokes of this sort were played.

  None of this was going on as I tramped along under the leaden sky. The future was for me as commonplace as a field.

  I began to worry, wondering how I was to get back. I could imagine the wrath of my father, the tears of my mother, the endless jibes I would get from Salleen and Therese. I turned around and walked quickly back towards the bridges, forming a half-hearted plan to cross the Channel repeatedly, using the Tomorrow and Yesterday Bridges in turn, until I was back where I started.

  I was running again, in danger of sobbing, when I saw a young man walking along the bank towards me. I would have paid no attention to him, but for the fact that when we were a short distance apart he sidestepped so that he was in front of me.

  I slowed, regarded him incuriously, and went to walk around him . . . but much to my surprise he called after me.

  “Mykle! It is Mykle, isn’t it?”

  “How do you know my name?” I said, pausing and looking at him warily.

  “I was looking for you. You’ve jumped forward in time, and don’t know how to get back.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I’ll show you how. It’s easy.”

  We were facing each other now, and I was wondering who he was and how he knew me. There was something much too friendly about him. He was very tall and thin, and had the beginnings of a moustache darkening his lip. He seemed adult to me, but when he spoke it was with a hoarse, boyish falsetto.

  I said, “It’s all right, thank you, sir. I can find my own way.”

  “By running across the bridges?”

  “How did you know?”

  “You’ll never manage it, Mykle. when you jumped from the bridge you went a long way into the future. About thirty-two years.”

  “This is . . . ?” I looked around at the Park, disbelieving what he said. “But it feels like—”

  “Just like Tomorrow. But it isn’t. You’ve come a long way. Look over there.” He pointed across the Channel, to the other side. “Do you see those houses? You’ve never seen those before, have you?”

  There was an estate of new houses, built beyond the trees on the Park’s perimeter. True, I hadn’t noticed them before, but it proved nothing. I didn’t find this very interesting, and I began to sidle away from him, wanting to get on with the business of working out how to get back.
/>   “Thank you, sir. It was nice to meet you.”

  “Don’t call me ‘sir’,” he said, laughing. “You’ve been taught to be polite to strangers, but you must know who I am.”

  “N-no . . .” Suddenly rather nervous of him I walked quickly away, but he ran over and caught me by the arm.

  “There’s something I must show you,” he said. “This is very important. Then I’ll get you back to the bridge.”

  “Leave me alone!” I said loudly, quite frightened of him.

  He took no notice of my protests, but walked me along the path beside the Channel. He was looking over my head, across the Channel, and I could not help noticing that whenever we passed a tree or a bush which cut off the view he would pause and look past it before going on. This continued until we were near the time bridges again, when he came to a halt beside a huge sprawling rhododendron bush.

  “Now,” he said. “I want you to look. But don’t let yourself be seen.”

  Crouching down with him, I peered around the edge of the bush. At first I could not imagine what it was I was supposed to be looking at, and thought it was more houses for my inspection. The estate did, in fact, continue all along the further edge of the Park, just visible beyond the trees.

  “Do you see her?” He pointed, then ducked back. Following the direction, I saw a young woman sitting on a bench on the far side of the Channel.

  “Who is she?” I said, although her small figure did not actually arouse much curiosity in me.

  “The loveliest girl I have ever seen. She’s always there, on that bench. She is waiting for her lover. She sits there every day, her heart filled with anguish and hope.”

  As he said this the young man’s voice broke, as if with emotion, and I glanced up at him. His eyes were moist.

  I peered again around the edge of the bush and looked at the girl, wondering what it was about her that produced this reaction. I could hardly see her, because she was huddled against the wind and had a shawl drawn over her hair. She was sitting to one side, facing towards the Tomorrow Bridge. To me, she was approximately as interesting as the houses, which is not to say very much, but she seemed important to the young man.

  “Is she a friend of yours?” I said, turning back to him.

  “No, not a friend, Mykle. A symbol. A token of the love that is in us all.”

  “What is her name?” I said, not following this interpretation.

  “Estyll. The most beautiful name in the world.”

  Estyll: I had never heard the name before, and I repeated it softly.

  “How do you know this?” I said. “You say you—”

  “Wait, Mykle. She will turn in a moment. You will see her face.”

  His hand was clasping my shoulder, as if we were old friends, and although I was still shy of him it assured me of his good intent. He was sharing something with me, something so important that I was honoured to be included.

  Together we leaned forward again and looked clandestinely at her. By my ear, I heard my friend say her name, so softly that it was almost a whisper. A few moments passed, then, as if the time vortex above the Channel had swept the word slowly across to her, she raised her head, shrugged back the shawl, and stood up. I was craning my neck to see her but she turned away. I watched her walk up the slope of the Park grounds, towards the houses beyond the trees.

  “Isn’t she a beauty, Mykle?”

  I was too young to understand him fully, so I said nothing. At that age, my only awareness of the other sex was that my sisters were temperamentally and physically different from me. I had yet to discover more interesting matters. In any event, I had barely caught a glimpse of Estyll’s face.

  The young man was evidently enraptured by the girl, and as we watched her move through the distant trees my attention was half on her, half on him.

  “I should like to be the man she loves,” he said at last.

  “Do you . . . love her, sir?”

  “Love? What I feel is too noble to be contained in such a word.” He looked down at me, and for an instant I was reminded of the haughty disdain that my father sometimes revealed when I did something stupid. “Love is for lovers, Mykle. I am a romantic, which is a far grander thing to be.”

  I was beginning to find my companion rather pompous and overbearing, trying to involve me in his passions. I was an argumentative child, though, and could not resist pointing out a contradiction.

  “But you said she was waiting for her lover,” I said.

  “Just a supposition.”

  “I think you are her lover, and won’t admit it.”

  I used the word disparagingly, but it made him look at me thoughtfully. The drizzle was coming down again, a dank veil across the countryside. The young man stepped away suddenly. I think he had grown as tired of my company as I had of his.

  “I was going to show you how to get back,” he said. “Come with me.” He set off towards the bridge, and I went after him. “You’ll have to go back the way you came. You jumped, didn’t you?”

  “That’s right,” I said, puffing a little. It was difficult keeping up with him.

  As we reached the end of the bridge, the young man left the path and walked across the grass to the edge of the Channel. I held back, nervous of going too close again.

  “Ah!” said the young man, peering down at the damp soil. “Look, Mykle . . . these must be your footprints. This was where you landed.”

  I went forward warily and stood just behind him.

  “Put your feet in these marks and jump towards the bridge.”

  Although the metal edge of the bridge was only an arm’s length away from where we were standing it seemed a formidable jump, especially as the bridge was higher than the bank. I pointed this out.

  “I’ll be behind you,” the young man said. “You won’t slip. Now . . . look on the bridge. There’s a scratch on the floor. Do you see it? You have to aim at that. Try to land with one foot on either side, and you’ll be back where you started.”

  It all seemed rather unlikely. The part of the bridge he was pointing out was wet with rain and looked slippery. If I landed badly I would fall; worse, I could slip backwards into the flux fluid. Although I sensed that my new friend was right—that I could only get back by the way I had come—it did not feel right.

  “Mykle, I know what you’re thinking. But I made that mark. I’ve done it myself. Trust me.”

  I was thinking of my father and his wrath, so at last I stepped forward and put my feet in the squelching impressions I had made as I landed. Rainwater was oozing down the muddy bank towards the flux fluid, but I noticed that as it dripped down to touch the fluid it suddenly leaped back, just like the droplets of whisky on the side of the glass my father drank in the evenings.

  The young man took a grip on my belt, holding on so that I should not slip down into the Channel.

  “I’ll count to three, then you jump. I’ll give you a shove. Are you ready?”

  “I think so.”

  “You’ll remember Estyll, won’t you?”

  I looked over my shoulder. His face was very close to mine.

  “Yes, I’ll remember her,” I said, not meaning it.

  “Right . . . brace yourself. It’s quite a hop from here. One . . .”

  I saw the fluid of the Channel below me and to the side. It was glistening eerily in the grey light.

  “. . . two . . . three . . .”

  I jumped forward at the same instant as the young man gave me a hefty shove from behind. Instantly, I felt the electric crackle of the flux field, I heard again the loud roaring in my ears and there was a split-second of impenetrable blackness. My feet touched the edge of the time bridge and I tripped, sprawling forward on the floor. I slithered awkwardly against the legs of a man standing just there, and my face fetched up against a pair of shoes polished to a brilliant shine. I looked up.

  There was my father, staring down at me in great surprise. All I can now remember of that frightful moment is his face glaring d
own at me, topped by his black, curly brimmed, stovepipe hat. He seemed to be as tall as a mountain.

  V

  My father was not a man who saw the merit of short, sharp punishment, and I lived under the cloud of my misdeed for several weeks.

  I felt that I had done what I had done in all innocence, and that the price I had to pay for it was too high. In our house, however, there was only one kind of justice and that was Father’s.

  Although I had been in the future for only about an hour of my subjective time, five or six hours had passed for my family and it was twilight when I returned. This prolonged absence was the main reason for my father’s anger, although if I had jumped thirty-two years, as my companion had informed me, an error of a few hours on the return journey was as nothing.

  I was never called upon to explain myself. My father detested excuses.

  Salleen and Therese were the only ones who asked what had happened, and I gave them a shortened account: I said that after I jumped into the future, and realized what I had done, I explored the Park on my own and then jumped back. This was enough for them. I said nothing of the youth with the lofty sentiments, nor of the young lady who sat on the bench. (Salleen and Therese were thrilled enough that I had catapulted myself into the distant future, although my safe return did make the end of the story rather dull.) Internally, I had mixed feelings about my adventure. I spent a lot of time on my own—part of my punishment was that I could only go into the playroom one evening a week, and had to study more diligently instead—and tried to work out the meaning of what I had seen.

  The girl, Estyll, meant very little to me. She certainly had a place in my memory of that hour in the future, but because she was so fascinating to my companion I remembered her through him, and she became of secondary interest.

  I thought about the young man a great deal. He had gone to such pains to make a friend of me, and to include me in his private thoughts, and yet I remembered him as an intrusive and unwelcome presence. I often thought of his husky voice intoning those grand opinions, and even from the disadvantage of my junior years, his callow figure—all gangly limbs, slicked-back hair and downy moustache—was a comical one. For a long time I wondered who he could be. Although the answer seems obvious in retrospect it was some years before I realized it and whenever I was out in the town I would keep my eyes open in case we happened to meet.