Timelines: Stories Inspired by H.G. Wells' the Time Machine (47 page)

“
You don’t need to ask me what this is,” he said in a low voice.

I maintained my silence a moment longer, in respect for the artistry of the thing. But even if I had not read his tale, there could be only one answer. “I’m growing old, Bertie.”

“
Not too old. You want to see if there’s any hope, any chance. So do I.”

“
You’re only 28.”

He gripped my hands. “Now that you’ve read my little nightmare, how can you refuse? All I can see ahead is darkness.” He frowned. “But you may have better luck. You can find the right path for us, if anyone can. No matter what’s happened, you’ve never lost hope. When one vision fails, you create a better one.”

“
Perhaps,” I murmured. But my mind had already begun to churn over the days ahead. What might I do, beyond my efforts now? The laborers embraced my ideals, drank in all I could teach them; but those with the power to improve the lives of the working class refused to step beyond their own concerns and alleviate that terrible poverty—the slavery of man to machine.

“
You need some time to mull things over,” Bertie said.

But I knew already. Just the sight of the thing had set a hunger howling within me. “I’m your man.” I gripped his hand, and shook it, hard—and found there all the strength of my own conviction, despite his slight frame.

He laughed shakily. “Good. Because you might be our best chance. So much hinges on the next few years, and I can’t do anything. I’m still alive through too much of what goes wrong. But you—”

“
Yes?” I asked tightly.

He looked away. “You died in October of 1896.”

I stood silent. The weight of that choked me like a millstone. Two more years. I forced myself to say, “Well, we still have some time, then!”

We packed the machine, dismantling and bundling the pieces. Finally, curiosity won over dread. “How did I die?”

“
Too many things. No one was sure, at first—you drove yourself so hard. One doctor said, ‘The disease is simply being William Morris, and having done more work than most ten men.’ By the time they diagnosed anything, it was already too late.”

I grunted in disbelief. I’d had the gout for years, and there were bad spells, I admit; but I could not reconcile the health and energy I still felt with my death in two years. It didn’t seem possible.

After we settled the last pieces, Bertie touched my arm. “I could hardly believe it myself. But I’ve read of my own death, too. That’s the curse of having a time machine.”

We drove to Kelmscott under cover of night, the machine wrapped in horse blankets. We hid it in the stables while I watched the house. Then we brought it up to the attics, piece by delicate piece.

The attics at Kelmscott—you may not have been up there, Georgie, since you were a child and Kelmscott was your father’s house. I’ve kept them bare. They’re so beautiful, in their open, clean lines, spare and sparkling when the morning sun drifts through the windows. Sometimes I’ve climbed up there just to think, amid the rafters. In the attics, I would never be disturbed; and Kelmscott Manor had existed for so many goodly years—since 1570—that its limestone garrets would doubtless exist still, to afford me a measure of comfort and safety.

Bertie parted from me with a fierce embrace.

I waited until daybreak. From the height of the attic windows, I took my last look at the beloved slopes and meadows, the gardens, the stand of trees, the little haven I’d found here at Kelmscott. Then I sat and gently pressed the lever forward, precisely as Bertie had instructed.

The machine shuddered under me. It shook in a most alarming way. I felt for a moment as though I’d been tossed into the ocean, sick as if I were battered down by waves.

As I looked toward the attic windows, light and dark passed over me in a dizzying spiral. In the flash of leaves and sky, night and moon, I felt I would go blind. But I did not lose my nerve. I pulled back on the lever when the dials indicated the proper moment. I had decided to make my first test at a safe distance.

The machine bucked to a stop. As I climbed gingerly from the saddle, the dials told me that I was setting foot in the attics of 1925—a nice, round quarter-century. Perhaps I should have set to work at once. But I wanted to see the future first. Thoughts of my death gave way to sheer wonder—

—
such joy as I felt when I was young and everything was new; when my friends and I stood against the world, determined to bring beauty back into every life.

I rushed to the attic windows and peered out. And what did I see? A line of trees along the walk. The profusion of flowers, red and blue and lavender. The same meadows, golden with morning’s light. The sheltering stretch of wood, untroubled by the passage of years. The winding lane that led to Kelmscott Village, still clear and well-kept.

I crept down through the house, but heard no one stirring. Yet the place was clean, and our furniture and decorations remained. What if Janey and our daughters still lived here? I froze on the stairs, wanting desperately to see them; our firstborn Jenny had been so sick since childhood, and May, the younger, had followed me so enthusiastically in everything. They would have taken my death hard. I wanted to tell them I loved them; but something held me back. Not just the thought of who might be up there with Jane right now. The fear tormented me—what harm I might do them, appearing like a ghost. Then, too, it might jeopardize our hope for the future, before I had fairly begun. I clung to the banister, tormented by the choice. And then I heard a footstep from above.

I could not let them find me here. I snuck out of the house and down into the sunshine. I followed the lane to Kelmscott Village, which looked much the same—a clean, pretty place, a refuge from the dinginess of London. I nodded to the residents, many of them young. They were not flying to the cities for the trap of mindless toil. Some of the older folk looked vaguely familiar. One old man started up, pointing a trembling finger as if he recognized a ghost—but when I drew near, his fear faded to uncertainty, then confusion, and he sat down again.

I took a boat down the Thames to London, wearing a great straw hat to conceal my face. London seemed already less gray, more green, the Thames itself less murky.

And there, at a newsstand, I had my first shock. From the front page, I gazed back at myself—but so much older! The masthead proclaimed it to be March 24, 1925. I had chosen my birthday, since one date was as good as any other.

I stared at the paper in consternation. I have never enjoyed having my portrait taken. Despite the lines of care, the parchment skin and thinning snow-white beard, it was a good likeness. The headlines lauded my life and offered an issue of commemoration for the man who had been “the peacekeeper of our times.” The article referenced many great achievements.

The world spun through my head as I read that paper. The Boer War had ceased—so had our aggressions in Egypt. Conditions for the working class had improved so much that that all enjoyed a level of comfort, if not luxury. Women could vote at the same age as men. Britain maintained its might, but extended the hand of benevolence to its subjects, soliciting their participation.

And the article laid much of the praise for this at my own door.

The blood pounded in my temples, and my leg ached as if in warning of the gout. But I stood firm. I found a library and began to explore the past—my future.

It seemed I’d had tireless energy in spreading the message of art and beauty, equality and goodwill, respect for one’s fellows and the earth. And somehow, I had found a way to transform technology into true art: for the people of this time had combined photography with the magic lantern show to produce moving pictures, with written placards that could be translated to make my message understood around the world. I spoke to them in “newsreels.” But more than that, in gorgeous hand-tinted scenes, I showed the possibilities of my fairy-romances even to those who could not read. The actors mimed emotion so well, those interpretive placards were not even truly needed to make the story understood.

There were other things necessary, of course. Back in 1894, the post of Poet Laureate stood open. I had refused the honor; the inanity of court poetry would have deadened my spirit, and I could not stand to rise so high above my fellows. But as a new-made member of the royal household, I would have the ear of the queen, and my verses would reach the mighty as well as the oppressed. Surely I could learn to grit my teeth, rein in my temper, and couch the truth so that they would listen.

I felt dizzy with all the possibilities. As the sun sank, I realized I had forgotten to eat. In a friendly tavern, I ordered a hearty meal, food that actually tasted of the country, not the town.

Somehow, I would have to do exactly as I had vaguely imagined I might do, when Bertie first showed me his machine.

Somehow, I must make certain that this future world would actually occur. I could continue to work passionately for eighteen hours most every day. I could take a more active role in the politics that had so disgusted me. The one thing I could not do was resume the life I’d known.

But there was something else in all this, Georgie. Something that might be compensation for any sacrifice I might make.

For you see, my dear, there was another fact the newspaper had mentioned. How my heart leapt when I read those words.

After Janey’s death in 1914, I married you.

That was the beginning of it, my love. The days that we had did not stretch like an unbroken chain; rather, they were like stepping stones across a river, the colors woven through a tapestry, as I skipped ahead in time to where I was needed, stitch after stitch. You were the bright thread that gave meaning to my life. A continual joy to my heart. I spent as much time with you as I could, but there were always other matters whose importance we could not deny.

You helped me, exerting your influence with friends and acquaintances, enlisting the strong pen of your nephew, Rudyard Kipling. You also helped me hide my absences with excuses so vivid that I almost believed them myself.

I had Bertie by my side as well, helping for all he was worth. Sometimes he might tell me of important events that he had learned about in former voyages, but we both agreed on the danger of stepping too far ahead while our work was yet unfinished.

Great were those years, as we spread the message of Fellowship to all. What a joy it was to stand before those crowds. To watch my words touch laborers and shopkeepers alike; to see even the industrialist wipe away tears as we all sang one of my new Chants for Socialists. To witness the face of the earth changing before my eyes, becoming better. Becoming whole.

As the threat of major wars melted away, science advanced side-by-side with philosophy and moral responsibility, until science itself began to cure the very ills that it has caused in our own day. People worked together, growing closer in mind and spirit. Folk of many nations came to study side by side in schools around the world, regardless of class, culture, or creed. Technology grew into harmony with the natural world until it became ennobling, rather than dehumanizing, and all cared for the earth, and for each other.

I could not have written myself into a more beautiful future. I was jubilant. And mortally exhausted.

By your direction, as I grew old and worn, I had put in more appearances in those odd years when I’d been so often absent, 1894 to 1896, to get some much-needed rest. My work in the future scarcely let me pause for an instant, and I was weary, so weary, Georgie. Sometimes, I was so weak I could neither walk nor stand. For four months I had to be carried about in my chair. But those periods of rest were hard, lighted only by your visits, and Ned’s. Those looks of compassion you gave me were still not enough to stave off the sorrow of those days, when I must act as though we had never been together.

At last that dreadful day arrived—the day that I feared above all others. The day when you took to your bed and we both knew you would not rise again.

How sweet you were to me even then, Georgie. How I tried to comfort you with equal tenderness. I hate to tell you of those moments, dear—of how you looked, or what laid you low. But I cannot tell the rest without what happened then.

“
Was it worth it, Topsy dear?”

“
Was it worth it?” I repeated, tremulous at first. “You know it was always a struggle to leave you, even to do what I must. I wanted our time together as much as you did, darling. But they needed me.”

I fell silent then. No words such as these could ever tell the strength of my regret. Not regret for what I had done. Regret that there would never be enough time with you.

You whispered, “Has it all turned out as you hoped?”

“
I have done everything I could,” I said with anguish.

You smiled weakly—but that was answer in itself. And I, too, wanted to know how the story ended. I kissed you on the lips, the cheeks, the brow, then rose swiftly, that I might the sooner return. You clung to my hand with your little strength. In your eyes was knowledge already of what I would do. And then, because I could not bear it, I caught you in a fierce embrace. I left, wanting only to rush back to this very moment, and lie down by your side.

I climbed back to the attics. I knew, even as I swung my leg through the bars of the machine, that I had nearly reached my end. Despite the periods of rest, the strain and weakness had never fully left me. I could feel it threaded through my bones.