by Jack Fennell
‘The wounded man?’ I exclaimed.
‘That evening’, she said, ‘Roger came home. He was in splendid spirits; everything was going well; one man who’d been sentenced was reprieved, and another who was to have been executed in the morning had escaped. We had a leisurely supper and afterwards sat resting by the firelight, as usual, before beginning the night’s work. You know Roger,’ she said, smiling: ‘One resolves to conceal things from him, but it’s no good. In a few minutes I was telling him my dream. He knew, of course, that I had dreamed things that came true, and when I came to the execution he looked startled until I told him “the soldiers were in green”.
‘“In green!” he exclaimed. “In the uniform of the IRA?” and I said “Yes.” Then he laughed and began inventing nonsense, delightedly – “Victory for the Republic,” he said, “our army all swank in uniform and me charged with high treason and shot at dawn!” It was so absurd that the whole dread that had been over me fell away and I laughed too, and we lit the lamps and pulled out the files and papers and began work.
‘We both loved, for writing, the unbroken quiet of the midnight hours, and we worked in dead silence until after one o’clock; then the lamp began to flicker out, and Roger muttered, “Sorry, I forgot the oil,” so I had to light candles.
‘It was that, I suppose, the candles – that brought it back – the face out of my dream – suddenly I saw it before me in the shadows, ghastly clear, and my heart crumpled up with dread. I sat down at the table again, trying not to tell Roger, waiting – but I couldn’t work, couldn’t think.
‘At last it came, a sound of slow footsteps on the gravel and a long, low, hissing call. Roger sprang up instinctively and opened the drawer in which he kept his automatic, but then the knock came – someone knocking with his knuckles – and he put it back and crossed to open the door.
‘I cried out and stood against the door. I cried out to him, “Don’t open, don’t open!” He put his arm around me and drew me away, smiling. “It isn’t raiders,” he said.
‘He flung the door open and they came in, four men in dark coats, walking slowly, and laid the stretcher down. I saw the white face of the man who lay on it, the long, lean, hollow face – the bandaged head – the blood – Oh, I was not brave; I could do nothing; I sank down on a chair in the shadow and did nothing at all. I heard the men whispering with Roger and heard them go away. They had laid the man on the couch, and he was moaning – that was the dreadful thing – he was not dead.
‘Roger came over to me, smiling. “Nesta, we’ve got to harbour a rebel,” he said. He said that to call up my courage, of course, and it did make me ashamed. I stood up and went to the couch; then I looked at Roger and told him, “It’s the face in my dream.” “This boy was to be executed tomorrow,” he said gravely. “It was a great rescue: he was fired after and hit; it’s a bad wound, but I think he needn’t die.” I – I couldn’t help it – I said again, stupidly, “It’s the face in my dream.” Roger looked at me almost – he was almost stern – and said, “Nesta, we can’t let dreams—” I took off the bandage then and examined the wound; it wasn’t dangerous, only he’d lost so much blood; he’d need long, careful nursing I could see; but he needn’t die. He was five weeks in the house.’
‘Tell me, did you like him?’ Una asked.
‘No,’ Nesta said, frankly. ‘Roger did. Roger said he was a splendid fellow with a fine record since nineteen-sixteen – one of Mick Collins’s right-hand men. But I – I was ashamed – I could see nothing to hate, yet I – I hated him. But I did my best, he went away strong and well.’
‘And that’s the end of the story,’ Liam said.
‘Yes, that’s the end,’ said Nesta, looking up. ‘You see – the war will break out again of course, we all know that – but the green uniforms … it couldn’t come true.’
2. Editor’s note: the HMS Leinster, a mailboat sunk by a German submarine on its way from Dublin to Holyhead in October 1918, killing 500 people.
A Vision
ART Ó RIAIN (1927)
Science, religion and tradition are
seemingly reconciled in this story, in
which the narrator is afforded a glimpse
of the future not in a dream, but by
technological means. The ‘Professor’ is a
gifted autodidact in true sci-fi tradition,
but he’s not a fully fledged Mad Scientist,
probably due to his religious beliefs; the
narrator and the reader, on the other
hand, must decide for themselves if the
Professor’s response to the unsettling
nature of time is satisfactory. This story
was originally published in Irish as
‘Aisling’; this translation is by the editor.
ON THE TOP OF THE HILL lives my friend the Professor. We all call him ‘The Professor’, but it wasn’t in any university in the world that he got his learning; I say he drank it straight from the Well of Knowledge itself. It’s a lonely, bleak spot that he lives in, but he is thus able to keep himself far away from gossips and chatterboxes, and the general sordidness of life. If you go up that hill, you better have a good reason for doing so. I myself climb Carrauntoohil to talk with the Professor – or, more accurately, to listen to him.
‘You’ve come at just the right moment,’ he said to me when I called in to see him that afternoon. ‘I have something new to show you.’ He led me into the room where he did all his work.
‘I’ve seen that device that’s been around for a while – the one that allows you to see and hear a person at a huge distance? When you compare that device to the far-viewer, you’ll see that the old appliance has an advantage over the new thing – that is, that with the old thing you can watch anything you want. For a long while now, I’ve been trying to fix that deficiency, so that it will be possible to aim the new device at any point on Earth; it was hard work, but I’ve finally done it. You will be the first person, after myself, to try it out.’
I
There was a remote village on the edge of the sea. The music of the waves could be heard clearly in the little house, and sometimes sand would blow in through the door. The children were listening, their eyes wide, to the talk that was going on at the fireside between their mother, their father, and the man from the big town.
‘It’s true for you,’ the father said, ‘staying here is a huge effort for us, and nothing to show for it but loneliness and hardship, when we could be living in the city. We’ll go to Dublin as soon as I’ve gathered the money for it. We’re bound to find contentment there.’
II
An upper room in a big house in the city. An exhausted woman with eight family members in the room with her, all aggrieved by the heat and the lack of space; the noise and clamour of the street coming in through the window.
The man came in, took off his jacket, and sat as far away from the fire as he could. ‘I have great news, Kate,’ he said. ‘I’m going to be Head of the Workforce from next Monday.’
‘Thanks be to God!’ she said. ‘We’ll be able to get out of this accursed street, and move to someplace outside the city with peace and quiet and fresh air! Nobody could expect to be healthy, living in a place like this.’
III
I recognised from the design of the houses, and from the number of vehicles that were coming and going, that I was in one of the suburbs of the city now. The couple were sitting in the garden and conversing; the woman was elegantly dressed, and the man had the air of one who has risen through life through his own efforts, relying on none but himself.
‘I’ve been considering the situation for a while now,’ he said, ‘and I’m certain that I’m right. This country is too small for me. If I was over in England, there would be no limits to the business I could do. We’ll leave for London as soon as possible.’
IV
He was a young man, but I understood from the behaviour of those around him that he was the owner of this large house. It woul
d be more accurate to call it a ‘castle’, albeit a false one. The electric lights were all on, and there was truly a need for them, as the entire house was surrounded by a thick, sallow fog. That same fog was always outside the house, turning day into an ugly, man-made night. The young man grabbed a telephone; he seemed irritable.
‘Is this the bank? Get the manager for me, please … Are you there? Listen to me, I am not going to stay in this country for one more day. I should wait until the inheritance comes to me in a year’s time, but I’m sick of business and streets and rain and fog. I’m flying to Italy tonight, and after that, any country that takes my fancy. No, I have no desire to return to England. I’m leaving the company to you.’
V
I had never seen such a beautiful place. There were thousands of flowers, of every kind; vineyards and orange trees weighed down with their fruit; powerful sunshine beaming down over everything. It was difficult to say which was bluer, the sky above or the sea below. It must have been some part of the Tyrrhenian Sea.
I heard a car approaching. The staff of the Chateau emerged to welcome the person who had arrived: a worn, weather-beaten man, in whose features some sort of dissatisfaction could be clearly read. I understood from the conversation that surrounded him that he had been travelling for quite some time, and that this was his habit.
The rich man ascended to the library – a beautiful bright room with a view of the sea. He sat at the desk and turned to the letters that were there for him to read, but he did so without any enthusiasm. When he had read half a dozen, he jumped to his feet suddenly and threw the lot of them away from him in anger and disdain.
‘I’m sick of it all!’ he said aloud. ‘No matter where I go, word of my money precedes me. I have no appetite for anything – I might as well be Midas. It’s clear I’ll never know peace or satisfaction as long as I have this wealth.
‘But I’d be rid of them, the toadying liars! I could throw away every penny I have, and turn my face towards the place where my ancestors lived before me. It’s in a remote village on the edge of the sea that I’ll find rest and tranquillity.’
I stopped there out of sheer astonishment. ‘Good God, it’s a circle! Where’s the peace in that?’ My voice was rising.
‘In the centre of the circle,’ the Professor answered.
‘But what is the centre of the circle?’
He took me by the elbow and led me to the window. It was a bright, moonlit night, and all the stars were glittering brightly above our heads.
‘Each one of those stars has its own path,’ he said, ‘and each one of those paths is a circle, of a kind. What is the centre of all those circles? It’s the centre of your circle, too.’
I didn’t give him any answer, because I knew that he would provide it himself.
‘The will of God is what it is,’ he said.
The Chronotron
TARLACH Ó hUID (1946)
The history-altering potential of time-
travel stories has significant pros and
cons. On the one hand, if it is possible
to re-write history, then free will does
exist after all, and traumatic events such
as the Anglo-Irish War and the Irish
Civil War are not inevitable. On the
other hand, if you succeed in changing
anything, the universe will more than
likely ruin your life and tie your brain
in knots. The final Mad Scientist of
this collection learns this the hard way,
in Tarlach Ó hUid’s wry treatment of
nationalist wish-fulfilment fantasies.
This story was originally published in Irish
as ‘An Cianadóir’; this translation is by
the editor.
I AM GOING OUT OF MY MIND, and that is a fortunate thing, for the madness I have endured of late is far, far worse. That thing called the ‘Chronotron’ is the source of this mental anguish. I cannot help but think back to that difficult question; it will drive me into a red rage, and I am powerless to stop it. Only one thing will banish these thoughts, and that is the advance of insanity; I’ve tried all else and failed. If I had a needle or a keen blade or a piece of glass in my possession, I would open my veins and let the life pour out of me onto the floor; in this place, there is no stake, post, spike or spar that would allow me to hang myself. I tried to strangle myself with my own two hands, but it was no use. It goes without saying that as I was fervently constricting my throat, to the point where my tongue and eyes were bulging out, I fainted and could not accomplish the deed! And if I spent an entire day trying to bash my brains out against a wall, that would do nothing but knock me into a stupor, because this entire cell – the walls, floor, ceiling and all – is lined with rubber, just as the Chronotron was on the inside.
I knew, of course, that Professor Ó Néill had been trying for ten years to create a contraption that could travel through Time as an aeroplane travels through the Air or a trawler travels through Water. Well, I didn’t believe he would do it. What’s over and done with can’t be revisited, and we have no choice but to wait for what has yet to come – that was my attitude to the whole thing. And although I knew that there was nobody in Ireland more renowned for their grasp of science and philosophy than Professor Ó Néill, I couldn’t see anything in it other than silly daydreaming. Though I had little interest in the Professor’s work, we spent many a meal in each other’s company, as next-door neighbours often do. Thus, it wasn’t any great surprise when he asked me to come around for dinner one November evening in 1985. I took him up on that invitation, and my God, woe is me forever more that I went!
The Professor didn’t say much until the coffee was on the table. I could tell, from the way that he was glancing at his watch between every second sentence, that his mind was very much preoccupied. The time came, however, and he lit a cigarette and looked into my eyes.
‘Seosamh,’ he said, ‘I am about to tell you a secret, and bind you to it. Seosamh, my friend, I have completed the Chronotron!’
I laughed apprehensively, worried that he might realise my lack of faith in his invention.
‘Well, I hope you knock some enjoyment out of it!’ I said, sort of tamely.
He peered at me from under his bushy eyebrows.
‘You have a quiet life at the moment, don’t you?’ he asked, as though that question was somehow relevant to this business of the Chronotron.
‘Och, terribly! There’s no describing how unchanging it is.’
‘And you have a desire for adventure and wonder?’
‘You can say that again! But as you know, since I got that limp while hunting lions in Africa—’
‘I know, I know,’ he said, impatiently, ‘I remember you telling that story before. But here, I will lay the whole lot out, ready to hand. Would you be willing to risk death on a wondrous adventure?’
‘I’d step through the gates of Hell itself for some novelty!’ I said, eagerly.
The Professor leaped forward out of the chair, his expression keen.
‘Come with me into the Chronotron!’ he said.
I was in two minds about what answer I should give to this kind of peculiar invitation, but I had to hold in my laughter, for fear I would hurt his feelings.
‘What are the dangers of travelling in – in a Chronotron?’
‘There are plenty of dangers. For example, if it loses its steering, it could take us back millions of years, to the beginning of the world, and we’d be roasted alive! Joking aside, the slightest mishap could leave us stranded in the Middle Ages, and wouldn’t that be enough of a disaster?’
I stared at him doubtfully, but it was clear that he was deadly serious.
‘And – and you’ve travelled through Time?’
He grinned.
‘Well, I’ve travelled to the future, but then, who isn’t able to do that? But to go back! You don’t believe it? Think about it. Time is like a kind of music; it’s only a
mathematical mode imagined by humanity. Do you understand me?’
‘I understand that understanding is hard,’ said I. ‘But time has to exist. Night follows day, winter follows autumn; people get older, they lose their vigour, and they die.’
‘That’s all true, but that’s only change, and there’s no use in talking about that or wrestling with it. Come back a couple of years with me tonight, and you’ll get some proof that will shut you up!’
I don’t know what sense there was in doing so, but I said I would go. It’s true that I was hungry for adventure, and that I had a craving for weird and wonderful things, but the fact was that I did not believe for one minute that there was anything in the ‘Chronotron’ …
The Professor led me through his laboratory and into a sort of garage, where a young man was tinkering with a thing that looked sort of like a new-fangled car, but of a strange make.
‘Behold the Chronotron!’ the Professor said, proudly.
He introduced me to the youngfella. ‘This is Colonel Michael Mac Reachtain,’ he said. ‘The Colonel is my engineer, and a hell of an engineer he is, too – there’s none better than him in the whole Air Force. The government loaned him to me.’
A moment or two later, I had an opportunity to approach the Colonel alone.
‘I want to ask you something,’ I said. ‘Do you think that Professor Ó Néill … that he’s right in the head?’
He let out a hearty laugh.
‘That’s a very broad question! They say that genius and madness are close to one another. But you can be sure there’s genius in him anyway, whatever about the madness.’
‘You don’t mean to tell me that this Chronotron works!’
‘Did he not tell you that we’ve already tried it out? Well, we did, and let me tell you, friend, it was astonishing! Back to 1641 we went, to watch Phelim O’Neill’s army advancing on Drogheda – and a tattered, bedraggled army it was, too!’