The Map of Chaos

by Félix J Palma

  And he began to tell his story.

  32

  HOWEVER, DEAR READER, UNLIKE THE Wellses, you already know Rhys’s story, and so in the meantime I will take the opportunity to scan the board in search of one of the other pieces in this game. What would you say if we jumped forward to dawn and took a look at Doyle, whose carriage has just this minute dropped him off outside Murray’s London town house? Despite the early hour, Doyle already has his habitual air of contained energy, like a cup of coffee about to spill over. After taking a few deep breaths to allow the cold morning air to purify his lungs, he stepped through the ornate entrance gates. But he had scarcely taken a few steps when something made him come to an abrupt halt. He glanced uneasily down the drive leading to the house, as though unable to believe his own eyes. Yet they weren’t mistaken: hanging from the branches of every tree bordering the path were hundreds of mirrors of all shapes and sizes, swaying in the breeze like a new species of fruit, stretching the boundaries of the world they reflected and creating fresh, dizzying perspectives. Doyle stood for several minutes, shaking his head in disbelief, before heaving a sigh and carrying on walking. So that was how Murray intended to find the Emma that existed on the other side of the looking glass. And it also explained why he hadn’t attended the meeting with Inspector Clayton or returned any of Doyle’s calls . . . How could he, if since their return from Brook Manor he had been trawling through all the stores and antique emporiums in London in search of that colorful assortment of mirrors. And that wasn’t all. He had ordered his army of servants to keep watch over them, too, as Doyle discovered when he saw the maids, footmen, and other domestic staff dotted along the drive, sitting on chairs in front of their assigned trees, each holding a bell in his or her hand. No doubt they had been ordered to ring if Emma Harlow, their master’s hapless fiancée, appeared before them in defiance of every law of physics. It was no surprise that their expressions alternated between bewilderment, tedium, and even superstitious fear. Unsure whether to be amazed or alarmed at this foolishness, Doyle continued down the path, his burly frame reflected from every conceivable angle.

  When he reached the house, he discovered that the front was also plastered with mirrors, glittering in the sun like the scales of some enormous dragon. The front door was wide-open, so he walked in without ringing the bell. Doyle wandered round the hallway and the spacious main reception room, which were also infested with mirrors, calling out to Murray in his booming ogre’s voice. In one of the rooms, he came across Murray’s dog, Buzz, sitting very still in front of a huge mirror leaning against the wall, as if he, too, were convinced that sooner or later his mistress would appear there. Doyle snorted. This was ludicrous. He patted the dog’s head resignedly.

  “Mr. Doyle, we weren’t expecting you today!” a voice behind him rang out.

  Doyle wheeled round to find Elmer, Murray’s valet.

  “Well, in fact, we weren’t expecting anyone,” the young man added with a shrug, as though apologizing for having been unable to stop the house from being turned into a fairground attraction. Elmer was accustomed to his master’s eccentricities, but this was beyond even him.

  “Yes, I see, Elmer,” Doyle said, sympathizing. “Where is he?”

  “In the garden next to the conservatory, sir.”

  Doyle left the sitting room almost at a march, determined to put a stop to this madness. The gardens to the right of the house were also overrun with looking glasses. Leaning against fountains, tied to hedgerows, and even floating in ponds, hundreds of them reproduced the world around them, amplifying it and endowing it with secret corners. The leaves were beginning to turn, and the fiery red of autumn multiplied by the mirrors gave the impression that some lunatic had set the garden on fire. Doyle shook his head as he walked toward the conservatory, an impressive glass replica of the Taj Mahal. He spotted Murray standing in front of it in his shirtsleeves, busy arranging what looked like a Stonehenge of mirrors around an armchair, from which he would be able to survey twenty at once simply by turning his head. At that moment, he was trying to prop up a gigantic Venetian mirror with the aid of several stones.

  “Good morning, Gilliam,” Doyle announced as he approached.

  Murray glanced up at him absentmindedly. “Well, well, look who we have here,” he murmured. “What happened to the time-honored tradition of informing people you are coming?”

  “I sent you a telepathic message; didn’t you hear me?” Doyle jested.

  Murray smiled grudgingly. “No. Clearly I am only receptive during a fire. In any case, Arthur, you and I are probably the only two people in England who possess a telephone. You should use it more often; it is easier than it looks.”

  “I telephoned several times, Gilliam! But your servants are clearly too busy to answer.”

  Murray shrugged, as if he had no say over what his servants did. He made sure the Venetian mirror was firmly secured, then stood upright and looked Doyle up and down, examining his injuries.

  “You’re in a sorry state . . . ,” he muttered as he contemplated Doyle’s ear, his bandaged hand, and his face covered in tiny burns. “Though I imagine the soldier in you is proud of his battle scars. And how is the Great Ankoma?”

  “Oh, Woodie has almost fully recovered from his concussion. Although, after what happened at Brook Manor, he seems convinced he is a genuine medium and goes round capturing mysterious presences all over the house.”

  “Why don’t you tell him the truth?” Murray asked casually.

  “I shall when it ceases to amuse me,” Doyle replied sardonically. Then it was his turn to look Murray up and down. “You’re in a sorry state yourself, Gilliam. How long is it since you slept?”

  “I have no time to sleep, Arthur! As you see, I’m very busy.”

  “Yes, I can see,” Doyle sighed, contemplating the circle of mirrors. “And what are you hoping to achieve with all this?”

  Murray looked at him, irritated.

  “What am I hoping to achieve? Why, I am hoping to find Emma, of course.”

  “Yes, but, Gilliam . . .”

  Murray swung round abruptly and walked over to where a load of mirrors lay in piles or leaned haphazardly against one another next to the conservatory.

  Doyle had no choice but to follow him. “Don’t you think this is all rather unscientific?”

  “Is that what you came here to tell me, Arthur?”

  “No,” Doyle replied in a placatory tone. “I came here to tell you about the meeting George and I had with Inspector Clayton after we got back from the moor, which incidentally you didn’t attend . . .”

  “Inspector Clayton . . . Ah, yes, I remember.” Murray scanned the pile of mirrors and seized one with a frame that seemed to be made of solid gold. “A rather awkward one,” he added with a sigh, so that Doyle was unsure whether he was referring to the inspector or the mirror.

  Making a huge effort, he resolved to maintain a friendly tone, at least for the moment. “Well, I won’t deny that this Clayton fellow is a little . . . impertinent. And I understand that you didn’t want to see him . . . Wells told me about how determined he was to investigate your time-travel company, and how he even accused Wells of orchestrating a Martian invasion at some point. But wasn’t Inspector Clayton the person Baskerville said we should see before he died, because he had The Map of Chaos? Who else could we have consulted regarding invisible killers, universal travelers, and mirrors that are portals between worlds? We had no choice, Gilliam. And, regardless of all that, you should have come, as it was an extremely interesting meeting,” he added mysteriously.

  Murray indicated with a nod that he should pick up the other end of the mirror and help him carry it. Doyle gritted his teeth and did as Murray asked.

  “After we had given him a summary of what happened at Brook Manor,” Doyle went on, gasping as they inched their way over to the circle of mirrors, “Clayton admitted that he had The Map of Chaos and told us he had already come across the creature at a fake séance in 1888.�
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  “Really?” Murray said, signaling with his chin the place where he wanted the mirror to go.

  After resting it on the ground, Doyle, out of breath, explained to Murray that the Invisible Man had tried to steal the book from an old lady who had also been at the séance, but that Clayton had managed to stop him. However, he had failed to arrest the creature because he had vanished into thin air, exactly the way he did at Brook Manor when he, Murray, shot him with the crossbow. The old lady had also disappeared, but not before she gave Clayton the book, although she managed only to tell him it contained the key to saving this and all other possible worlds and that he must protect it with his life, for she was certain the creature would come back to destroy it.

  “Do you realize what I am saying, Gilliam? The book has been in Clayton’s possession all this time, but for some reason the monster believes Wells has it . . .”

  “Yes.” Murray nodded thoughtfully.

  Encouraged, Doyle went on. “Good, good . . . So, if what the old lady said is true and the book contains the key to saving all the worlds, and the creature finds it, or if he finds Wells . . .”

  “Yes.” Murray nodded again, directing his gaze at his circle of mirrors. “There: I think every corner is reflected now, and that is the most important thing, because she could be anywhere.”

  “You aren’t listening to me, damn it!” exclaimed Doyle. “What I am trying to tell you is that your beloved friend George is in mortal danger, and possibly the entire universe to boot!”

  Murray stared at him blankly for a few moments.

  “Let’s go to the conservatory,” he said.

  Once again, Doyle was forced to follow him. When they went in, he was surprised to find the place empty.

  “Emma used to spend a lot of time in here tending her flowers,” Murray explained. “So I have taken everything out in order to fill it with mirrors. I am expecting another delivery from Bristol this afternoon, which Elmer ordered.”

  “Splendid,” Doyle retorted. “Look, Murray, I sympathize with your obsess—I mean, your interest in finding Emma, but what I am telling you ought to interest you as well. If what the old lady predicted twelve years ago is true, and the end of the world is upon us, you won’t have much chance of finding Emma, will you? The quicker we sort out this mess, the better, because we don’t know how much time we have left. So, listen carefully: I think the key to it all lies in the story Baskerville told Clayton . . .”

  “Baskerville?” Murray asked, looking at him in astonishment.

  “Yes, Baskerville, Baskerville,” Doyle replied, trying not to lose his patience. “Apparently, your coachman went to see Clayton about six or seven months ago. It seems the old man had met one of Clayton’s twins in another world, and together they had tried to defeat a . . . Martian invasion. And so, when the Hunters came after him, he considered turning to Clayton. Wells hoped the Clayton in this world would be able to help him, the way his twin had in the other universe. Even so, for a while he refrained from going to see him—after all, he had been fairly successful in avoiding the Hunters for two years, and during the previous couple of months he thought he had finally given them the slip. But when Wells saw the watcher on the moor, he realized they had caught up with him again, and, too worn-out by then to continue facing the situation alone, he resolved to turn to Clayton, praying he would believe him and, more important, that he would offer some solution . . . Our Clayton did believe him, though he knew nothing about those killers. But when Baskerville described the symbol on their canes, he recognized it as the same eight-pointed star adorning the cover of The Map of Chaos! That is why he showed Baskerville the book, in the hope he might be able to give him some information about it, but the old man knew nothing . . . Although clearly the Hunters, the book, the invisible creature, and the journeys between worlds are all connected . . . We just have to find out how!”

  Murray nodded as he glanced about thoughtfully.

  “Hmm . . . how many mirrors do you reckon will fit in here, Arthur?” he said.

  Doyle could contain himself no longer.

  “But what the devil is the matter with you, Gilliam?” he exploded. “Do you care so little about what might happen to George and Jane? For God’s sake, man, they are your friends! And what about the universe? Don’t you care about the end of the world?”

  Murray looked at him resentfully. “And what could I possibly do for the universe that you, our most eminent thinkers, aren’t already doing?” he said sarcastically. “Arthur Conan Doyle, Inspector Clayton, H. G. Wells, and his brilliant wife . . . With all of you working to solve the problem, I can sleep easily in the knowledge that the universe is in good hands. But meanwhile . . . who is bothering to look for Emma? No one!” he roared suddenly, pointing accusingly at Doyle, who contemplated him in astonishment. “And yet you promised you would help me find her! You swore to me at Brook Manor, before confronting the invisible creature, that if we came out of there alive, you would devote the rest of your life to solving that riddle. You told me if there was some way of getting to Emma, you would find it! And I believed you! I took you at your word! I believed your damnable chivalrous posturing!”

  Doyle waited for Murray to calm down, looking at him sorrowfully, and then he said, “And I meant it, Gilliam. Otherwise, why would I be doing this? Or do you honestly believe this method of yours is going to work?” he exclaimed crossly, pointing at all the mirrors. “I am absolutely convinced that the only way to discover the path that leads to your beloved Emma is by understanding what is going on all around us. As I said before: everything is connected. Everything. If I manage to solve the case of this mysterious book, not only will I save Wells and probably the entire universe, I will also discover the underlying nature of things . . . Do you realize what that means, Gilliam? I used to toy with the idea of writing a book about Spiritualism, but what is that compared to a theory that explains everything we are and all that is around us? I shall call it the theory of manifold worlds. And, you see, Gilliam, once I have truly grasped reality, I will also understand how to travel between worlds and will be able to guide you to the Emma in the mirror, just as I promised.”

  Murray looked skeptically at his friend, hesitating to show any enthusiasm. He was still angry, although he had to admit there was some sense in what Doyle was saying.

  “Very well . . . ,” he muttered, “how can I help you?”

  “In lots of ways. We have devised a plan, which I will explain later . . . but first of all, I need you tell me everything you discovered on your trips to the fourth dimension in the Cronotilus, because in light of what we know now, it seems increasingly clear that the pink plain is an antechamber between those parallel worlds. I am convinced it contains many clues, possibly even the solution of how to reach Emma.”

  Murray looked at Doyle in disbelief and then smiled ruefully.

  “Is that your plan for finding Emma?” he said, visibly disappointed. “Then I fear we never shall.”

  “What makes you say that?” Doyle said, surprised. “I feel sure there is a doorway leading to her on the pink plain—probably very similar to the hole that you thought took you to the year 2000, and much easier to pass through than a mirror.”

  Murray sighed.

  “Do you want to know the whole truth about the fourth dimension?”

  “Of course.” Doyle nodded excitedly.

  “Very well.” Murray breathed another sigh. “Then I think you are in for a greater surprise than you bargained for.”

  But wait a moment, dear reader! Whilst Murray and Doyle are embroiled in their discussion, oblivious to all that is happening around them, I can see everything willy-nilly, and I have just noticed that the hundreds of mirrors with which Murray has adorned his property have stopped reflecting what is in front of them. Instead of contemplating their own bored expressions in the looking glasses Murray had told them to watch over, the maids and footmen were seeing quite different images, strange worlds they could never have conjured
in their own imaginations. One mirror revealed a valley of silky grass through which a herd of centaurs was galloping; another a huge amphibious creature, its back bristling with spikes as it bobbed on a greenish ocean; another a grey wilderness with thick, driving rain and dazzling lightning bolts, where enormous metallic beetles fought to survive; another a landscape of toadstools as tall as trees, on which caterpillars wearing waistcoats and frock coats conversed with one another; another a cluster of floating castles drifting through lilac clouds, with waterfalls flowing from them like fringes made of foam; another the dome of St. Paul’s, over which at that very moment flew a magnificent pterodactyl.

  Of course, none of the servants were aware that these were the infinite stages of the theater collapsing and colliding, the myriad different worlds crashing against one another. The end of the world had begun, ladies and gentlemen. But instead of trumpets, it was heralded by the frenzied tinkle of a hundred bells.

  33

  FIFTEEN MINUTES EARLIER, DR. RAMSEY HAD gotten out of bed, unaware that this was the last day of the universe. He liked rising at a quarter to eight in order to perform his ablutions, which included, among other things, a perilous shave with the rudimentary razor from that world. Unlike his colleagues, who had brought electric shavers with them in their trousseaus of microscopic and sundry devices from the Other Side, Ramsey felt a sentimental attachment to that relic from the past. He considered that the slow, measured rhythm it required of him was the best way to help him adapt to the unhurried pace of that world. After managing to finish his conventional shave without slitting his throat, he went down to the dining room, unaware that behind him in the bathroom mirror an intricate maze had appeared, in the midst of which stood a bored-looking Minotaur. With his customary punctuality, Ramsey’s servant had just laid out his peculiar breakfast: a cup of coffee swimming in ice cubes, different types of fruit arranged on a thick bed of crushed ice, and assorted flavors of ice cream. After casting a doleful glance through the window at the sunny autumn day outside, Ramsey sat down at the table with a faint sigh, cracked his knuckles, picked up the newspaper, and began to read the headlines on that ordinary September 23, 1900, unaware that, as I have already told you, dear reader, in the world he inhabited at least, this was the dreaded Day of Chaos.