Nowhere Near Milkwood

by Rhys Hughes

  In a pocket of my waistcoat I keep a watch captive. It once solicited an hour in an alleyway, and employed many cogs to do so, some of them underage, with copper teeth instead of bronze. I hesitated less than a single tick before taking it in. "We'll see how you like to tock in the cooler!" cried I, as I sealed it in ice. But friction from the unrepentant escapement melted it free. There was only one place secure enough for a nefarious timepiece: inside a vest woven from the sound of closing doors. "Into the slammer with you!" roared I, and that's where it has resided ever since, in solitary refinement, without visitors: a terrible fate for a neighbourhood watch.

  Now as I raced to the source of the chronoflow, I felt the hour hand spinning backward like a dish of cats on the stick of an ailurophobic juggler. The dial stimulated my left nipple as it did so, and I blushed with shame at this betrayal of my true love, my micro-darling, Animula. The minute hand, of course, was travelling so rapidly that it was a stationary wheel and did not inflame my amours, which is just as well, because I don't like sixty lovers in an hour, or a lover who asks for sixty seconds to be complete.

  The problem with this asymmetrical nipple caress was that it tended to pull me to one side of the chronoflow, rather than keep me steady in the middle of the stream. The currents of time flow truest in the centre; near the banks of the present they are disrupted by shoals of amnesia and eddies of what if? It is easy to drift off course and become grounded in alternative history. I realised this was happening and sought to rebalance my craft by manually pleasuring my other nipple. Unfortunately I love myself too much — now I lurched to the right, violently, like the President when confronted with the results of a plebiscite. No slur on the lovable autocrat!

  Without warning, my pyramid struck an analogy reef and capsized. I closed my eyes and plugged my ears with my toes as I tumbled — my position was unnatural and indefensible. Liquid time washed over me, tasting like an immature yesterday — a combination of scrambled eggs and abbey pepper. Then I was on the very edge of the chronoflow, on the verge of re-entering conventional time. I grasped the current with my large hands, but to no avail; off I slipped and landed on wood. What happened to the pyramid I cannot say: perhaps it continued without me back to the singularity which birthed the cosmos. Or maybe it veered off at some other antique location; a desert land whose architects would borrow inspiration from its tapering sides.

  Who knows? And whoa nose! For my proboscis seemed intent on burrowing into roughly-hewn planks like a navvy worm. My fingers, which due to my desperate scrabble at the chronoflow had been last to depart the stream, and were therefore older and wiser than the rest of me, came together to extract the organ from a knothole of its own sneezing, and to lend my dripping nostrils their sleeves. Then they scratched my brow, but the mind behind was still young enough to absolve, rather than solve, all riddles — forgiving them for being cryptic, provided they left town and didn't return until the statue of limitations was up, and that's one statue I've never seen up, or down, because it hasn't yet been sculpted by Rodin Guignol, our greatest chiseller, who has no limitations, though he made a hash of two of my renowned predecessors — Charlton Radish and Nitrogen Parsley — when he should have made a crumble.

  Anyway, I had no idea where I was. But slowly I began to learn, which is always the way, isn't it? Weird coincidence, that: how every time you arrive in a new place, provided you don't already know, you instantly start working out where it is! I was in a room without a carpet. A cold hearth did not blaze in merry cheer to one side; this was no Festive Season. The wall was festooned with ultra-modern contrivances — flintlock pistols, chamberpots, thumbscrews. There was a window overlooking a mountainous vista, and between the serrated peaks, a sea. Above my head swung an iron chandelier. See how acute my powers of undue suspicion are? Evening all.

  I stood slowly and blinked. "well Titian, here's a sherry affair, for a rum business would be darker. Anybody at home?"

  A door opened and a melancholy figure entered the room. He was a sartorial glum, all done up in satin and velvet, with a drooping flower on a wide cap tickling his cheek. In one hand he clutched a bottle of Oloroso, and he bared his teeth on seeing me, crying in an incomprehensible stutter: "Bishy, bashy, jibber, jabber!"

  "I think not, ancient felon," returned I, "nor do I approve of your eyelids, which are heavy and suggest a life spent toiling in basements with forger's apparatus. Hold still and desist from gesturing at sundry ornaments scattered about the place."

  "Hexas hoxas, hijy abago bijy hago?"

  "This is your last warning. Speakish properly or you will be held in tongue-irons under Section 2æ of the Diphthong & Grammar Act. Ignorance and past ages are no defence — the law is retroactive, like a fever in reverse!"

  The fellow came closer and took my arm, as if we were old friends, or confederates in a failed plot. Then he poured two glasses of Oloroso and we sat by the dead fire, sipping the liquid and murmuring appreciatively. Strangely, I also felt that I knew him. Later, when the sky grew dark, he stood and guided me into a room, before stomping off down a draughty passage. I entered and found a bed, which greeted me like a sprung simile. The pillow smelled of pterosaur sweat. Had I travelled back to the Cretaceous era? Best to sleep on it. No: under it, so that the moisture evaporated away from my nose toward the cracked plaster of the lofty ceiling.

  The following morning I was woken by a pounding on the door. My host opened it and thrust in a silver tray of cakes. They were unsweetened and I scowled. When I had finished, I rejoined him by the fireplace. "Combo oostead?" Although his language was still illegal, I felt it was making some effort to reform — the vowels, I could tell, genuinely wanted to be law-abiding sounds. I turned a deaf ear, still rank with toe-cheese, to his vocal misdemeanours. We would see how his mouth morals developed; at the first hint of recidivism, I would lock up his consonants behind the bars of his teeth, drilling a lock in one of his incisors and fashioning a key from my tongue. Because I am not an actor, tailor or poet, the fitting of key into tumblers would thus be a remote possibility.

  I made for the seat by the hearth, where I had drunk his wine the previous day, but he gripped my elbow and made plain by a combination of smiles, frowns and grimaces that I was expected to work. He was engaged in tying together various items from his shelves and mantelpiece — figurines, jugs, a globe with too many continents, a rusty gauntlet, a curved dagger, lanterns, a book with undulating covers, powder horns, a telescope and tripod. Although I had no clue as to what I was doing, my older, wiser fingers seemed relaxed enough. They helped fix the objects one to another, with bootlaces and liquorice.

  We paused for lunch and I stood at the window and peered down into the chasm. It was evident I was in a castle on an exceedingly rugged island. Before I could fully digest the view, my host tapped my shoulder impatiently and we returned to our labour. He was satisfied with my progress, although I could not say whether I was working efficiently or not, for I still was ignorant of the point and dimensions of whatever it was we were constructing. Occasionally, my new colleague would look up and make a comment in what I assumed was an approving tone. "Boowhen, grassy is!"

  Shortly before dusk — it was difficult to be sure of the precise time because the only hourglass in the room lay at the base of our bizarre contraption — he stretched and yawned and clapped his palms. I understood this to indicate the end of the working day. Again we sat by the chilly hearth and drank Oloroso. And then we retired to our respective beds. As he departed down the corridor, little bells hidden in the walls chimed softly. I had not noticed these the night before, being too overwhelmed by the total swish of my environment.

  I slept badly, dreaming of leathery wings and drooling beak. Breakfast consisted of the same unsweetened cakes, and the rest of the day of the same peculiar work. I found myself growing accustomed to his language, as if I was remembering something I had already learned but forgotten. It became possible to communicate after a fashion — a rather ungainly fashion, I must a
dmit, with starched ruff and slashed doublet, not to mention three places to wear a sock: left foot, right foot, codpiece. This time we connected candles, tablecloths, paintings in oil, cutlery, pokers, creaking greaves, spittoons, mandolins and amber jewellery. Then digestion of Oloroso, and bed.

  This routine continued for a week. At the end of this span, the room was empty of all furnishings, save a pistol above the hearth which my host seemed to regard with a special fondness. By now, his words had completely reformed and made legal, as well as syntactic, sense.

  "Look here, fellow," said I, at the close of this seventh day. "Much as I value your Oloroso and cheese, I really must protest — now I am able to do so and be understood — at this tying together of your possessions. They have been connected with no thought as to the niceties of aesthetics. Why, here is a rotten old scissors adjoined to a cousin-of-pearl snuff box! What is the exact meaning of such seemingly revolutionary juxtaposition? And hurry with the answer, because I am from the future and mustn't wait too long for the past to justify itself — every second approaches my jurisdiction and the feasibility of me summoning reinforcements to club you senseless!"

  "It's ready, of course," he responded, pointing at the pile of interlaced junk which covered the floor. "Now hand me your watch!"

  "Ah, so you seek to liberate a fellow criminal and conceal him in a selection of other intricate objects d'art? Clever indeed, Mr Antique, but futile. I have been known to find a single stalk of hay in a stack of needles. The famous detectives of the past — your future — are as nothing compared to me! Dupin was a lupin; Holmes was a hovel! Thus your dastardly scheme is foiled even before it is implemented!"

  Taking the pistol from the wall, priming it and aiming the barrel at my head, he sighed and added: "Don't mess around, Señor Grundy. Give it to me!"

  I pretended to be frightened and complied with his demands. "But how do you know my name? Am I famous before my birth?"

  "Don't be foolish," he replied, as he took the watch. "We are colleagues and this is our great invention — the time machine!"

  I gazed dubiously at the pyramid of knick-knacks. "But who are you?"

  "Humberto von Gibbon, of course, at your service. Or rather, receiving your service. As I have already explained, I am a prisoner in this castle. There is no way down onto the rest of the island. For years I have attempted to escape, but all my efforts came to naught. The scoundrel who trapped me here — Ugolino Cadiz — was very careful to ensure none of the furnishings could be used to flee my confines."

  "Well I am sorry for you, but I fail to see how my watch might be of help."

  Rolling his eyes, Humberto beckoned for me to climb on top of the mound of ornaments. I had no wish to die, so I did. Barometers crunched underfoot as I scrambled to the miscellaneous summit. To my surprise, my host scaled the other side, until we were perched face to face near the fragmented ceiling. Then he flipped open the lid of the watch and sprinkled the contents over the assorted junk.

  These contents proved not to be cogs, as I had expected, but drops of the chronoflow! I held on tightly as the entire mass suddenly shifted from orthogonal time into the chaotic currents which made a delta of futures, presents, pasts and elsewheres. Unlike my green pyramid, this structure was ponderous and unstable. Humberto noted my nervous expression and sought to distract me with an improbable yarn.

  "I was on the point of believing I would never escape when you appeared from nowhere and broke a floorboard with your nose. Were you an agent working for Ugolino? No, it was plain you were too ugly and silly for that. And you did not speak Spanish. As the days went by, we began to learn a little of each other's language. You informed me that you had arrived in my time on a green pyramid, or rather had been cast off from it. I wondered if it might be possible to reconstruct such a device here, but although you knew the shape of the contraption, you had no idea how it was powered."

  "And that fact remains true," I grumbled.

  "Certainly. But droplets of the chronoflow had leaked into the workings of your watch. When you were hurled into normal time, the watch stopped and trapped the liquid between the teeth of the cogs. With a little shaking I was able to dislodge them. There should be just enough to send me back to a point in time before Ugolino built this castle and trapped me here. I intend to kill him first."

  He gestured with his pistol and grinned.

  "What do you want with me?" I stammered.

  "Extra weight, to keep the pyramid in the middle of the chronoflow. Also as a decoy to distract Ugolino. He is a powerful sorcerer. While he is busy turning you into a curtain rail, I will have ample opportunity to finish him."

  While he spoke, I was aware of a deficiency in my foothold. The hatstand which had supported my heel was no longer there! Indeed pieces of the junk ziggurat were vanishing at astonishing speed. Humberto had not noticed; nor did I feel it strictly necessary to inform him of the phenomenon. He would find out for himself in due course. Gradually, I realised that the component pieces of our machine were making themselves absent in the reverse order in which they had been assembled. Thus the pyramid was gnawed away from the top down — coins, armour, vases, all blinked out of existence. Then the tripod, telescope, dagger and globe.

  Finally we were left with a single spoon. As we fought with each other for the best grip, this too shimmered away. We landed with a bump back in the chamber, and it was full again. All the ornaments had returned to their original places!

  "Of course!" I cried, snapping my sagacious fingers. "No time machine can go back to a point before it was built! As we travelled back through the past week, our work undid itself, because the ornaments existed at different locations at those instants! It is only possible to travel far back on a time machine which already exists!"

  Humberto shrugged. "I will fetch a bottle of Oloroso from the cellar and we shall toast our failure."

  When he was gone, I pondered the futility of all our toil. I also worried about the integrity of the green pyramid. Would it not also come apart as it raced to the source of the chronoflow? But no, it was a quark enlarged, and as such was indivisible. I was so engrossed in my metaphysical speculations that the bells announcing Humberto's return along the passage startled me. I jumped and fell on the boards, my nose spearing a knothole. I stood quickly, not wishing to belittle myself in front of my host. He bared his teeth on seeing me.

  My ears heard, "Bishy, bashy, jibber, jabber!" but I understood these words to mean, "Let us drink away our sorrows!"

  He took my arm and led me to the hearth. We sat and sipped.

  "We can always try again," I said. "Build another. Not to travel back into the past but to send me into the future. I am the Prefect of Police and can requisition a hot-air balloon. I will be able to return with it here and you will be able to escape this castle in a more conventional manner."

  He was delighted. "Excellent. We shall resume work tomorrow!"

  As good as his word, Humberto helped me to recreate the junk pyramid. Because they had not yet been sprinkled in orthogonal time, the drops of the chronoflow were still trapped in my watch. At the end of the week, I mounted the device and bade my antique friend farewell. "Bat and haddock away!"

  Were there enough drops to carry me upward to my own time? Assuredly, for once on the forward currents of time, which run parallel to the backward ones, the component pieces might drink their fill. And though they might turn rusty and worm-eaten, perhaps even crumble to dust under the weight of dying centuries, they would not traitorously fly back to shelves and mantelpiece without so much as a by-your-leave! And so I was confident enough as I hurtled forward, using my watch as a guide as to where to get off. At the appropriate hour of the correct century, I deliberately steered for the shallows and grounded myself in my own office.

  I called for my assistant, Satsuma Ffroyde. He arrived with his customary glower and citric attitude. But as my deputy, he was bound to follow my orders.

  "Contact my wife!" I roared, "and ask her to come
to the station with her largest hive."

  I sat back and waited for the object in question to arrive. My wife, who by my orders is allowed no further than the lobby, came quickly; her perfume wafted down the corridors, preceding the hive, which was carried at arm's length by a disgruntled Satsuma — he will never make a mandarin in this Force.

  "Now, Satsuma," I clipped. "There is a terrible felon existing in the past who refuses to speak a law-abiding language. At first I thought his vowels were reforming; now I realise it was a trick, a case of my ears acclimatising. I want you to mount this time machine and arrest him. You'll know at which date to disembark, or rather the date will disembark you. When this pyramid of junk falls to nothing and leaves you stranded in a room, consider that your destination. The fellow who enters with a bottle of Oloroso is your target!"

  Satsuma sulked. "What if he's armed?"

  "Throw this hive at him. The bees within are suitably vicious and will despise the drooping flower on his cap. Freeze the felon with this canister of sub-zero vanilla and find a way of moving him to a location which will eventually become the site of our underground dungeons. Freeze yourself in the same place. The moment you depart, I'll go down and check the dungeons. I'll throw you both out and release you both — you because you are innocent, and he because he will have served his sentence."

  Satsuma grumbled and moaned, but his options were severely hampered. He mounted the pyramid and I sprinkled the contents of the watch — which I had refilled on route to the present — over the junk, neglecting to give him the timepiece, to prevent him returning prematurely, or indeed returning at all, save orthogonally, sealed in ice.

  He shimmered away and I skipped out of my office, down the spiral stairs to the dungeons. I checked each one in turn, but Humberto and Satsuma were not there. Plenty of other dastards and desperadoes — elks, cabbages, moondwellers, wasps, glider pilots, clockwork prawns — but no pair of nonsense babblers. Would I have to petition the President for a repeal of the Diphthong & Grammar Act?