Morlock Night

by K. W. Jeter

  His language and manner of speaking had become more vehement, breaking through the cool demeanour with which he had first addressed me. Evidently the sight of the Earth forsaken by Time – and God? – affected him more deeply than he had wished to show.

  "Then what are we to do?" I cried. "If Time no longer exists – are we to stay like this without end?" I could conceive of no more cheerless hell than being condemned to this wretched spot.

  "Well, Mr. Hocker," said Dr. Ambrose, again smiling. "Of all the questions that a man can ask, I do love that one. What are we to do? The best question that can ever be asked, indeed. Because you must know what to do before you can do it. Eh? Don't you think so, my good Hocker?"

  "For God's sake, you torment me with these riddles." Anger and indignation filled my breast, as I felt he was making mock of me. "If you know of some way of escaping this dreadful place, show it to me. I've, near gone out of my head as it is from all you've done to me. To me, and to – Tafe!" A pang of guilt struck me as I realised I had forgotten the companion who had saved my life. "Where is she?" I demanded. "What's happened to her?"

  "Calm down, Hocker. The woman's perfectly safe. I've tended her injuries and deposited her in a warm bed, elsewhere. You'll have to inform me of all the adventures you two had together."

  "Elsewhere!" I grabbed him by both shoulders and spun him roughly about to face me. "Elsewhere! There's no end to your damned lies. This isn't the final doom of the Earth, then, is it?"

  "But it is, Hocker." He casually brushed my hands away from himself. "This is the Earth when Time no longer exists for it. But you asked for a way out? Perhaps, Hocker, perhaps. Not an escape exactly but… a prevention. A thwarting."

  "What do you mean?"

  "If this," said Ambrose, striking the ground with his walking stick, "is what remains when the Sea of Time – let's call it that, it's a nice metaphor – when the Sea of Time, as I say, has been drained away. Then obviously the thing to do is to go back and dam the hole through which it escaped. Eh? Doesn't it strike you that way?"

  "I don't know." I felt suddenly weary. "I'm not sure I understand you. So much has happened. I'm very tired…"

  "That's understandable," soothed Dr. Ambrose's voice. "Why don't you go to sleep?"

  "I'd like to," I murmured. The vista around us seemed to darken.

  "Then just close your eyes. That's it," came his voice, a little fainter. "Don't worry about falling. You're not really standing upright anyway, are you?"

  Dimly, I was aware I was lying on a bed. The soft yellow glow of a gas lamp seeped under my eyelids for a second, then was gone. "Where's Tafe?" I mumbled.

  "She's upstairs." Ambrose's voice was far away now. "Don't worry about her. Just sleep, Hocker. You're going to need all the strength you can summon very soon!"

  The last I heard was the sound of a door being pulled shut.

  I awoke with a calm, rested heart although my sleep had been full of nightmares. Visions of dark shapes moving in a dark world blurred and faded behind my eyes.

  On a small table beside the bed in which I lay – and where in Creation was that? my refreshed mind was already wondering – I found a box of safety matches and a candle. I soon discovered my clothes draped across the ornately carved foot of the bed. They had through some miracle been restored to their original condition, clean and untorn.

  I dressed quickly and hurried from the bedchamber. A murmur of distant voices led me down a short hallway to a wide staircase. The warm glow of gaslight diffused upward from the room at the base of the stairs. I snuffed the candle and descended.

  Seated at a heavy oak table were Dr. Ambrose and a young man. Only when I was standing at the side of the table did I recognise the young man to be no man at all, but Tafe outfitted in a man's suit and collar. The elegant cut and the confidence with which she wore it all served to disguise her femininity from anyone who was not aware of her true status. She pulled a thick black cigar from her mouth and winked at me through a cloud of tobacco smoke. The only sign of her recent wounds was a white line, as of a long healed cut, beneath her jaw.

  "Hocker," said Ambrose genially, "glad to see you up and about. Great things are afoot, me lad, and I want you to be in for your full share of them. Have a chair."

  From between the table's legs, carved into griffins, I drew a seat and joined them. Ambrose pushed a platter of roast beef, steaming from the blood-red centre of its slices, coarse bread and a glass of dark lager toward me. "Much explaining to be done," he said, "and it would sit poorly on an empty stomach."

  In truth, I was famished and needed little persuasion. Ambrose refilled my glass when it was only half drained. "From a little ale-house in the Berkshire moors," he noted, stoppering the jug. Tafe leaned back in her chair and drew luxuriously on her cigar with all the aspect of one sunk fast into the grip of some new-found pleasure.

  "Mmm. Yes. Quite good, really," I managed to say between mouthfuls. "Surely you're having some?"

  "We've dined already," said Ambrose, waving a hand at a pair of dirty dishes at the other end of the table. "Miss Tafe – or Mister Tafe, as I should say for the sake of her little masquerade – and I have been waiting some time for you to appear."

  "I'm sorry to have kept you, but I was as tired as I've ever been in-" I broke off, scowling at my plate as I sensed the absurdity of the situation. Only a little while ago I had been scrabbling about for my life in a battle-torn cityscape into which I had been thrust by this mysterious personage's doing, then shown a soul-chilling glimpse of the Earth's end, and now I was enjoying the warm amenities of his home as calmly as if it had all been some weekend visit. If nothing else, it demonstrated the human mind's facility for landing poised as a cat in unfamiliar situations and making the best of them. And who indeed could turn down good ale and meat, though it were served by the Devil himself? I resolved to hear out my odd host's explanations and judge him for good or evil on the basis thereof.

  Ambrose, all genial hospitality, extended across the ruins of my meal a box of cigars such as the one Tafe was smoking. I took one and slipped off a paper band with some Arabic- looking gibberish inscribed on it. Soon the three of us were hazing the air with steel-grey smoke.

  "Where to begin," mused Ambrose, gazing up into the swirling nimbus. " Doing is always so much easier than explaining. See here, Hocker," he said, pointing the glowing ember of his cigar at me. "Doesn't the name 'Dr. Ambrose' seem a little… suspicious to you? Eh?"

  "My dear sir," I said coolly, laying a flake of ash in my plate, "everything about you seems suspicious. If I had no knowledge of your abilities I would maintain you to be either a charlatan or a lunatic. As it is, you might still be a rogue or a master criminal, but one of sufficient accomplishments to be respected."

  He nodded, modestly restraining his pleasure at my flattery. "But come," he said, gesturing with his cigar. "How about the name 'Ambrosius', then? In connection with early British history?"

  I frowned in deep thought. "I'm a reasonably well-educated man," I said at last, "but at the moment the only reference to an 'Ambrosius' I can recall is that of Geoffrey of Monmouth giving it as an alternate name for the legendary Merlin-"

  "That's the one," he interrupted.

  "Well, Dr. Ambrose, if you've chosen to derive your pseudonym from that of a mythical magician, I must admit that in your case it's appropriate."

  "Mythical!" He glared irritably at me. "Legendary! Sir Geoffrey may have gotten some of his dates wrong but at least everything I told him was true. No, don't say anything stupid." He waved my protests off with his cigar. "I won't prolong your ignorance. I call myself 'Ambrose' because I dislike the effete Latinism of 'Ambrosius', but in fact I am the actual Merlin himself! What do you think of that?" His voice reached an exultant peak as he dramatically flourished his cigar.

  I puffed away on my own, unable to say anything for sheer bafflement. Merlin, indeed. The man was mad. But, still…

  "I believe it," announced Tafe complacently.


  "That, my dear," said Ambrose, "is because you grew up in a rough and violent world where just managing to live from day to day is easily considered a miracle. You are able to accept the truth, no matter how astonishing its guise. Whereas our friend Hocker here is steeped in the overweening rationalism of his time, and could mentally dismiss a mastodon in front of him if it happened to be wearing the wrong school tie."

  "Actually," said Tafe, "I just kind of figured – why not? Makes as much sense as anything else so far."

  "But see here!" I exploded. "How could it possibly be? Even if such a person as Merlin existed centuries ago, how could you be that person? I mean your… whole appearance, for one thing."

  "Why should someone with powers such as mine ever age? I was old when England was nothing but bare rocks washed by the sea." Ambrose's eyes seemed to look through me and into some vast repository of memory. "Believe what I tell you! I am that one called Merlin, though even that is not the oldest or truest of my names. Damn your sceptical eyes, man – what more do you need to see before you accept the truth?"

  The low-pitched intensity of his voice quite unnerved me. And what other explanation had I for the mystifying tangle I had fallen into? None other than the possibility of my own insanity. "I'll accept your assertion of identity – provisionally," I said. "At least for the balance of your story,"

  Another fierce glare from his dark eyes before he leaned back in his chair and continued. "There is a certain spiritual power," he said quietly, "inherent in the English blood and soil. An embodiment of the highest Western values. This power, of course, gets perverted or eclipsed from time to time. A lot of this jingo nonsense going on in the name of Empire isn't much of a credit to the English race. But still, it's only a temporary lapse of memory. The power remains, however tarnished or neglected it becomes. And I have, shall we say, an interest in preserving that. For if it should die, the world would darken and lapse into brutishness. And I would be alone upon the face of the Earth. Now, as many times in the past, that spiritual power is threatened with destruction."

  "You mean, the Morlocks," I interjected. "Ah, so you accept that much?"

  "I've seen them."

  "True, true," said Ambrose, nodding. "And such was largely the point of your recent harsh experiences. I could conceive of no other way to convince you that things are as I asked you to speculate when I first talked to you that evening in the fog. The Time Machine does exist, and has fallen in the hands of the Morlocks."

  "And our host of that evening?" I said. "The inventor of the Machine?"

  "Dead, I'm afraid. He thought that a rifle and a case of matches would be enough to establish his will in that far future. Unfortunately, as I told you, the Morlocks he encountered the first time were the least to be feared of their kind."

  "And now they are secretly invading our own present-day London and all England beyond that." My calm statement of the fact belied the fear and revulsion it produced in my heart.

  "Indeed," said Ambrose. "The Time Machine's inventor actually understood less about his device than he thought he did. By going between this time and that of the Morlocks he created a channel from which no deviation is possible. This time, and no other, is the only one to which the Morlocks could travel with their new device. They can only launch their invasion through this one point in their past, our own year 1892."

  "Wait a moment," I said, frowning and turning his words about in my mind. "There's something wrong here… I've got it. If the Morlocks come back in Time to their own past and wreak such havoc, aren't they endangering the chain of events that lead to their own existence? Why, they might be conquering and then eating their own ancestors! And thus obliterating their own nasty lives scores of generations before their own births!" The topsy-turvy logic of it all boggled me for a moment, and I puffed furiously on my cigar.

  Ambrose graciously inclined his head. "I admire your astuteness, Hocker. Not many of your contemporaries could follow that, let alone come up with it themselves. Indeed, it is a violation of the Universe's natural order. This whole business of Time Travel is shot through with cosmic blasphemy, I'm afraid. Better to take the years as they come one by one on the string, instead of mucking about and yanking on the thread to see what's coming. Be that as it may. The paradox of the Morlocks eating their own distant forefathers is relatively minor compared to the catastrophe that threatens the Earth through their mere use of the Time Machine. And that catastrophe is the implosion of Time itself, just as you saw, Hocker, before I brought you here. The year 1892 has become the hole through which the Sea of Time is leaking away. Even as we sit here the events of the years before and after this date are blurring into our own time. If the process is not halted and reversed, soon all Time from the Earth's beginning to its end will run together into one year, then contract into a single day, a minute, second, then – like that! Blink out of existence. Leaving that dark, timeless desert you found yourself in."

  "Good God!" I cried. "If this is true-"

  "It is."

  "-then what can we do to stop it from happening? If, as you say, the Morlocks have already torn open this hole in the cosmos, how can we mend it?" A chilling thought struck me. "Or is it too late even now, and you only mean to horrify us with your prevision of the Earth's end?"

  "Calm down, Hocker." Ambrose flicked another ash into his plate. "What would be the point of a needless torment such as that? If evil weren't preventable – and this one in particular – I wouldn't waste time talking to people like you."

  I felt a flush of anger suffuse my face. "What is to be done, then?" I demanded. "I'll accept everything you've said so far if you'd round it off with a plan of action."

  "Spoken like a true Englishman, Hocker! Hot for blood and violence – an admirable quality indeed."

  "It's not that," I said tentatively, feeling my way through my own thoughts. "It's just that that the evil of it is all so strong."

  Ambrose nodded, sober-faced. "Yes," he said quietly. "Something so large as this… When I first talked with you, so long ago it seems even to me, what was it said? Do you recall your words?"

  "Truthfully, no."

  " It took an Arthur to drive out the Saxons in the Fifth Century. It would take another hero such as that to fight fiends like the Morlocks… and where is such an Arthur Redivivus to be found?" Those were very perceptive words, Hocker. An intuitive grasp of the situation. Arthur Redivivus, indeed. Well put, that."

  "Come, come," I said. "I'm well aware of the stories concerning King Arthur and his return from his death-like sleep whenever England is threatened, but that's all myths, and legends, and… hmm…"

  "Myths and legends," said Ambrose, smiling wickedly. "The same as Merlin, I suppose? I'm flattered to sense that you've come to accept my true identity, but why should you pull short of the whole truth?"

  My eyes flicked from his face to Tafe's impassively listening countenance, and back again. "King Arthur is alive?"

  "Most assuredly."

  "And you know where he is?"

  "Of course," said Ambrose. "His and my destinies are much intertwined. I always know where he is."

  "And-" My mind raced with possibilities. "And he's prepared to lead some sort of armed expeditionary force against the Morlocks?"

  "Not quite. There's, ah, difficulties involved, shall we say."

  Through the thick, stratifying layers of cigar haze I gazed at the enigmatic figure across from me. Could all he had said be true? What hope was there if it turned out to be lies? King Arthur lives… "Can we go to him?" I said. "See him?" I still had many questions, many points I did not yet understand, but I was willing to let those ride for the moment.

  "Let us find a hansom outside," said Ambrose, rising from the table. "He's here in the very city of London itself."

  Stepping outside of Dr. Ambrose's lodgings gave me my first sight of London since those nightmarish scenes of destruction and despair. My heart leaped to see the familiar outlines, whole and unbroken, silhouetted against th
e setting sun. Lamps were being lit all over the city to show the glowing pulse of a great metropolis in the full stretch of its powerful life. But if Ambrose's words were true, were there not even now dark things moving in the undispelled shadows? The very ground beneath our feet was being eaten away…

  Soon Dr. Ambrose had hailed a hansom and, after giving directions to the river, assisted Tafe and myself inside. "I shall meet you at your destination," he said, standing on the curb. "Circumstances dictate that I follow a more circuitous route." He closed the hansom's door and signalled the driver on his topside ledge into motion.

  How easily Tafe seemed to be taking this all in her stride! Child of a time more than one generation hence, she sat in the hansom's slightly tattered elegance, looking for all the world like some young Continental buck with no greater business to follow than seeing England on a grand tour organised by rich parents. Through the hansom's window she watched the passing cityscape and evening pedestrians with avid curiosity but no signs of being startled or amazed by any of it. Those responses had been denied her at birth by the swift and violent tenor of her own times.

  "I say, Tafe," I addressed her. "What do you think of this Ambrose fellow? How much of what he's been telling us do you suppose is true?"

  She turned to face me, her dark, intelligent eyes flashing from her mannish disguise like a young George Sand. There was clearly a keen wit in addition to the fighting spirit I had already had the chance to observe. "Ambrose?" she said. "Might be lying through his teeth for all we know. But what choice do we have except to follow along with him for now? If he's telling the truth about all these Morlocks and stuff then we've got to help him in whatever he's planning. And if he's lying, using us for something evil – aiding the Morlocks, maybe? – we'll have a better chance of fighting him if he thinks we trust him."