The Space Between Time
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Book IV of the Time Travel Diaries
of
James Urquhart and Elizabeth Bicester
By
Bruce Macfarlane
Copyright 2017 Bruce Macfarlane
Published by Bruce Macfarlane
Dedication
To my wife, Julia
Acknowledgements
Images & Illustrations.
Art work and photographs by author using digital manipulation PicsArt Photo Studio for Android and PaintShop Pro.
Book Cover:
Author’s own photo using PicsArt and PaintShop Pro
Preface
On 13th March 1895, in the same year H. G. Wells published his ‘Time Machine’, Nikola Tesla working on his electrical resonant transformer accidentally caused a massive electromagnetic pulse which shifted time into an alternative parallel world.
Only a few people noticed the difference…......
Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Preface
Prologue
Part 1
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Part II
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Part III
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Epilogue
Other Books by Bruce Macfarlane
About the Author
Prologue
As is well known to those of you who subscribe to my media feed, the original diaries were found together in a copper chest in the attic of a lodge at Hamgreen. They purport to be the diaries of a James Urquhart, minor science lecturer, living in 2015 and an Elizabeth Bicester, whom he claims he met at a cricket match at Hamgreen in 1873.
After spending some considerable time trying to assemble the diaries into a meaningful chronology to test their authenticity, I am now drawn to the conclusion that the diarists could not only travel in time but may have existed simultaneously in many alternative worlds.
In this volume of the diaries the couple find themselves transported back to 1895. But it is not the world they knew. An experiment with electromagnetism by a Mr Tesla had caused a shift across time to an alternative world where contact with Mars has been lost.
As usual in my narrations of the diaries I have assigned a J. for James Urquhart and E. for Elizabeth Bicester.
T W Rolleston.
Weber Institute,
Mons Olympus,
Mars.
Part 1
An Afternoon on the River
Chapter One
E.
The mist was already rising in the warm morning sun heralding a fine day and the young leaves of the dark beech woods through which we passed sparkled with their iridescent spring green.
We were travelling in James’ new yellow electric carriage over the Downs towards the river by the village of Stedham where I hoped to show him a secret place of my childhood.
After my exploits of piloting the Martian spaceship James considered I had gained sufficient expertise to drive his carriage. I must say it was surprisingly easy. Only two pedals and a wheel to steer by. No wonder he found a dog cart such a challenge. I will remember to go easy on him next time he must drive one - or ride a horse.
The roads were incredibly smooth, no ruts and few potholes, and demarcated by lines to indicate which side to drive, which I was gratified to see that most of the carriages we encountered followed.
We had decided not to use the navigation system as the lady who spoke the directions causes me some annoyance. I am not quite sure how she persuades James to take guidance without question. Usually if I am performing this task while reading a map an argument on the veracity of my instructions ensues. I mentioned this to his sister once after a particularly exasperating journey along sunken roads to a holiday accommodation in Cornwall where we arrived over two hours late. She informed that the reason is simple: the lady does not answer back.
“So where and when are you taking me?” James said, nudging the steering wheel a little to assist me in avoiding a pheasant which had launched a suicidal flight out of a hedge towards us.
“You must wait. It is a surprise.”
“No clues?”
“It is a special place where you will be only the second person to know of it.”
As we emerged from the wood and followed a bend in the road, managing to stay mostly on the left side with only a little help and advice, the old Hall, now renovated in that mock Tudor which had become so popular in the early years of James’ century, appeared behind an ash copse.
“I think it is the next road on the right.” I said.
We turned down a narrow road until we had passed a green and found the old church of St. Isabel’s. Unfortunately, the highway, which I wished to take, which in my time was easily traversed by a Hansom cab, had become an overgrown, sunken, green track barred by a metal gate.
He noticed my disappointment and said, “Don’t worry. Luckily, it’s signposted as a public bridleway. Park the car and we can walk. I’ll grab the picnic out of the boot.”
Parking was a little more difficult and I must admit he was quite forgiving of my difficulties in extricating his new carriage from a small ditch which I had not noticed.
We changed into our walking boots. One of the many pleasures of his world are comfortable shoes. Even those of fashion are designed to allow one to dance all night at an engagement without completely blistering and chafing one’s feet. As we opened the gate and entered the old road I noticed immediately its decay and neglect. The sandstone stone walls which once lined the road and held the fields and springs at bay were now covered in green moss and broken by the roots of beech, chestnut and holly which, unattended, had grown to form a dark canopy over the track.
I could tell he was a little reticent regarding my direction but despite the changes of a hundred years I knew and felt the familiarity of the path. After about a hundred yards in which we avoided reasonably successfully three bogs and a stream, and received only a little mud on my skirts, we arrived at an open field.
As we emerged, a soft breeze blew through the trees rustling the leaves above. For some reason, for which only later I understood, James was quite taken aback by this and grasped my hand tightly. However, on enquiry regarding his concern he dismissed it quickly, although I noticed his hand did not loosen its grip. As I regarded the country before me I was gratified to find little had changed. Downs sheep still grazed the field and as I led him along a grass path to the bank of the chalk river strewn with spring flowers, yellow brimstone and chalk blue butterflies rose fluttering in the warm air and bumble bees gathered pollen from the cowslips.
And there, just as I remembered it, was the old willow, its long trailing branches, like thin fingers, caressing the flowing waters.
“You know,” he said, still holding my hand, “I’ve
walked all over the Downs and never seen so much nature gathered in one place. It’s an ecologist’s paradise. I’m surprised it’s not on the SSSI list.”
Sometimes I must gently prise him from his scientific world. I whispered in his ear. “Do you not like it, James?”
He released his hand and placing it around my waist drew me to him. “Is this your secret place?”
“Yes. And this is my favourite season.”
“And you chose me to show it to.” He pulled me closer and kissed me gently. He had responded as I wished.
We sat down and prepared the luncheon on the river bank. James had bought it in a wicker basket complete with willow pattern plates. They were a fashion in his time. A quest for a time lost, I presume. He had thought they reminded me of my Victorian world but I had not the heart to tell him that in my time they were so common they were regularly given away to small charities for the ‘Aunt Sally’ at village fairs.
As we enjoyed the sandwiches and shared James’ cold steak pie we suddenly heard the sound of a puffing engine and looking up saw, emerging from under a crack willow, a small steam launch.
“Good God!” said James, his eyes wide with excitement, “you know, I’ve never seen a boat on this river. And the first one I see is a real live steam boat! Look at the polish on that wood! And the brass and copper! I must take some photos.”
He quickly retrieved his ‘phone from his pocket and began to record pictures. This device is a wonder. Not only can it be used for wireless communication but also provides James with fonts of knowledge. I have come to believe it is very precious to him for it rarely leaves his person and to borrow it, even for a moment, has often took more than a little persuasion. His sister Jill, with a little ribbing, tells me that in the hands of certain ladies that James has known, its contents would be worth a fortune.
As the launch came abreast, it slowed and from the cabin a gentleman appeared who seemed to be dressed in sympathy with the age of the boat. He waved to us and in similar spirit we returned his gesture.
This caused the gentleman, for some reason, to become quite animated and gave the impression he wished to converse. We beckoned him to the bank, thinking he was in need of assistance and the launch duly turned and came to a halt beside us releasing a fair quantity of steam in the process. Then with a small leap he alighted from the launch.
My exclamation was almost as loud as James’ for before us standing in blue blazer and cap was Mr H.G. Wells.
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J.
It seems we’re fated not to have a peaceful life. One moment I was lying on a bank by a river with the love of my life enjoying the pleasure of her gift to me and eating an excellent pie and the next moment I’d been jolted out of time again by Wells.
“Good afternoon, Mr and Mrs Urquhart. I presume you are both married in this world. Are you well? I was hoping I would find you here.”
I ignored his questions and said with quite a bit of annoyance, not least because his appearance usually resulted in some mad adventure: “What the hell are you doing here? I thought you lived in 1895.”
“It is 1895, Mr Urquhart.”
I suddenly realised why I hadn’t come across this place before. There was no place left in my time with this amount of nature. I whispered to Elizabeth, “I suspected when I felt that breeze again that something strange was going to happen.”
“What did you mean? Have you felt it before?”
“Yes, just before I first met you at Hamgreen.”
“You mean? Oh! No wonder you held my hand so tightly.”
I turned back to Wells. “How did you know we’d be here?”
“You are watched all the time.”
He caught the meaning of my look.
“I do not mean as a voyeur but your paths through time and space are known to our little friends.”
“Ah, the Martians.” I said, and a fleeting vision of one of those small white ghostly rabbit-like creatures came to mind. They are almost ethereal in appearance because unlike us they exist in more dimensions than us, a little in the past and future, with the aid of their gossamer wings.
“So, what are they after now?” I said, not looking forward to the reply, “We know, once they and you get together it seems - how can I put this politely -, ‘opportunities’ come to Elizabeth and me.”
“I confess I do have an opportunity for you. But first you must join me.”
“What! on that boat?”
I felt Elizabeth’s hand reach and grasp mine. Wells noticed and said, “We will not be going far.”
“You’re right,” I said, “We’re staying right here.”
“I assure you it is but a small journey.” He was obviously trying to engage my curiosity and to my annoyance I found he had partially succeeded.
“This journey, is it in time or space?”
“James!” hissed Elizabeth, her eyes wide and tightening her grip on my hand, “What are you saying?”
“Sorry. Shall we go back to the road and home?”
“Yes! For I feel our success in these adventures depends too much on Lady Luck and in my experience of her she is very fickle.”
As we stood up to pack our lunch and refuse Wells’ offer he raised his hand and said, “I must apologise but I am afraid the boundary betwixt here and your home has temporarily vanished.”
I wondered what he meant by ‘temporary’. There was a lot of ‘time’ in that word. But before I could ask how much, Elizabeth said to Wells, “If I understand you correctly, are you saying that if we retraced our steps back to the highway we would find ourselves still in this time?”
“That is correct, Mrs Urquhart.”
“So, you mean we have no choice but to follow you?” I said.
“I am afraid that is the case.”
Elizabeth was visibly upset to the point of almost crying and shouted, “You have ruined my day! You know James and I... I mean we are of different times. Every moment is precious to us.”
She looked at me for support which I gave by drawing my arm around her.
She continued, her voice now shaking, “At any moment, through things we do not understand, we could be sent back to our own times, never to know each other again! Why do you not leave us alone?”
I couldn’t have put it better. Though to hear it from the one I loved melted my heart. Nevertheless I knew we had no option but to follow him if we were to get out of this time. I said to Wells, with my arm still tightly around Elizabeth, “So where are we really going?”
“Why, to Midhurst.”
“In that boat?”
“In this time, Mr Urquhart, it is quicker and easier than the roads.”
But Elizabeth was not to be persuaded.
“James! I am not going! We will go back to Stedham, hail a cab and go to my home to find a way back.”
“We can’t! Look at our clothes. I like your dress but I don’t think the good people of Stedham are going to, especially on a Sunday. You’ll be arrested as soon as we arrive.”
She stared down at her dress which only just covered her knees.
“Oh, you men. You only think of one thing.”
“No, that’s not quite true.” I said, savouring that enjoyable thought when I suddenly remembered a book of Wells and that the village of Iping was just down the road.
“There is another reason for not going back,” I said, “We don’t want to meet the Invisible Man, do we, Wells?”
“What do you mean?” she said.
“Our dear friend here,” I said, pointing at Wells, “wrote a book about such a man who came from Iping just down the road.”
“And why should that be a worry?”
“Because as you know, the things he writes about are often based on real events. Isn’t that right, Wells?”
Wells shrugged his shoulders and said nothing.
“But if he is real,” she said, scanning the countryside, “how can he be seen?”
“When he wanted to be seen
he wrapped himself in bandages like a mummy.”
“Is this true, Mr Wells?” she said.
“A different world, Mrs Urquhart. Are you coming? There is not much time.”
Elizabeth looked back at the woods we had come from, “I still want to go home whether there is an invisible man or not!”
“Look,” I said, whispering in her ear. “If we go to Midhurst, we may be able to get to the time cavern and escape from there.”
She hesitated then with a sigh said, “You are right. If we cannot go back. We will take our chances in Midhurst.”
And so we gathered up our picnic and the remainder of my pie and followed Wells on to the boat.
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Chapter Two
E.
The time cavern under the ruined Norman castle at Midhurst is a mystery which has affected much of our lives together. We had found it accidentally after exploring the passage from the White Room at the Spread Eagle Coaching Inn. It is difficult to describe for it changes shape. I believe it is a roughly hewn cave about fifty feet in diameter within which are machines for controlling time and space and often contains two large globes, one of Earth and the other of Mars. By means of pointers on the spheres the cavern, we can move across the two planets. Sometimes doors appear in the walls of the cavern which allow access to different places or times on the two planets.
We do not know who built it or why but on many adventures it has served as a portal to when or where we wished or did not wish to go. We believe it was built by the Martians as part of their transport system between our two planets. Mr Wells, I am sure, has much knowledge of it.
The Space Between Time (The Time Travel Diaries of James Urquhart and Elizabeth Bicester Book 4) Page 1