The Map of Chaos

  “Did you say a silent cloud?”

  The two of them burst out laughing.

  Six months later, Lady Harlow would declare on her deathbed that the air around them had sparkled as the couple laughed. But there would be no one there to hear her, for she would die alone, her only companion an impassive nurse who came and went without paying much attention to the dying old woman’s babblings. Yes, Lady Harlow would repeat those words to herself over and over. She had seen it with her own eyes as she stood on the front step: at first, she had thought it was an optical illusion caused by the mist, or possibly the lamps of that monstrous machine, but after the couple had left, and during the weeks that followed, as the now incurable solitude of that empty home gradually poisoned her soul, nourishing the tumor that six months later would deliver her into the arms of grim Death, she became convinced that she had witnessed a true miracle that morning.

  “The whole world,” Lady Harlow mumbled with her last breath before the stone-faced nurse, “was no more than the precise length of each moment that separated them.”

  • • •

  AND JUST AS EMMA clambered aboard her fiancé’s automobile and gave a little gasp of excitement, several miles away, Wells gasped, too, but out of boredom. He had started off feigning a polite interest, but as the carriage rattled toward Dartmoor, Doyle’s tedious descriptions of his latest sporting exploit had increasingly plunged Wells into a slough of despond, finally convincing him that the jaunt wasn’t going to be as enjoyable as they all imagined.

  But how could things have gone so awry? In the days leading up to the trip, he had made all the arrangements, convinced that Murray’s idea would not only be a pleasant change for everyone but would also allow him to resolve, at a stroke, the twin problems that had been worrying him lately. The first concerned Murray and Doyle, whose initial encounter at Arnold House hadn’t gone as smoothly as Wells had hoped. Since Murray and Emma were making their own way to Devon, the Wellses had arranged to travel in the same carriage as Doyle. That would give Wells the chance to mollify him before his second encounter with Murray. He didn’t think that would be too difficult, for although Doyle had a fiery nature, which he himself admitted, blaming it freely on his Irish blood, he was also incapable of bearing a grudge. In that sense he differed greatly from Wells, who possessed the dubious ability to protect the smallest seed of hatred against the winds of time. As for Murray . . . well, what could he say about the new, lovesick Murray, who seemed willing to be friends even with the devil himself? Despite having gotten off on the wrong foot, Wells felt sure the two men were destined to get along, for they had more in common than either was prepared to admit. Given a second chance, it would only be a matter of time before they would end up the best of friends, which was precisely what Wells planned to intimate to Doyle on their way to Dartmoor.

  The second problem was the one that most concerned Wells. Since both he and Murray had been otherwise engaged, this would be the first time they would meet since that fateful day when Wells had told him he should reveal his true identity to Emma. Wells had begun to fret over the disastrous possible consequences for Murray if he were to follow such foolhardy advice and had inquired about the matter in some of the notes they had exchanged confirming details of the forthcoming trip; but since Murray had warned Wells never to put anything relating to his true identity into writing, he had been forced to use all sorts of euphemisms and innuendos, and he very much doubted that he had correctly interpreted Murray’s equally cryptic replies. However, as the days went by, the absence of any other news had put Wells’s mind at rest. The planned excursion was to take place and, more important, so it seemed was the wedding. And that could only mean one of two things: that Murray had confessed to Emma without any major falling-out, or that he still hadn’t told her. In the first case, Wells would simply undertake to congratulate his friend and rejoice with him over the success of his shrewd piece of advice; in the second case, Wells would have to find the right moment during the trip to take Murray aside and confess his qualms about the recommendation he had made in front of the hibiscus bush, thus absolving himself from any responsibility.

  The idea of settling both issues had made Wells await the excursion with impatience, even though in the end they had to make the journey in Murray’s carriage (for different reasons neither Doyle nor Wells had the use of their respective carriages that day), thus exposing themselves to the eccentric interrogations of Murray’s coachman. Still, it was a small price to pay for the happy prospect of the trip, and Wells had been in an excellent frame of mind when he awoke that day. He had gone down to the kitchen to enjoy a cup of tea and browse through the newspaper while he waited for Murray’s coach, which was stopping off on the way to pick up Doyle, unaware that his festive spirit would soon be crushed.

  The first shock came from the newspaper itself: “The Invisible Man Is Coming!” the headline proclaimed. Wells had to blink several times, as if he had gotten lemon juice in his eyes. It seemed that the person responsible for the news item, one of many journalists reporting on the series of paranormal occurrences on Dartmoor, had thought it would be funny to use as his title the warning cry Wells’s characters uttered as they fled in terror from the Invisible Man in his eponymous novel. As you may imagine, dear reader, Wells was not amused, for he did not like people appropriating his ideas. His aim when writing those words had been to shock the reader, dredging up his most primeval fears—the horror of what can be imagined but not seen—and so it vexed him that this disrespectful hack should use his words to make his readers laugh. But the article itself he found even less amusing, because after the original title, the second-rate reporter went on to describe disdainfully the recent spate of strange phenomena that had occurred on Dartmoor. It seemed as if the place had become the favorite haunt of spirits—although, perhaps, Wells speculated sarcastically, it was there that the Invisible Man had met the woman of his dreams, a creature as ethereal as he, and the two of them had given birth to a large ghost family that had infiltrated the local population of “visibles” and was trying to take over the county by instigating a reign of terror. Why not? he had concluded with an airy shrug: judging from the numerous chairs that moved by their own volition and plates that suddenly flew through the air in that sinister place, any explanation could be as or more compelling than the absurd notion that half of England’s ghosts had chosen that barren area as a holiday destination.

  Wells stopped reading. He felt a growing queasiness in the pit of his stomach. Wasn’t it too much of a coincidence that, precisely that morning, the papers had borrowed a sentence from his novel as a title for an article, which also spoke of the very place they were going to on their outing? Much as he tried, Wells could not overlook this coincidence. Why, some of the terrifying events described had even occurred at Brook Manor, the first of the houses they were to visit! The locals swore they had seen a candle flame dancing like a wayward firefly from window to window in the supposedly deserted house, and a host of caretakers who had worked there had handed in their notice, they told the papers, unable to bear the continuous noise of voices, footsteps, and howls that echoed through the gloomy corridors of the mansion day and night.

  And this was the house they would be visiting in a few hours’ time? thought Wells uneasily, not because of the rumored ghosts, which didn’t bother him much, but because of his disquiet at the hidden meaning he always read into every coincidence. Why had they published the article on that particular day and not the day before or after? Was this a mysterious warning? Perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to visit the place where his tormented creation appeared to be concealed after stepping out of the pages in which Wells had imprisoned him . . . Wells tried to curb his feverish imagination and think rationally. Yes, he told himself, he objected to anyone blurring the line between his novels and reality—even as a joke. But however childish his misgivings might appear, they were understandable, for whenever that happened, his life was always affected in one way or ano
ther. After he wrote The Time Machine, the appearance of Murray’s Time Travel had given him a lot of headaches as well as an archenemy. Although, to be fair, the re-creation of the Martian invasion from his book The War of the Worlds had converted that same enemy into one of his closest friends. He found it difficult to imagine what a possible encounter with the invisible man of his novel might bestow on him. A new pet? Triplets?

  But Wells had scarcely had time to laugh at his own joke when he heard the sound of horses’ hooves announcing the arrival of the carriage with the pompous “G” emblazoned on its side. Through the kitchen window, he saw Doyle step out of the coach and then watched with irritation as he helped Miss Jean Leckie down. That put him in a bad mood. Not that Wells had anything against the young woman, who possessed the kind of exquisite, ethereal beauty (hazel eyes, ash-blond hair, and slender, petite figure) found in the illustrations of fairies Doyle was so fond of. On the contrary, he admired her shrewd intelligence and her straightforward sense of humor, and both couples tried to meet up whenever they could, as this wasn’t the first time Doyle and Jean had been seen together in mixed company, although hitherto for the sake of appearances Jean had invariably been accompanied by her brother Malcolm or some female chaperone. But although Wells liked Jean, he couldn’t help considering her presence that morning a hindrance to his plans. He cursed Doyle under his breath for having invited her along, for he knew the author well enough to be aware that never in the presence of his lady friend would he allow anyone to tell him how he should treat the impertinent Montgomery Gilmore.

  And the fact was Wells had not been mistaken. He had tried several times during the long journey to Dartmoor to bring the topic up but had failed miserably. Fortunately, Jane had managed to lighten things up by asking Doyle about the match he had played at Lord’s with the Marylebone Cricket Club a few days earlier, an epic game that was the talk of the town, and Doyle had launched into a blow-by-blow account of bats hitting balls according to some whimsical rules only he appeared to understand. To cap it all, they were moving so ludicrously slowly that Wells was expecting the slumbering figure of the coachman to fall off his perch at any moment.

  Dejected, he ignored Doyle’s exploits and glanced out of the window. Although they were still driving through pretty countryside, and the road was flanked with green meadows dotted with neat thatched cottages, Wells could feel a sadness descending on the landscape: the moor announced its presence like a brewing storm. If he pressed his forehead against the glass, he could make out an ominous line of hills in the distance, silhouetted against a sky so dark it resembled a swamp. And that desolate, gloomy place was where they were headed . . . Wells was no longer in any doubt: it was going to be an awful day.

  After half an hour of negotiating narrow lanes bordered with ever more sinister pines and oaks, the carriage reached the top of a small knoll and came wearily to a halt. Doyle finally broke off his interminable story, and they all looked out of the windows. The ground sloped away into a deep hollow, and the dreamlike moor stretched before them like a threadbare carpet, a barren, endless expanse with only three or four buildings several miles apart and dotted with clusters of reddish rock and the odd crooked tree bent by the prevailing wind. The moor was solitude in earthly form, so to speak. Death had laid down its mantle here and was roaming the world naked.

  “Brook Manor,” the coachman said in a somber voice, pointing with his whip at the first of the houses.

  As they made their way down to the mansion, a gloomy silence descended on them, broken only by the sound of the horses’ hooves and the creak of the carriage wheels as they contemplated the colossal shape of the house towering before them: an impressive mass of stone from which two identical crenellated towers rose up into the darkening sky. To the right, the desolate moor stretched out, marked in the distance by what looked like a tiny hamlet and a couple of farms. Wells remembered that they were only four or five miles from Dartmoor prison, renowned throughout the land for its harsh regime. Moments later, the carriage ground to a halt outside the mansion’s impressive wrought-iron gate, flecked with rust and flanked by two dilapidated stone pillars.

  The travelers stepped out of the carriage to take a closer look and to stretch their legs, but no sooner had their feet touched the ground than an icy gust of wind forced them to wrap their cloaks and coats around them. They approached the bars, shivering, and nervously contemplated the tree-lined driveway that stretched beyond the gates, at the end of which, enveloped in mist, was the mansion. It seemed to pulsate imperceptibly, like some malevolent creature brought back to life by an evil spell. For a few moments, they all remained silent, clutching the bars of the gate as if that gloomy hole were threatening to suck out their very souls. The wind buffeted them, whipping their clothes before sweeping down the driveway, transforming the fallen leaves into a flock of demented crows.

  “If the devil himself wanted to meddle in the affairs of men, he couldn’t wish for a more perfect setting,” sighed Wells.

  “I couldn’t agree with you more!” Doyle boomed, turning toward him. “Admit it, George: in spite of all your skepticism, if a gruesome hound were to appear on that driveway and come charging toward us, baring its teeth, wouldn’t you think it came directly from hell?”

  “I expect so . . .”

  Wells scanned the driveway nervously and couldn’t help remembering the Norfolk legend of Black Shuck, the big hairy dog that killed people with its eyes. Murray would need to spend a fortune on electric lightbulbs before Wells agreed to set foot in that dreadful house.

  “Forgive me for butting in,” said the coachman, who had climbed down off his perch and approached them quietly, “but I tell you, if I saw an evil dog running toward me, the last thing I’d care about is where it came from. I’d run like a man possessed by the devil and hide behind the nearest door.”

  They all looked at the coachman, slightly puzzled.

  “Don’t you like dogs?” Jean inquired politely.

  The old man shook his head vigorously.

  “You wouldn’t believe how much I detest them, Miss Leckie. I’m afraid that anyone who was bitten by one as a child can never trust the perfidious creatures again.”

  “It is true that a lot of people have an aversion to them,” Jane butted in, smiling sympathetically at the coachman. “But you have to admit some breeds are absolutely adorable, and harmless.”

  The old man gazed at her for a few seconds in silence, smiling with a strange tenderness.

  He chuckled at last. “They all have teeth, Mrs. Wells.”

  “You’re quite right,” replied Jane, joining in his laughter.

  “It’s too cold out here!” Wells then muttered, annoyed by his wife’s apparent empathy with Murray’s coachman. All of a sudden, he wondered what the devil they were doing in the middle of that godforsaken moor, enduring that icy cold as they discussed with the old fellow his fear of dogs. “I think we’d better wait for Emma and Montgomery inside the carriage.”

  The others agreed and, bundled up in their coats, walked toward the supposed shelter offered by the coach.

  “I hate dogs and you hate the stairs at Edwin Hyde’s drapery, isn’t that so?” the coachman whispered to Wells as he walked past.

  Wells looked at him in astonishment while he tried to recall when he had told the old man that the stairs he had fallen down as a youth were the ones in the draper’s at Southsea. The old fellow grinned to himself, pointing to the tiny scar on Wells’s chin. Just then, a loud din caused everyone to look over toward the brow of the hill. Gleaming through the mist, a peculiar-looking vehicle was rolling down the hill toward them at an alarming speed, announcing its arrival with a sort of bellow that echoed across the moor, vying with the howl of the wind.

  16

  THE SOUND OF THE DOOR creaking shut behind them echoed off the walls of the vast entrance hall for several minutes, and the small group that had dared disturb the silence of that place huddled even closer together. They glanced about
uneasily, mesmerized by those walls steeped in a thousand gloomy winters and crammed with weapons and emblazoned shields. Murray, who had organized that expedition into the heart of darkness and therefore felt responsible for the mood of its members, decided to speak first.

  “I plan to install a handful of Edison’s electric lightbulbs there, there, and there,” he said resolutely, pointing randomly into the murkiness. “I shall also get rid of all the shields and weapons and replace them with beautiful paintings.”

  “Get rid of the weapons?” Doyle protested. “That would be madness, Gilmore. Why, this collection is worthy of a knight of old. Look at that mace, for example!” He pointed to one of the walls where a club with a big, rusty ball studded with spikes had been mounted. “The perfect weapon for use in man-to-man combat, every bit as noble as the sword, while clearly requiring less skill and more brute force. And what about that crossbow? I’d say it’s probably twelfth-century,” Doyle added, referring to a wooden device resting on the wall like a monstrous dragonfly. “Although the fact is I’ve always considered crossbows to be despicable weapons, allowing any oaf to kill from a safe distance a knight trained in the art of war. They are a test of marksmanship, not manliness. And terribly difficult to reload so that during a battle every crossbowman needed a shield bearer to protect him while he reloaded the damn thing.”

  And Doyle instantly launched into a detailed description of how to load a crossbow, accompanying his lesson with a pantomime of the movements. Murray interrupted him before everybody started to yawn.

  “I’m glad you find them so interesting, Doyle. But in my view all these weapons merely illustrate man’s ingenuity for dreaming up fresh ways to kill his fellow man, and I will get rid of them at the first opportunity,” he said, inventing scruples he did not possess, or at least not in his old life, Wells reflected, when he had doubtless been skilled at handling weapons. “We’ll hang up a few works by Leighton instead. What do you reckon, Emma?”