The Map of Chaos

  Eric nodded and, after one last dazed glance at the remarkable group, entered the museum.

  “Remember, you are only living one of your many possible lives. There are others. An infinite number!” Doyle shouted after him.

  “And for the love of God, if you want to be a writer, shorten your name!” added Wells.

  When the doors closed, Murray remarked, “That’s incredible! He doesn’t remember anything. He thinks it was all a dream! And his writer’s fantasies also appeared to him! Just like my Captain Shackleton!”

  “And my Sherlock Holmes!” exclaimed Doyle.

  “And I saw Martian tripods,” Wells chimed in, “and, as I told you, when Rhys was chasing us, I even conjured—”

  “Well, I’m damned,” Doyle interrupted. “That means everything we imagine exists somewhere!”

  “But . . . where are all those creatures now? And what happened to the damaged buildings? And the dead bodies?” said Jane. “Look at everyone: they are all strolling along calmly . . . no one seems to remember a thing!”

  “It’s true,” said Murray. “Does that mean the end of the world didn’t happen?”

  “But we remember it,” Jane reflected. “And that young man dreamt . . .”

  Sinclair asked them to calm down and turned to Dr. Ramsey.

  “Doctor, if I understood correctly what you were telling me on our way up from the Chamber, you come from the same world as Mrs. Lansbury, a world far in advance of ours. Perhaps you can shed some light on this matter.”

  “Yes, Doctor, what is going on?” Clayton interjected. “Clearly the Executioner managed to prevent the infection, and now everything is as it would have been had that dog never bitten Mr. Wells. And yet all of us remember perfectly what happened just now.”

  “And we also remember Baskerville, and the evil Rhys . . . ,” said Wells. “But if the epidemic never took place, how could we have met them? And, more important, why are my wife and I still in our nightclothes?”

  Ramsey gave them a paternal smile.

  “Mrs. Wells, gentlemen . . . I don’t think any of you fully appreciate what a wonderful, magical universe you live in. Although that is not your fault. In fact, the reason your universe is so special is precisely because none of its inhabitants understands it in its entirety. You live in a fascinating universe where everything is possible, where everything you dream or imagine exists somewhere . . . and perhaps at this very moment in another place, someone is also dreaming you or imagining you . . . Did the end of the world happen? Yes. Did it not happen? The answer is also yes.”

  “But both things can’t be true at the same time!” protested Murray.

  “Of course they can, Gilliam! Didn’t you hear what the doctor said?” exclaimed Doyle, a feverish look in his eyes. “Everything is possible! Everything! That means somewhere all the realities we encountered and experienced exist exactly as we remember them, and because we remember them. All those lost worlds: the epidemic, Baskerville’s adventures, Rhys’s odyssey, the Day of Chaos . . . But the world we are living in now, where none of that happened, where we managed to prevent the epidemic and therefore its devastating consequences, could also be in the process of being remembered or recounted by someone at this very moment. It also exists . . . Perhaps we are all a memory of a memory of a memory, and so on until infinity.”

  “What the devil does that mean?” Murray muttered.

  “Perhaps you are right, Mr. Doyle.” Ramsey nodded with satisfaction. “Existence is no more than an endless, repeated imitation of itself, like that snake devouring its own tail . . .”

  “Or one of those things that simply happens because it can happen . . .” Jane added with a mysterious smile.

  Wells looked at her in bewilderment.

  “And why are we the only ones who seem to remember anything?” asked Clayton.

  “You have all been in contact with the Supreme Knowledge. You have understood the profound truth of what has been happening. You have become Observers and, as a result, in some sense foreigners in your own universe, at least for a short time. However, for them,” said Ramsey, pointing at the passersby in front of the museum, “the Day of Chaos never existed, because they have never stopped belonging to this world, in which that day never actually happened. How could they remember something that never happened? But you have privileged minds, minds that are practiced in the art of imagination, minds that are open to every possibility, and that have allowed you, for a few moments, to become spectators and actors simultaneously. That is why you can’t forget. You have seen what didn’t happen, but also what might have happened, and for that very reason it did happen . . .” Ramsey looked at them one by one, his eyes radiant with joy, searching among their expressions of puzzlement and concentration for a glimmer of excitement that matched his own. He sighed, pointing vehemently toward the door of the museum. “Like that young attendant. He possesses a mind similar to yours, which is why he can sense that he has other lives. Who knows, perhaps deep down he is aware that there are parallel worlds where things have turned out differently for him. But clearly, thanks to having a mind capable of imagining other possible realities, he is able to remember what happened, though only in the form of a dream, because, unlike you, he hasn’t been touched by the Supreme Knowledge. Do not attempt to understand this. Be content . . . simply to experience it. Therein lies the true beauty of your world. The supremacy of the emotions, magic, mystery . . . Today you were touched by the Supreme Knowledge . . . But tell me, can you say you feel happier than any of those people quietly strolling along? Of course not. The thirst for knowledge, the tyranny of reason . . . those are the viruses that destroyed my world and almost caused us to destroy yours. Since the dawn of our civilization, we on the Other Side tried so stubbornly to scrutinize every mystery around us that all we achieved was to speed up the disintegration of our universe . . . I am convinced that the true fabric of existence, the final layer below the subatomic level, is the imagination. And whoever tries to fathom its enigma destroys it forever. Some of us have finally learned this lesson, and we will have to teach it to our own civilization, now that we will be reborn in one of your worlds. Perhaps we will need your help, my friends. The help of those of you who have not forgotten . . .”

  “You can always count on the help of Scotland Yard’s Special Branch in this world, Doctor Ramsey,” Sinclair assured him.

  “Thank you, Captain. Inspector Clayton, you told me just now that Sir William Crookes designed those splendid columns you used to imprison Rhys.” Clayton nodded. “Good. I believe I have some unfinished business with my old friend, whom I let down in the past, and to whom I have a great deal of explaining to do—a very great deal.” Ramsey looked absentmindedly up at the sky. “There is so much to be done! The Church of Knowledge should change its name, perhaps to the Church of Dreams . . .”

  Clayton cleared his throat.

  “Speaking of dreams, Doctor. When I fainted in the Chamber of Marvels . . . well, perhaps I ought to tell you first that during my fainting fits I frequently dream about a world where . . . well, it is difficult to explain. The point is that in that world the Day of Chaos also took place today . . . and I, er . . . I told someone from there about everything that was happening here.”

  “I am aware of your dreams, Inspector.” Ramsey grinned. “And believe me, there is much I have to tell you about the important part they played in the final victory. When I assert that the ability to dream is what saved your world, I assure you I am not simply using a poetic image . . . Rest assured I shall happily to explain it all to you, as well as the excellent use we made of an old blood sample of yours . . .” Clayton’s bewilderment caused Ramsey’s smile to broaden. “But there will be plenty of time for that . . . What do you want to know now, my dear chap? Whether that someone will remember everything because she had been in touch with the Supreme Knowledge? Whether the curse of your fainting fits is in some way related to the cronotemia virus? Whether you will be able to carry on jumping
mentally to that other world now that there has been no epidemic?”

  “I . . . well, I would be glad if you answered all those questions, but what I really wanted to know is . . . whether an Executioner could take me to the world of my dreams. In body as well as in mind, I mean.”

  Ramsey looked straight at Clayton for a moment and then shook his head regretfully.

  “My dear chap, whatever world she ends up in, she will always be a monster; you know that. And I am afraid that if you went to any of her worlds, your own nature would become as monstrous as hers . . . I’m sorry, but I don’t believe you can ever be happy together, because the worlds you come from are too different. Perhaps the love between you can exist only in dreams.”

  If what Ramsey said wounded Clayton, no one could have detected it from the slight flutter of his eyelids. All of a sudden, Doyle stepped forward.

  “But it would be possible to take someone to another world that is similar to this one—isn’t that so?” he said, grabbing Murray’s arm and thrusting him forward.

  Ramsey nodded. After another gentle prod from Doyle, Murray looked at him, puzzled, for a few moments before suddenly reacting.

  “J-Just a minute . . . ,” he stammered. “Are you saying that . . . if I asked one of those giants in black to take me to a world where my beloved is still alive . . . he would? Is that really possible?”

  “We can try, Mr. Murray, we can try, although . . . ,” Ramsey started to say.

  “Did you hear that, George?” Murray interrupted, his face flushing. “And you, Jane? I can search for the Emma in the mirror . . . I can find her, Arthur!”

  “First I must study the fabric of the multiverse,” Ramsey explained calmly, “and find out if the Executioners have regained full use of their canes. In fact, I was thinking of going to my club right now, as I am sure some of my colleagues are already there, keen to have the first of what will be many meetings, since those of us who come from the Other Side have a Great Exodus to prepare. And so I think the time has come for me to bid you farewell. Mrs. Wells, gentlemen, we shall meet again soon, I am sure. Mr. Murray, if you would like to accompany me, perhaps we can discuss the details of your possible trip on the way.”

  For a moment, everyone thought Murray was going to fling his arms around the doctor and kiss him. Fortunately, he seemed to stop himself just in time.

  “Certainly!” he declared excitedly. “Tell me, if everything is in order, could I leave immediately?”

  “I don’t see why not, if that is what you want.”

  “It is.”

  And never, in any of the infinite worlds, were two words spoken more sincerely. After that pronouncement, Murray turned to his friends to say his good-byes while Ramsey did the same with Sinclair and Clayton.

  “Arthur . . . ,” Murray murmured, eyes moist as he went over to his friend.

  “I know, I know . . . you don’t need to thank me. I promised you I would find a way to reach the Emma in the mirror, and I have been as good as my word.” Doyle beamed with satisfaction, thrusting his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets.

  “Well, I don’t think you deserve all the credit, but . . . bah, no matter.” Murray seized Doyle’s shoulders, as if he were trying to plump them up like cushions. “Thank you, Arthur. Thank you for everything. I don’t know if I will have a telephone where I am going . . . but let me know how you are telepathically from time to time.”

  “That will be far more effective, given your servants’ disinclination to answer the telephone,” Doyle retorted.

  Murray guffawed, and the two men shook hands cordially. Then Murray turned to Wells.

  “George . . .” His voice failed him, and he gave a cough to mask it. “My dear George, I . . . I owe you so much. It is thanks to you that I won Emma over—”

  Wells cut him short, exasperated, “Gilliam, you know perfectly well I didn’t write that blasted—”

  Before he could finish, Murray clasped him in a tight embrace, to which Wells instantly yielded. When they separated, Murray took Jane’s face in his huge paws and planted a resounding kiss squarely on the young woman’s lips, again before Wells could to do anything.

  “Take care of him, Jane,” he whispered to her, gesturing toward Wells with his chin. “And don’t let that big head of his think too much.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t. And give my love to Emma,” she said, her eyes brimming with tears.

  Finally, Murray turned to the two inspectors, who were speaking with Ramsey. He shook Sinclair’s hand, bobbing his head, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, he extended it to Clayton as well.

  “I hope there is some other world where we will like each other more, Inspector Clayton.” He smiled earnestly.

  “Who knows, Mr. Murray?” the inspector replied, shaking his hand. “We have seen things more impossible happen.”

  Murray signaled to Ramsey that he was ready to leave, and the two men made their way down the steps while the others stood watching them. When he reached the bottom, Murray stopped abruptly, as if he had forgotten something, and shouted back to Doyle, “Arthur, remember you must write the story about the bloodhound! And I want you to dedicate it to Gilliam Murray, the greatest crossbowman in all the worlds!”

  “We shall see, we shall see . . .” Doyle chuckled as he waved his friend good-bye.

  At that very instant, a few feet behind Doyle and the Wellses, Sinclair glanced at Clayton, who was watching the two men start down the stairs with the dark, melancholy air of a drenched crow.

  “Come on, my lad . . .” The captain sighed, clapping his former disciple on the shoulder. “Let’s go back to the Yard and have a nice cup of coffee. Miss Barkin will be there by now, and you know she always makes yours—”

  “Just the way I like it,” Clayton cut in, rolling his eyes. “Do you really think the solution to all my problems is to be found in a cup of coffee?”

  Sinclair shrugged.

  “I don’t know, lad, I don’t know . . . But what I do know is that, despite all Ramsey’s fine words, man cannot live by dreams alone, believe me. So, you decide.”

  Sinclair began descending the steps, whistling a jolly tune, hands in his pockets, nodding to Doyle and the Wellses as he went past them. A few seconds later, Inspector Cornelius Clayton of Scotland Yard’s Special Branch came to the conclusion that the only thing to do if he wanted some peace, in this world at least, was to follow the captain and have that blasted cup of coffee.

  As the two detectives walked down Brompton Road away from the museum, Doyle, who still seemed to have energy to spare, offered to go and retrieve his carriage, which he hoped was waiting for him where he and Murray had abandoned it during that morning of madness, and drive Wells and Jane home. The couple accepted, as they didn’t fancy traipsing round London in their nightclothes. Doyle continued down the museum steps at a vigorous trot while Wells and Jane sank onto one of the steps, utterly exhausted.

  “Jane, I don’t feel like a dream, or someone’s memory,” Wells sighed, returning to the subject that was troubling him. “Do you really believe what Ramsey said is true? Do you think we are here now because someone is telling our story? Because if that is the truth, then I shan’t write another word as long as I live . . .”

  Jane chuckled.

  “What do you find so funny? Go on, tell me; you know I don’t like it when you keep your opinions to yourself.”

  “I am laughing because I can’t think what else you would do if you didn’t write.”

  Wells bridled. “Well, lots of things, actually. Teaching, for example. I was rather good at that, if you remember . . .”

  “You hated it, dear.”

  Well . . . then I could devote myself to being the most romantic husband in the world. I could come home every day in a hot-air balloon, perform the most incredible feats . . .”

  “You have already performed the most incredible feat of all, Bertie: you saved my life, and you saved the world. How could you improve on that?”

 
“Hmm, well . . . I suppose you are right. I have made it very difficult for myself. I don’t think even Murray could improve on that, do you?”

  Jane’s face broke into an amused smile.

  “Listen to me, dear,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder. “If writing seems like a terrible thing to you now, it is only because you associate it with the traumatic experience we have just been through. But remember what I have always told you: you must ignore any disturbing factor. You like writing. You always have. And you will like it again. Why should you care if your creations come to life in other worlds? You will probably never see them again . . .”

  “But supposing for instance I write about a mother whose child dies. Wouldn’t I feel responsible for—”

  “What does that matter?” Jane quickly interjected. “Doubtless another Wells will write about her not losing her child. And as for the idea that we might be someone else’s creations . . .” Jane shrugged. “Well, I only hope our author has good taste in babies’ names.”

  Wells looked at her, puzzled.

  “Why do you say that?

  “Because it would be terrible if our narrator called our firstborn Marmaduke or Wilhelmina, don’t you think?”

  So saying, she gently patted her belly. Wells leapt to his feet.

  “Do you mean that . . . ? But how? Since when have you known?”

  “I wouldn’t have expected a biologist to ask how. As for your second, far more sensible question: I have known for a few days, but I didn’t tell you because, well . . . I didn’t want to worry you, what with the end of the world being just round the corner and everything.”

  “You didn’t want to . . .”

  Wells looked at her in astonishment, as if he were seeing her for the first time. This was the woman he loved, crouched on a dusty step, embracing her knees in an attempt to cover her legs with her thin white nightie, her chestnut hair falling over her eyes, eyes that had seen inconceivable horrors, tiny and fragile like a china figurine, and yet equally capable of plunging a hairpin into the eye of the most fearful Villain as she was of consoling her husband after some critic demolished one of his novels.