'The Time Travellers'
When I awoke the next morning, after a surprisingly good night's sleep, there was a breakfast tray by my bed and freshly washed and ironed clothes hanging in the wardrobe.
The breakfast consisted of fruit, newly baked rolls, butter, a choice of home-made jams, and a large cup of French café au lait, very probably prepared by Aunt Gladys, the former Comtesse de LaPorte. The breakfast was delicious; they knew everything I liked, and it was all vegetarian. After a hot shower, I changed into clean clothes and was ready to go. Two minutes later, I was standing outside Albert's door and knocked politely.
"Do come in, dear boy; do come in," came Albert's voice.
I opened the door and, at Albert's invitation, sat down.
"Very punctual, Peregrine, but no time for formalities; time is of the essence. As an introduction to inter-dimensional travel, we will journey today through a special portal, and not only will we journey into another dimension, but we will travel back in time and enter a point I have selected in the historical past of Earth. We cannot physically interact with the environment; it is not possible to change the past, but we can observe. There is much for you to learn, and I can promise you a most interesting experience."
"May I ask you a question, Albert?"
"Yes, of course, anything you like. Ask away."
"Ernest told me about the time you visited London on Earth, Major, in the year 1664."
"Yes, I remember it. Awful coffee and awful people. Ernest bought a book while we were there, but it wasn't particularly good."
"But you just told me that you cannot interact with the past?"
"That's right, but we did not travel to the past. We were in London in 1664, on a matter of business, if I remember correctly. Ernest hated the place, and we never returned. It may have changed by now, of course, but I am not inclined to go back.
"Now we really must hurry."
He made it clear that the conversation was over, and we left Albert's comfortable quarters and walked down a narrow corridor until we reached a beautifully polished mahogany door. Set in the centre panel was an exceptionally fine wood etching of a stooped old man dressed in a floor-length brown robe and carrying a scythe and an hourglass.
"Chronos," said Albert, nodding towards the figure as he searched in his pockets for the key, or 'Old Father Time,' as he is better known.
"Ah, here it is."
He produced a key and unlocked the door.
We found ourselves in the sort of gentleman's outfitters found in any prosperous city centre, with all types of clothing hung in long, neat rows.
"We must dress the part, you see. People there will be unable to see us, but there may be other travellers like us passing through, and we don't want to stand out. There are many unsavoury characters among the time-travelling fraternity whom we would do well to avoid.
Albert gestured to my frayed jeans and oversized T-shirt.
"I'm afraid they won't do at all."
"What time are we travelling to?" I asked as I watched him flick through assorted items on the nearest rail.
"Earth Major. Mid-twentieth century," he said. "Now these will pass," and he handed me a pair of baggy flannel trousers and a blazer. On my other arm, he placed a formal white shirt with a collar and a striped tie.
"No time for fussing, Peregrine; just go over to that changing room and try these on, please. Now I must select something suitable for myself."
I did as he asked and put on the white shirt and changed into the jacket and trousers, but I had no idea how to knot the tie and carried it in my hand. It felt as if I were going to a fancy-dress party. When I stepped out, Albert had already changed into a green and brown-flecked three-piece suit with a stiff collar and tie. He looked genuinely smart.
He glanced at my feet.
"No, not trainers, Peregrine," he said. "Put these on."
He handed me a pair of black leather shoes, "and turn around while I fix your tie."
Stepping back, he examined me critically. "Oh, dear. Your hair is far too long," and passed me a jar of white, sticky stuff. "Brylcreem," he said. "A hair oil used for flattening unruly hair and popular in England at the time. Now put plenty on and comb your hair into a side parting."
I did my best, and he said, "That will have to do; now we are ready to go. The portal is the bright yellow door in the far corner."
With a reassuring smile, Albert opened the door, and as he went over the threshold, our bodies glowed, but there was no sensation of movement. We stepped out to find ourselves standing by the side of a busy road on a beautiful summer morning. It was as easy as that. This was amazing—my first experience of portal travel!
"Where are we?"
"In the High Street of the University City of Oxford on Thursday, June 9th, 1949.
To your left is the Porter's Lodge of Magdalene College, where at this moment, in the rooms of C.S. Lewis, a group of writers called 'The Inklings' are looking over the final draft of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.
"You are familiar with the book?"
"Of course, The Chronicles of Narnia were great favourites of mine when I was younger."
"Glad to hear it. Also, in attendance this evening will be the man whom we call the 'Father of Modern Fantasy Literature,' J.R.R. Tolkien, author of The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings, and Mr. Roger Lancelyn Green, famous for his stories of Robin Hood, King Arthur, and The Knights of the Round Table. An inimitable array of talent is all in one place. The authors of books for children whose rich and fertile imaginations are born from innocence. A quality that makes them uniquely receptive to the fantastic. Once read, the magic stays with the reader for the rest of their lives, but some people come to the stories as adults when reading books to their children. C.S. Lewis has just handed out the first proof copies of his new book, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. Shall we join them?
"Come on."
Albert took me by the arm, and we drifted down the corridor and walked straight through the door of Lewis's apartment. The air was thick with pipe smoke, and on a side table, empty plates and the remnants of a sandwich buffet. The men were lounging in armchairs, each of them nursing a large whisky and holding a copy of Lewis's manuscript.
"Where do you want to stand?" Albert said. I'm afraid it is rather difficult for us to sit."
He guided me so that we were behind J.R.R. Tolkien, who was looking directly at Lewis. Both were oblivious to my presence.
"Well, this is your last chance, gentlemen," said Lewis from his chair.
"You have seen this work before, and we have talked about it at length. I have made alterations based on our discussions, and other parts I have left unchanged.
Now I am happy with it if any author can honestly say he is entirely satisfied with his work, but I have finished with this now."
"Jack!" said Tolkien. "I have to say that despite my protests, you have retained the character of Father Christmas. You must realise that a character from human legend does not belong alongside mythological creatures. This muddle of myth and legend just won't do. The character of Father Christmas undermines the integrity of the story, and I would be interested to know the reason you decided to keep . . ."
Tolkien stopped abruptly in mid-speech, and the room was silent and still. The men were caught in poses of either relaxed thoughtfulness or guarded amusement. Although amongst friends, there is an inevitable undercurrent of rivalry within this elite coterie of literary talent, and guards are never fully let down. But now, they all looked faintly ridiculous, with transient expressions caught in mid-production and facial muscles pulled into strange shapes. Albert turned to me in apology.
'Sorry, Peregrine. Should have warned you, but it is an opportune time to make a quick point, and it would have been rude to talk over Mr. Tolkien.'
'Have you stopped time, Albert?'
No, Peregrine, nothing of the sort. I sometimes forget the gaps in your education, but at a basic level, try to understand that this sequence of events is already established in an unchangeable past. We are uninvited guests to the enactment.'
'Surely you mean 're-enactment?'
'No Peregrine, this is the actual moment that these events are happening, the elusive 'now,' a sequence, indelibly etched at a precise position on the space-time continuum. It doesn't move or change, ever. Nor does it suddenly spring into action when a random observer decides to take a peep; it runs in a perpetual present, untouched and untouchable.
The observers are the ones who must travel. I have not stopped time for Mr. Tolkien. I have simply stepped back and paused our observation: we exist for the moment, the two of us, in a very exclusive bubble with its own rules; every other existent is jogging along at their usual pace quite undisturbed.'
He held up his hand.
Now, on with the show.'
The spell was lifted, and Tolkien resumed where he left off.
"... the reason why you decided to keep him in."
'Tollers old man, I can always rely on you to give it to me straight from the shoulder,' replied Lewis with a smile, "and I value your criticism always, but in this case, and on this point, I intend to stand firm. To tell you the truth, I don't have an entirely rational explanation for my decision, which no doubt will further weaken my argument, but Father Christmas deserves his place in my tale. He appears when the witch's magic is weakening, and his presence gives us hope that the time is approaching when her spell will be broken forever, and the people will be freed from tyranny. He cries out,
'Merry Christmas! Long live the true king!'
I was beginning to understand what Ernest meant about a subtext.
Lewis continued with his oration, but I was no longer listening; all my attention was focused upon a globe of luminous yellow light the size of an orange, hovering above Lewis' right shoulder, following him around as if attached.
"What is it?"
'A leech. A biological machine hybrid that tracks its assigned target everywhere. Records and transmits the raw data back to its masters.'
'Can't Lewis see the leech?'
'No, it is invisible in normal light – in any light. But during independent observations, the filters don't work, and the globe becomes visible. Only to us, of course. To the Inklings, this meeting is happening in the present and always will be. It will never change, no matter how often observers revisit this time segment.'
'Why is Lewis being monitored?'
'His work is considered subversive."
Albert suddenly looked up in alarm.
The enemy has intercepted the signal and recognised you.
"Time to go, Peregrine, see that green light sweeping around the ceiling? It is a target spotter, and if it locks in on us, we are done for."
Albert dragged me through the closed door. and something hit the inner side with a muffled thud and a blinding flash of light. I back off in alarm, but whatever it was, it could not leave the area of space within the room, and we were unharmed.
"Totally irresponsible,' says Albert, "somebody could have easily got hurt there."
More jokes, but I can see that he is rattled.
"What about the people inside?" I asked.
"They are in the same space, but a different dimension," Albert replied, "and totally unaffected, but there is a lesson here for you."
"Remember this, Peregrine. I hate to say it, but it won't be the first time something like this happens to you.
"You are a wanted man, and they will do everything in their power to hunt you down."
Arthur hesitated for a moment; his face creased with concern.
"I fear we are asking too much of you, Peregrine. You will learn later of the time constraints we are under, and I will have no time to fully induct you into a universe of which you know nothing.
"Words are insufficient, as you have witnessed today; you must learn through experience. There is no time for that, and I propose that you experience the basic elements of our philosophy in what will seem, after having been a dream, but is, in truth, a structured narrative intended to allow you to work out the conclusion for yourself. This is not an easy task, and before you give me your consent, I must tell you that at times you may experience fear and find yourself in dangerous and demanding situations. All that happens to you will feel real and no different from ordinary life."
"Do you recommend that I undergo this experience, Albert?"
"I do." He said.
"Then I accept. When do I start?"
"Your faith in me touches me," said Albert. "It will happen tonight after you go to bed. Before you go to sleep, drink this small bottle of liquid that I have prepared. It is quite harmless but will help you relax and go into a deep sleep."
I took the bottle.
"I will do as you say, Albert." "Wish me luck."
Albert grasped my hand, and I saw that he had a tear in his eye.
"You are a fine boy, Peregrine. A born traveller."
"We will not disturb the authors any further tonight," said Albert.
"We have had our warning and will heed it, but this is an opportune moment to make an important final point. You must think of fiction as a work of creation in every sense of the word and accept the idea that characters from novels can escape the rigid confines of the role assigned by their author and assume an independent existence in the external world. They become a living, breathing person, possessed of free will, the same as you and me, with a life of their own."
"Do they disappear from the novel?"
"No. The original character continues in their same role in the novel, never knowing that an alternative version of themselves has been created and lives in another dimension. The novel is completely unchanged."
"Now have your tea and try to get to bed early tonight."
"Yes, of course, but may I ask you one last thing before I go?"
"Fire away, old boy," he said.
"Well, I met Montana for the first time yesterday. She told me about losing her parents so young, and I don't want to accidentally say anything that might upset her. Can you tell me if there are any other subjects I should avoid? I am not just being curious; I would genuinely never want to hurt her, but I quite understand if you think it is too private to discuss."
Albert looked relieved and smiled.
"No, Peregrine, your intentions are good, and I will pass on the little I know. Did she tell you her mother was Cheyenne?"
"Yes, and that her father was French Canadian."
"He was a distant cousin of ours," said Albert. "We have links to France in our family, and when he died, Ernest brought eight-year-old Montana back here from Earth Major as his ward. We gave her a home and sent her to a good school, and Ernest officially adopted her. She is a wonderfully kind and exceptionally talented young woman. Without any pressure from us, she developed a great interest in business, especially interdimensional travel.
"She believes that within her lifetime, we will come to understand the true nature of the multi-reality universe in which we live. Montana is not only exceptionally clever in the conventional sense, but she also has advanced emotional intelligence and a gift for intuitive understanding that goes far beyond the limits of rationality and science."
I agreed.
"Yes, even in the brief time that we spent together, I think I sensed that otherworldliness about her."
"You have a natural empathy, Peregrine. Did she tell you how she got her name?"
"No, only that it suits her."
"Yes, it does. Her mother was one of the Indigenous peoples of America, and she named Montana in honour of the southeastern part of the state, which was home to her maternal family. I hope you will be her friend, Peregrine; she needs the company of somebody her age."
"I will, Mr Albert. I will."
Never before have I spoken with such sincerity.
I could not think of a life without her, but it was going to be hard to keep us together, or even in the same world.