The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(182)
“My God!” the couple cried as one.
But just as Inspector Clayton, who was at the front of the chain, was about to pass through the hole, it suddenly vanished as if it had never been there, and with it the whirlwind that was pulling them along. Now that nothing was holding them aloft, the four men dropped to the floor amid a shower of objects. From the doorway to the Chamber, Wells and Jane breathed a sigh of relief. Their friends stood up, groaning in pain and looked around them, bewildered, including Inspector Clayton, whom the crash to the floor appeared to have brought round.
“What happened?” he asked no one in particular.
Jane turned to her husband with a knowing smile and whispered, “You saved the world with your imagination, Bertie.”
40
EVERY MORNING, THE GUARD AT the Natural History Museum, a young lad of eighteen called Eric, would climb the steps and unlock the magnificent door while he dreamed he was Goldry Bluszco, one of the chief lords of Demonland, at war with Gorice XII, the king of Witchland. The crafty sorcerer never went anywhere without his escort of evil magicians, each of them the personification of wickedness, and Eric could almost hear the clashing swords, see the crimson blood oozing from the charred earth during their ferocious battles. That had been his favorite fantasy for the past ten years, ever since he began sketching its scenes and characters in a notebook. And now he had turned to it again to enliven the lowly post of museum attendant that he had obtained, a job far removed from his old aspirations. He would amble through the deserted galleries, switching on the lights and making sure everything was in order before opening time, amusing himself by imagining the exploits Goldry carried out in that world so distant from his own, a world that existed only in his imagination, where sword fights, magic spells, and Machiavellian intrigues were the order of the day. Accompanying him on his stroll was the metallic clink of the cluster of keys on his belt, which opened all the doors but one. There was no doubt that this was the only time of the day when he felt at peace with himself, for, as far back as he could remember, he had always believed that something in his life was not quite right. He often suspected that his soul wasn’t truly his own, that it belonged to a nobleman or an artistic genius—someone destined for greatness, in any case—and that due to some cosmic error it had been placed in this body that lived in a prosaic world where it was relegated to an insignificant role.
However, on the morning of September 23, the young man was too sleepy to escape into his fantasy world. He yawned several times as he climbed the museum steps, unable to understand what the matter was with him: he had gotten out of bed feeling as if he hadn’t slept a wink, but also with the impression that the confused remains of a strange nightmare were trying unsuccessfully to percolate up to the surface of his mind, unable to reach the edges of his consciousness . . . A nightmare in which all he had done was to run, terrified. He shook his head to try to rouse himself while rummaging in his pocket for the keys. He had to stop inventing those stories all the time or he would end up going mad, he thought. And in the end, what good did they do him? He wasn’t a writer, as he had dreamt of being when a child; he wasn’t even a senior civil servant at the Board of Trade or some similar respectable position. He was a lowly museum attendant and would probably always be one. He should be grateful for that, as his mother would tell him whenever he dared mention his fantasies to her. Imagination is all very well if you have money, Eric, she would say, but it won’t put food on the table . . .
Just as he was about to insert the key in the lock, the museum door swung open, almost knocking him over, and a man with a long, horsey face came striding out.
“Ah . . . look. The universe is saved!” he exclaimed, throwing his arms out wide. Then, winking at the strange couple behind him, he added, “And all thanks to the imagination!”
The couple, who to Eric’s surprise were in their nightclothes, formed part of a tiny, eccentric procession that now emerged from the museum all wearing the same expression of amazement. The young man surveyed the group with interest. Besides the couple, who were gazing up at the sky in wonder, and the man with the horsey face, who was glancing about in raptures, there were two well-built men. One had a wispy blond beard and the other, who sported a bushy mustache, was the spitting image of the famous author Arthur Conan Doyle. Both of them also appeared to be celebrating the fact that the sky that morning was a radiant blue and kept clapping each other vigorously on the back and giggling like a pair of naughty schoolboys. Finally, a lanky fellow with a somber face emerged from the gloomy interior, dressed in black from head to toe, followed by a plump older man with a strange glass lens over one eye. The eye glared at Eric, who, plucking up his courage, decided it was time for him to intervene:
“Er . . .” He gave a timid cough. “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, but . . . may I ask what you were doing in the museum at this time of the morning? No one is allowed in here before opening time. I’m afraid I shall have to inform the police . . .”
The plump man and the lanky youth with the somber face, who was busy screwing a metal hand into one of his sleeves, exchanged faint smiles. The lens of the plump man gave a muffled buzz as it focused on him. Eric recoiled instinctively.
“What is your name and your position in this museum, lad?”
“Eric R-Rücker Eddison,” he stammered. “I—I’ve only b-been working here a few days . . .”