The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(57)

“Go on, cousin,” prompted Charles.

Andrew pulled the lever.

To begin with, nothing happened. Then he became aware of a faint persistent purring sound, and the air seemed to quiver slightly, as though he were hearing the world’s insides rumble. All of a sudden, the hypnotic drone was broken by an eerie cracking sound, and a bright flash of blue light pierced the attic’s gloom. A second deafening crack was followed by another flash of light, then another, with sparks flying in all directions as though they were trying to light up every corner of the room.

Suddenly, Andrew found himself at the center of a continuous burst of life-sized blue lightning bolts. On the far side of it stood Charles, Jane, and Wells, who had stretched his arms out in front of the other two, whether to protect them from the shower of sparks or to prevent them from rushing to his aid, Andrew could not tell. The air, perhaps the world, possibly time, or everything at once, disintegrated before his eyes. Reality itself fragmented.

Then, suddenly, just as the author had described, an intense light blinded him, making the attic disappear. He gritted his teeth to stifle a scream, as he felt himself fall through the air.





15


Andrew had to blink at least a dozen times before he could see properly again.

As the attic went back to apparent normality, his wildly racing heart began to slow down. He was relieved not to feel dizzy or sick. Even his panic had begun to subside once he realized he had not been burnt to a crisp by the flashes of lightning, which had left a smell of singed butterflies in the air. His only discomfort was that his whole body felt tense as a result of his anxiety, but in the end, he was even glad about that. This was no picnic he was going on. He was about to change the past, to alter events that had already taken place. He, Andrew Harrington, was going to shake up time. Was it not better to be on the alert, to be on his guard? When the effects of the flash had finally died away and he was able to see properly, he plucked up the courage to step down off the machine, as quietly as possible. The solidity of the floor surprised him, as if he had been expecting the past to be made of mist or fog or some other equally ethereal or malleable substance, simply because the time that corresponded to it had already been used up. However, as he discovered when he placed his foot tentatively on the ground, that reality was just as solid and real as the one he had left. But was he in 1888? He glanced suspiciously around the attic, still plunged into darkness, even savoring a few mouthfuls of air like a gourmet, looking for evidence, some detail to prove he was in the past, that he had indeed traveled in time. He discovered it when he peered out of the window: the road looked the same as he remembered it, but there was no sign of the cab that had brought them, and in the garden he saw a horse that had not been there before. Was a simple nag tied to a fence enough to distinguish one year from another? As evidence it seemed rather flimsy and unromantic. Disappointed, he carefully surveyed the peaceful backdrop of the night sky studded with stars, like rice grains randomly scattered. He saw nothing strange there either. After a few moments of fruitless search, he shrugged and told himself there was no reason why he should notice any significant differences since he had only traveled back in time eight years.

Then he shook his head. He could not waste time collecting evidence like an entomologist. He had a mission to fulfill, in which time was very much of the essence. He opened the window and, after testing the creeper’s resistance, followed Wells’s instructions and began climbing down it as quietly as possible so as not to alert the occupants of the house. This proved easy, and once he reached the ground, he crept towards the horse, which had been impassively watching him climb down the creeper. Andrew gently stroked its mane in order to allay any suspicions the animal might have about him. The horse had no saddle, but Andrew found one with stirrups hanging on the fence. He could not believe his luck. He tied it on the horse, avoiding any sudden gestures that might make the animal nervous, keeping an eye on the darkened house all the while. Then he took the animal by the reins and coaxed it out into the road with affectionate whispers. He was amazed at himself for taking everything so calmly. He mounted the horse, glanced back one last time to ensure everything was still as disappointingly calm, and set off towards London.

Only when he was far enough away, a fast-moving blur in the darkness, did it finally dawn on Andrew that soon he was going to see Marie Kelly. He felt a pang inside and became tense again.

Yes, incredible though it might seem to him, in the year he was in now, at this time in the morning, she was still alive: she had still not been murdered. She would probably be in the Britannia at that very moment, drinking to forget her spineless lover before stumbling back home into the arms of death. But then he remembered he was not allowed to see her, not allowed to embrace her, to nestle his head on her shoulder and breathe in her longed-for odor. No, Wells had forbidden it, because that simple gesture could alter the fabric of time, bring about the end of the world. He must limit himself to killing the Ripper and returning the way he had come, as the author had ordered. His action must be swift and precise, like a surgical intervention, whose consequences would only be visible when the patient came to, that is to say, once he had traveled back to his own time.

Whitechapel was immersed in a deathly silence. He was surprised at the absence of the usual hurly-burly, until he remembered that during those weeks Whitechapel was an accursed, feared neighborhood, in whose alleyways the monster known as Jack the Ripper roamed, doling out death with his knife. He slowed his mount as he entered Dorset Street, aware that in the intense silence its hooves hammering on the cobblestones must produce a din like a smithy’s forge. He dismounted a few yards from the entrance to Miller’s Court and tethered the animal to an iron railing, away from any streetlamps so that it was less likely to be noticed. Then, after making sure the street was empty, he darted through the stone archway leading to the flats. The tenants were all asleep, so he had no light to guide him through the pitch-darkness, but Andrew could have found his way blind-folded. The further he ventured into that powerfully familiar place, the more overwhelmed he was by a mournful sadness that culminated when he reached Marie Kelly’s room, which was also in darkness. But his nostalgia gave way to a feeling of profound shock when it dawned on him that while he was standing there, before the modest abode that had been both heaven and hell to him, his father was also slapping his face in the Harrington mansion. That night, thanks to a miracle of science, there were two Andrews in the world. He wondered whether his other self might be aware of his existence, too, in the form of goose pimples or a sharp pain in his stomach, as he had heard sometimes happened with twins.