The Map of Chaos (52 page)

“What is it, my dear?”

“I—I . . . ,” Wells stammered, “I can't tell whether the tile my hand is resting on . . . is black or white.”

Jane contemplated him in silence for a few seconds, without understanding what he was talking about, until she followed her husband's astonished gaze toward the tile beneath his hand.

“It's black,” she assured him, but a moment later she blinked, confused. “No, wait . . .” She examined the tile with a frown. “It's white! . . . No, no, it's definitely black, but . . . how strange: it keeps changing to white . . .”

Closely scrutinized by Jane, Wells raised his hand and lowered it again, placing it very carefully on the same tile.

“I put my right hand down on the black tile. That is what I did, nothing else. You saw me, didn't you, Jane?” Wells asked anxiously.

“I think so,” she replied uneasily, “and yet . . . oh, goodness me, Bertie, I don't know. Perhaps not. After all, you could also have placed your hand on the white tile. Why did you choose the black one? And . . . wait, are you sure that is your right hand? You could also be leaning on your left hand.”

Wells looked at her in amazement and raised his left hand level with his eyes, scrutinizing at it as though he were seeing it for the first time.

“This is my left hand, and I am leaning on the floor with my right hand . . . Although, indeed, it could be the other way around . . .”

“Or you could be standing up . . .”

“Or unconscious . . .”

A singsong voice interrupted their fascinating debate: “Who are you?”

Wells and Jane stopped examining the tile whose color they were unable to agree upon and lifted their respective heads only to discover a charming little girl a few feet from where they were kneeling. She was about six years old, dressed in a ragged tunic and barefoot. They were instantly struck by her casual beauty: a mop of dark chestnut hair framed her heart-shaped face, and bangs fell over her keen, inquisitive eyes, and her lips, set in a pout, held the promise of a radiant smile for anyone sufficiently deserving. Newton scampered over to her, wagging his tail, and lay down, splaying his tummy, which she stroked with her bare foot.

“Are you sprites?” she asked.

While she waited for an answer, she took a sip from the glass she was holding, which appeared to contain lemonade. Wells rose to his feet, helping Jane up, and tried not to think that the girl could be drinking milk, not lemonade, or playing with a spinning top or juggling while she waited for them to answer.

“Er . . . why should we be sprites?” asked Wells.

“There's no reason why you
should
be sprites. I only thought you
might
be because of the way you appeared, though I hope my question didn't offend you.” Clearly, despite being dressed in rags, the little girl had impeccable manners. “You came out of nowhere,” she explained sententiously, with a touch of impatience, like a diminutive schoolmarm addressing a couple of not-very-bright pupils. “A hole suddenly opened in the air and a very, very, very bright light came out of it, so bright I had to close my eyes. When I opened them again, there you were on the floor, staring at a tile as if you had never seen one before in your lives. You are very funny sprites,” she added earnestly.

Wells and Jane exchanged glances. So Dodgson's hole had brought them here . . . but where were they? Had they landed in another universe? They examined their surroundings more closely and saw that they were in a room that seemed familiar, despite looking old and fusty. The flowery wallpaper, the music boxes, the children's drawings—all gave them a clue as to where they might be. And yet there were a few details missing from the picture, which made it not quite recognizable. Hard as they looked, they found no trace of a communication screen, or a food warmer, or any other sort of technical device. It was as if the room had been divested of every artifact man had invented over the past hundred years, including dust-eating mice. But before either of them could express those thoughts, a voice somewhere behind them rang out.

“Come along, Alice! I am ready to take the photograph now . . . What is keeping you?”

Wells and Jane turned around just as a young man entered the room, cradling what looked like a metal tube, the end of which he was polishing carefully with a piece of cloth. When he caught sight of the two strangers, and the dog suddenly barking at him frantically, he stood stock-still in the doorway. Alice put her glass of lemonade down on the table and ran over to him, passing like a ghost between the two intruders.

“Charles, Charles, these two sprites appeared through a hole in the air!” she announced excitedly.

She flung her arms possessively around one of the young man's legs, and he instantly placed a protective hand on her shoulder while examining with trepidation the supposed pair of sprites who had just materialized in his house, as if he were wondering whether sprites would also interpret human greetings as a gesture of welcome. For their part, the supposed fairy couple contemplated the newcomer with bulging eyes, as though unwilling to accept that he really was who he appeared to be . . . And doubtless, dear reader, you will wish to know exactly what the young man was like. Well, he was approximately twenty-five years old, tall and as thin as a stick insect, and he possessed one of those faces whose features seem to take pleasure in contradicting one another: if his pronounced forehead and receding chin gave him a bovine air, this was belied by eyes brimming with intelligence and his nobly proportioned skull; and if his eyebrows, like two horizontal sea horses above his drooping eyelids, gave the impression of a man prone to melancholia, the mocking expression on his lips betrayed both a keen sense of humor and the spirit of a dreamer. As for his clothes, he wore an elegant velvet jacket, a pair of overly tight trousers, a hat with a turned-up brim, and a dazzlingly white bow tie. However, in spite of his eccentric attire, he gave the overall impression of extreme neatness, as extreme as the overpowering perfume enveloping him. The young man opened his mouth, but for a few moments no sound emerged. Then the words came out in a rush, tumbling over one another, in a stammer that was as familiar to the Wellses as the room. They had no choice, then, but to accept the impossible.

“F-F-Forgive me, but, w-w-who are you and w-w-what are you doing in my h-house?”

“It's him . . . ,” Wells whispered to Jane, who nodded vehemently, holding on to Newton to try to calm him down. “Well, I'll be damned, it's him all right. Only he's much younger . . .”

“But how is that possible? Have we traveled back to . . . the past?”

“Time travel is impossible, Jane. It has been proven . . . and for God's sake, hold on to that dog and make him shut up!”

“But I am!

“Well, then let go of him.”

“But I already have, haven't I?”

“F-F-Forgive me . . . ,” the young man interrupted timidly.

“Oh, no . . . ,” Jane wailed, ignoring the young man and looking at Newton, bewildered. “In fact I've been holding him all along. By the Atlantic Codex! Have we lost our minds? Is it an effect of time travel?”

“Jane, I told you we haven't traveled in time!”

“But it's him, Bertie, it's him!” she protested, pointing at the young man while Newton started barking again. “And he can't be older than thirty . . . And yet when we jumped through the hole he was sixty-six. Moreover, he was . . .”

Unable to finish her sentence, Jane buried her face in Newton's fur to muffle her sobs, at which the dog instantly stopped barking, surprised at this new role as a pillow.

“F-F-Forgive me . . . ,” the young man ventured again.

“One moment!” Wells interrupted him, slightly irritated. The young man raised his hand in a sign of peace. Wells turned to Jane, endeavoring to sound as composed as possible: “Jane, I implore you, regain your composure. We won't be able to understand anything if we allow our emotions to get the better of us. We must calm our minds to allow knowledge to flourish in them.”

Jane nodded, her sobs beginning to subside. Wells rubbed the bridge of his nose and turned to face the young man, doing his best to appear as cordial and unthreatening as possible.

“Please forgive the inexcusable manner in which my wife and I have turned up in your home. I assure you there are reasons for it that are beyond our control, and we will gladly explain them to you. But, in order to do so, firstly I must beg you to answer a couple of questions. Preferably”—he gestured subtly toward the little girl—“
alone
. You have my word that it is absolutely necessary and that afterward we will be only too happy to answer any questions you may wish to ask us, Mr. . . . Dodgson. For you are Charles Lutwidge Dodgson . . .”

The young man looked at them inquiringly.

“D-Do I k-know you?”

Wells did not know how to reply. If all the current theories were incorrect, and they had in fact traveled back in time, then that twenty-something-year-old Charles still did not know them, because neither of them had been born yet . . . But time travel
was not possible.
Wells observed the young man attentively, studying his clothes, his hairstyle, and the tube he was clasping . . . Then, in a flash, what might have been the correct answer suddenly occurred to him. The young man would doubtless find it most odd, but if this Charles was anything like the Charles he knew (and Wells prayed he was), he was convinced he would accept it, because as well as strange it was also beautiful.

“Not in this world, Mr. Dodgson. But in the world we come from, another Dodgson identical to you taught me how to enjoy a golden evening.”

Jane looked at her husband, wide-eyed, as a spark of comprehension lit up her face. Wells smiled at her lovingly, proud of her quick mind, of having her as a companion on the long journey toward Supreme Knowledge. Dodgson cleared his throat.

“P-P-Please excuse me for a m-moment, if you would be so k-k-kind, er . . . Mr. and Mrs. Sprite,” he said, and then turned to Alice, prizing her gently from his leg. “My dear girl, I am afraid you must join your governess and your sisters in the garden and, er . . . ask them to take you home. We won't be able to take any photographs today, because, as you can see, I must attend to these unexpected guests.” He spoke to her in a hushed tone, not in the way adults habitually speak to children, but with the more intimate manner they use among themselves and, oddly enough, with no trace of any stammer. “Is that all right?”

“No, it is not all right,” the girl protested rather crossly. “Look . . . I've dressed up as an urchin! I've even been practicing the pose you told me.” She ran to the nearest wall, which she leaned against, propping up one of her legs and extending a cupped hand before staring defiantly at the young man. “I might forget it by tomorrow,” she threatened gently.

“I am sure you will remember it perfectly tomorrow,” the young man replied, taking her by the shoulders and steering her gently toward the door. “Although I think you ought to sleep in that position all night just to be on the safe side.”

“But, but . . . you promised you'd take me into the darkroom to develop the plates!”

“A promise that will still be valid tomorrow. Providing it doesn't rain starfish tonight. If that happens, I am afraid I shall be forced to break my promise, for as everyone knows—”

“But I want to stay and talk to the fairies! They're so amusing . . .”

“Oh, I don't think that's a very good idea . . .” The young man glanced uneasily at the couple and lowered his voice. “Sprites are very particular, Alice, and there are few things they find more vexatious than naughty little girls. Except perhaps for the sight of human feet . . . Yes, now I remember, they can't abide bare feet! It gives them insomnia, tinnitus, and terrible stomach cramps. Ah, and another thing they detest is orange marmalade; they only have to look at it and they come out in bumps . . . Luckily we didn't eat orange marmalade for breakfast this morning and you aren't a naughty little girl!”

“But, Charles . . . ,” the child whispered, “I've got bare feet!”

“Goodness gracious! Alice Liddell! Why didn't you say so before?” The young man looked aghast at the girl's feet. “Hurry, hurry!” He propelled her out of the room. “Run home and ask your mother to smother the soles of your feet in orange marmalade . . . tell her it's a matter of life or death! I promise I will come to fetch you tomorrow . . .” And closing the door abruptly, he wheeled round, leaning his whole weight against it, as though afraid the little girl might break it down at any moment.

“W-W-Would you like a cup of tea?” he managed to ask. “Or p-p-perhaps some l-lemonade, or even some f-f-f—”

“Anything will do, thank you,” Wells cut in, too impatient to wait to discover what it was that started with “f.” “The journey here was rather long.”

“Er, yes, well . . . please, h-h-have a seat,” the young man said, pointing at the exquisite carved wooden table in the center of the room, accompanied by four Chippendale chairs. “I shall put the kettle on to boil,” he added. Before leaving the room, he rested the tube and the piece of cloth he was still holding on a corner of the table.

“Thank you,” Jane said, taking a seat.

Wells slumped onto the chair next to her, and they both sank into a determined silence, trying hard not to think about the infinite places where the young man could have left the tube and the piece of cloth, until he came back into the room.

“Allow us to introduce ourselves,” Wells said when the young man was standing before him. “My name is Herbert George Wells, and this is my wife, Catherine. As I already mentioned, for our tale to be credible as possible, first you must agree to resolve some of the doubts that are plaguing us, although I ought to warn you that many of our questions might surprise you, and I daresay you will find our own explanations somewhat . . . incredible.”