Jasper Fforde - The Eyre Affair

Lakes! Daffodils! Solitude! Memory! whispered the worms excitedly as Mycroft carefully closed the book and locked it. He connected up the heavy mains feed to the back of the book and switched the power switch to ‘on’; he then started work on the myriad of knobs and dials that covered the front of the heavy volume. Despite the Prose Portal being essentially a biomechanism, there were still many delicate procedures that had to be set before the device would work; and since the portal was of an absurd complexity, Mycroft was forced to write up the precise sequence of start-up events and combinations in a small child’s exercise book of which—ever wary of foreign spies—he held the only copy. He studied the small book for several moments before twisting dials, setting switches and gently increasing the power, all the while muttering to himself and Polly:

‘Binametrics, spherics, numerics. I’m—‘

‘On?’

‘Off!’ replied Mycroft sadly. ‘No, wait… There!’

He smiled happily as the last of the warning lights extinguished. He took his wife’s hand and squeezed it affectionately.

‘Would you care to have the honour?’ he asked. ‘The first human being to step inside a Wordsworth poem?’

Polly looked at him uneasily.

‘Are you sure it’s safe?’

‘As safe as houses,’ he assured her. ‘I went into “The Wreck of the Hesperus” an hour ago.’

‘Really? What was it like?’

‘Wet—and I think I left my jacket behind.’

‘The one I gave you for Christmas?’

‘No; the other one. The blue one with large checks.’

‘That’s the one I did give you for Christmas,’ she scolded. ‘I wish you would be more careful. What was it you wanted me to do?’

‘Just stand here. If all goes well, as soon as I press this large green button the worms will open a door to the daffodils that William Wordsworth knew and loved.’

‘And if all doesn’t go well?’ asked Polly slightly nervously. Owens’ demise inside a giant meringue never failed to impinge on her thoughts whenever she guinea-pigged one of her husband’s machines, but apart from some slight singeing while testing a one-man butane-powered pantomime horse, none of Mycroft’s devices had ever harmed her at all.

‘Hmm,’ said Mycroft thoughtfully, ‘it is possible although highly unlikely that I could start a chain reaction that will fuse matter and annihilate the known universe.’

‘Really?’

‘No, not really at all. My little joke. Are you ready?’

Polly smiled. ‘Ready.’

Mycroft pressed the large green button and there was a low hum from the book. The streetlights flickered and dimmed outside as the machine drew a huge quantity of power to convert the bookworm’s binametric information. As they both watched, a thin shaft of light appeared in the workshop, as though a door had been opened from a winter’s day into summer. Dust glistened in the beam of light, which gradually grew broader until it was large enough to enter.

‘All you have to do is step through!’ yelled Mycroft above the noise of the machine. ‘To open the door requires a lot of power; you have to hurry!’

The high voltage was making the air heavy; metallic objects close by were starting to dance and crackle with static.

Polly stepped closer to the door and smiled nervously at her husband. The shimmering expanse of white light rippled as she put her hand up to touch it. She took a deep breath and stepped through the portal. There was a bright flash and a burst of heavy electrical discharge; two small balls of highly charged gas plasma formed spontaneously near the machine and barrelled out in two directions; Mycroft had to duck as one sailed past him and burst harmlessly on the Rolls-Royce; the other exploded on the Olfactograph and started a small fire. Just as quickly the light and sound died away, the doorway closed and the streetlights outside flickered up to full brightness again.

Clouds! Jocund company! Sprightly dance! chattered the worms contentedly as the needles flicked and rocked on the cover of the book, the two-minute countdown to the reopening of the portal already in progress. Mycroft smiled happily and patted his pockets for his pipe until he realised with dismay that it too was inside Hesperus, so instead he sat down on the prototype of a sarcasm early-warning device and waited. Everything, so far, was working extremely well.

On the other side of the Prose Portal, Polly stood on the grassy bank of a large lake where the water gently lapped against the shore. The sun was shining brightly and small puffy clouds floated lazily across the azure sky. Along the edges of the bay she could see thousands upon thousands of vibrant yellow daffodils, all growing in the dappled shade of a birch grove. A breeze, carrying with it the sweet scent of summer, caused the flowers to flutter and dance. All about her a feeling of peace and tranquillity ruled. The world she stood in now was unsullied by man’s evil or malice. Here, indeed, was paradise.

‘It’s beautiful!’ she said at last, her thoughts finally giving birth to her words. ‘The flowers, the colours, the scent—it’s like breathing champagne!’

‘You like it, madam?’

A man aged about eighty was facing her. He was dressed in a black cloak and wore a half-smile upon his weathered features. He gazed across at the flowers.

‘I often come here,’ he said. ‘Whenever the doldrums of depression fall heavy on my countenance.’

‘You’re very lucky,’ said Polly. ‘We have to rely on Name That Fruit!’

‘Name That Fruit?’

‘It’s a quiz show. You know. On the telly.’

‘Telly?’

‘Yes, it’s like the movies but with commercials.’

He frowned at her without comprehension and looked at the lake again.

‘I often come here,’ he said again. ‘Whenever the doldrums of depression fall heavy on my countenance.’

‘You said that already.’

The old man looked as though he were awakening from a deep sleep.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘My husband sent me. My name is Polly Next.’

‘I come here when in vacant or pensive mood, you know.’

He waved a hand in the direction of the flowers.

‘The daffodils, you understand.’

Polly looked across at the bright yellow flowers, which rustled back at her in the warm breeze.

‘I wish my memory was this good,’ she murmured.

The figure in black smiled at her.

‘The inward eye is all I have left,’ he said wistfully, the smile leaving his stern features. ‘Everything that I once was is now here; my life is contained in my works. A life in volumes of words; it is poetic.’

He sighed deeply and added: ‘But solitude isn’t always blissful, you know.’

He stared into the middle distance, the sun sparkling on the waters of the lake.

‘How long since I died?’ he asked abruptly.

‘Over a hundred and fifty years.’

‘Really? Tell me, how did the revolution in France turn out?’

‘It’s a little early to tell.’

Wordsworth frowned as the sun went in.

‘Hello,’ he muttered, ‘I don’t remember writing that—‘

Polly looked. A large and very dark rain-cloud had blotted out the sun.

‘What do you—?’ she began, but when she looked around Wordsworth had gone. The sky grew darker and thunder rumbled ominously in the distance. A strong wind sprang up and the lake seemed to freeze over and lose all depth as the daffodils stopped moving and became a solid mass of yellow and green. She cried out in fear as the sky and the lake met; the daffodils, trees and clouds returning to their place in the poem, individual words, sounds, squiggles on paper with no meanings other than those with which our own imagination can clothe them. She let out one last terrified scream as the darkness swept on and the poem closed on top of her.