James Palmer - Shadows Through Time

“I take it this affair is concluded?”

Burton nodded. “It is. The Awakened have all recovered.” He glanced at a couple of policemen helping Goforth and Whiteside to their feet. The old man looked a decade older as he wobbled in their grasp. “They seem to have no memory of what transpired and should not be found at fault for their actions.”

Mycroft gave a derisive sniff. “And what of the Wold-Newton stones? The curator would like them returned.”

“They are affixed to those ghastly crowns,” said Burton, pointing. Mycroft Holmes ordered one of his assistants to retrieve them. The man held them close, causing Burton to suspect that the elder Holmes had no intention of returning them to the museum.

“And where are you associates?” asked Mycroft Holmes.

“Right here, Mr. Holmes sir,” said Herbert as he and Challenger came striding in, their clothes grimy with grease. “Hello, Captain,” he said, waving.

“You saved us all in the nick of time,” said Burton with a grin.

“What is he talking about?” asked Mycroft Holmes.

“We constructed a device that sent that Great Race lot packing,” rumbled Challenger. “And you’re welcome.”

“It is large enough to work anywhere in the city,” said Herbert. “Though we cannot be exactly sure of its range. It’s in the clock tower, tucked up beneath Big Ben.”

“What?” said Mycroft Holmes.

“Do not worry. It will not impede the normal operation of that venerable old timepiece,” said Herbert. “And it’s there in case it is needed again.”

This seemed to placate Mycroft Holmes, and he focused his attentions on the great black stone in the center of the floor.

“The Awakened dug this up in a field in Yorkshire,” said Burton. “One of them told me he and some associates buried it there in 1684 for later use. It functions as some sort of doorway for the deity they attempted to summon, this Yog-Sothoth.”

“And were they successful?”

“Almost,” said Burton.

Mycroft Holmes nodded. “You will be at the Tower at noon tomorrow for debriefing. I will make arrangements to get this stone removed.”

Burton felt flushed with angry heat, but he said nothing. He didn’t like the idea of someone like Mycroft Holmes taking custody of something that could be put to such malignant use, but there was nothing he could do about it. He wondered what other fiendish, esoteric items might be locked away in the Tower for “safekeeping.”

“Mr. Holmes,” said Abberline, stepping into view. “You’ll be pleased to know that this entire lot can’t remember a bloody thing.”

“Wonderful,” said Holmes almost casually as he turned to leave. “I trust you and your fellows to mop this up nice and tidy.” He glared at Burton. “I’ll see you tomorrow noon.” He exited the hall with his assistants.

“My, but he’s all business, isn’t he?” Abberline remarked when Mycroft Holmes was safely out of earshot.

“In his line of work, he has to be,” said Burton. To Herbert he said, “What took you so bloody long?”

“You said midnight,” said the Time Traveler, looking hurt. “I wanted to avoid any possibility of a paradox, remember?”

Burton glanced across the room at Swinburne, who appeared his old self, if rather un-inebriated. He had been joined not only by James Hunt, but Thomas Bendyshe, Charles Bradlaugh, and Richard Monkton Milnes, almost the full complement of Cannibals.

“I need a drink,” said Burton. “Who’s with me?”

“I’m with you in spirit,” said Abberline. “But I have several more hours of work straightening things out here. Have a pint for me.”

“Sounds bloody marvelous,” said Challenger. He clapped the Time Traveler on the shoulder. “Herbert?”

“Not this time, I’m afraid. I must make arrangements for my Time Machine. And by that, I mean taking a wrench to it and dismantling the damn thing.”

“Good man!” Burton exclaimed. “All right then. I’ll leave things in your capable hands, Frederick. Do come around tomorrow and let’s have a talk about it.”

“Certainly, Captain. Good night. Er, good morning!”

Burton placed his arm around Swinburne’s shoulders, and the group walked out of the Theosophic hall in search of the nearest pub. Burton smiled down at the diminutive poet, glad to have his friend back. He asked a few questions, which Burton tried to answer as best he could, but for the most part they spoke of other things, chiefly the poet’s desire to get as drunk as possible. It felt good. It felt normal, though Burton wondered for how long that feeling would last. The world was no longer as simple as he once thought it was, but he also knew, whatever challenges lay ahead, he would never have to face them alone. For he was but one facet of a greater All.

The Time Traveler awoke, his mind reeling as he struggled to remember where—and when—he was. He was in the throes of the strangest dream. He had been running through a nighttime London street with two other souls, something monstrous chasing them, a thing like jelly, with many eyes. He shook off the vestiges of the nightmare and rolled over, finding Weena lying soft and warm beside him beneath the covers he had brought on one of his trips from home. He sat up with a grin when he realized his bedclothes were over eight hundred thousand years old.

He eased out of the bed—which had also been brought piecemeal from the past and assembled here in this strange future time—and stood by the windowless portal of the dome-shaped building on the hill they had taken for themselves. The Moon shone bright and clear over the green landscape, the eternally warm breeze tickling his naked flesh. Below him the glistening Thames, now purified and stretched miles from its original course, snaked languidly across the lush landscape. To the Time Traveler’s right stood the great White Sphinx, a silent sentinel to a civilization now long dead, perhaps built by the last fully intelligent creatures on the face of the Earth.

“Herbert?”

Weena’s voice trilled like a bird. The Time Traveler turned at the sound, like the soft tinkling of a bell. “It is all right, darling. Go back to sleep.”

The tiny Eloi did as instructed, resting her small head back down on the pillow. She was asleep in seconds. The Time Traveler watched her for a long moment, smiling at the sound of his name that had come from her lips. He had accomplished much in six years working with Weena and the other Eloi. They could speak at least a little English, proving themselves to be much brighter than the livestock the awful Morlocks had bred them to be. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. It would take centuries to remake what man in his foolishness had undone, but centuries the Time Traveler had in abundance. In just six short months he had freed the Eloi from the Morlocks and taught them how to fend for themselves. It went against their breeding, but mankind had once again shown itself to be an endlessly adaptable species. By day they toiled for their survival, and by night they gathered in the central area of their main gathering place while Herbert read Shakespeare and Aristotle to them. He knew they lacked the intellectual capacity to understand even a tenth of it, but they loved to hear the cadence of the King’s English, and they parroted snippets of what they heard, adding it to their growing vocabulary. In another year, who knew? Perhaps they could put on one of the Bard’s plays, performing the lines themselves. But that was a project for a much later date.