James Palmer - Shadows Through Time

“You must fix the damage Nebogipfel has wrought,” the Morlock said.

Miss Hemlock glanced from Burton and Herbert to the Morlock, a pleading look on her face. “But I don’t know how. I don’t know where he’s been.”

“The stone knows,” the Morlock said. “It will show you the way. You also have the document Nebogipfel created.”

“The Map of Time!” Miss Hemlock pulled the sheaf of notes from her pocket. “I almost forgot.” She fastened the Time Machine back onto her wrist. “I still haven’t the foggiest idea of how to go about all this.”

“You must, my dear,” said Burton. “There are certain of the Old Ones who can take advantage of tears in the fabric of Time to seek access to this world. We’re counting on you.”

Miss Hemlock considered the explorer’s words, taking a deep, steadying breath to steel herself. “That sounds like a noble cause, but I still don’t have a home to return to,” she said.

“All of Time is your home,” said the Morlock. “You will thrive between the ticks of a second. Past and Future shall live within you, from the birth pangs of creation to the final heat death of the universe.”

“I am envious, my dear,” said Herbert. “You have a front row seat for all of human history, and beyond.”

Miss Hemlock gave the Time Traveler a thin smile as tears rolled down her cheeks. “Well, I hope I live up to everyone’s expectations. Time Travel is not something to take lightly.”

“Which is why we feel you are best suited for it,” said the Morlock.

“And what of you?” asked Burton, pointing at the Morlock. “What happens now?”

A group of Morlocks appeared, entering the room and taking Nebogipfel gently by the arms and moving with him toward the room’s entrance. He was silently muttering something, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings. Burton wondered if the madness he first developed on the lost continent of R’lyeh in the deep past had at last taken its final toll.

“We are going into the far future, where our presence will not disturb the current timestream. We have much exploring to do, in Space rather than Time. Nebogipfel will be safe with us, and will never again be allowed to travel through Time.”

“In that case,” said Herbert, “farewell. I hope you find whatever it is you seek. We are no longer enemies.”

The Morlock nodded to the Time Traveler and turned to leave, the whole, hairy mass of them—including a captive, catatonic Nebogipfel—flickering out of existence.

“Well, that’s quite a mess your doppelganger and the Morlocks left behind,” said Burton, glancing around. “We’ll have a devil of a time explaining this to Mycroft Holmes and the authorities.”

“Then I suppose I’d best be off,” said Miss Hemlock. She leaned in and gave Burton and Herbert a quick kiss on the cheek.

“I don’t suppose we’ll ever see you again,” said Burton.

Miss Hemlock shook her head. “Not if I do my job right. It was an honor meeting you, gentlemen.”

“And you as well, Miss Hemlock,” said Burton.

“Godspeed,” said the Time Traveler.

Miss Hemlock flicked the switch on her miniature Time Machine and was gone.

“Well,” said Herbert. “That’s that. With the Wold-Newton stones gone, Mycroft Holmes won’t be able to rule the roost from now till Judgment.”

“Hey,” a familiar voice called from the doorway. “There you are. I’ve been looking all over the bloody city for you two!”

“Frederick!” Burton called. “Good to see you, old man.”

Detective Inspector Abberline stumbled in the door and looked around at the strange apparatus erected along the room’s far wall. “What the devil is going on? All the bloody Morlocks just up and vanished. Even the dead ones! I never thought I’d miss tangling with the bloody shoggoths. Where’s your blasted doppelganger, Mr. Herbert?”

Burton and the Time Traveler exchanged bemused glances. “Everything is all tidied up here, Frederick,” said the explorer. “But I’ll explain everything as best as I can, over drinks at my club.”

“Does this explanation involve a lot of that time travel rot?”

“I’m afraid so,” said the explorer.

“Then I’m going to need a lot of drinks.”

When they arrived at Bartolini’s dining rooms on Fleet Street an hour and a half later, Burton realized that Miss Hemlock’s tidying up of the timestream had already begun.

“Richard!” said Algernon Charles Swinburne, hiccupping as he gestured to the explorer. Sitting nearby were Charles Bradlaugh, Richard Monckton Milnes, and Dr. James Hunt.

“Where have you been?” asked the poet. “We were just about to recite the Cannibal Catechism. There were bloody creatures running rampant through the streets moments ago. I figured you were on some daft errand for that arrogant foozler Mycroft Holmes.”

“Just finished, Algy,” said Burton. He blinked at the diminutive poet. “Algy? Is that really you?”

Swinburne laughed, hiccupping again. He swiped a shock of his curly red hair from his eyes. “My Aunt Petunia’s pretty lace bonnet! Of course it’s me? Who bloody else?”

Burton and Abberline exchanged wary glances. “And you’re…all right?”

“Of course! Why wouldn’t I be? I’m in my cups, surrounded by good meat and drink. Especially drink.” He drained a glass down his neck. “My hat, Richard. You look like you’ve seen a bloody apparition. It’s that gibface Holmes chap, isn’t it? Poor fellow. Come, sit and regale us of your latest tale of derring-do. And while you’re at it, tell us how we may hire the elder Holmes’ younger brother, so we may solve the mystery of why Mycroft is such a bloody fop. Hey hey!”

That got a laugh out of everyone, including Burton, who didn’t have the heart to tell Swinburne that the younger Holmes was dead, and who for the moment gave silent thanks to Miss Hemlock for restoring his friend, and for wrangling all the myriad strands of Time. For the first time in a long while, Richard Francis Burton looked forward to his future. A wide open future that was, for the moment, blissfully unknown.

The Time Traveler watched the sun come up over the Palace of Green Porcelain. Behind him in their hut, Weena moaned softly. He turned to watch her, noticing the swollen curve of her belly as she slept.

“Hello, Herbert.”

The Time Traveler spun around, heart leaping into his throat. “Bloody hell, Captain Burton! Must you keep doing that?”

“I’m sorry. I can’t judge distances between future landmarks.”

“It’s all right. What can I do for you?”

“Just checking,” said the explorer, removing his topper and mopping sweat from his brow with a silk handkerchief. “Seeing how things turned out.”

“Well, I can only assume they are much the same,” said the Time Traveler. “It doesn’t look like all of our mucking about through Time saved humanity, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“As a wise man once told me, humanity has had its time in the sun,” mused Burton with a grin. “No, I was just making sure everything had been put to right again.”

“The Sphinx?”

“The Sphinx,” said Burton.

The two men walked down the sloping hill, lush grass of a kind Burton had never seen crunching under his booted feet. The day was young and it was already getting hot. “I hope you know what you’re doing here,” said the explorer. “No one appointed you humanity’s savior, you know. Or its martyr.”

The Time Traveler chuckled. “Whatever are you talking about, Captain?”

“Aren’t you trying to restart humanity?”

His chuckle became a full-blown guffaw. “Oh no, Captain. Nothing quite so grandiose. I am merely making sure Weena and her people are safe. That and, uh…” His voice trailed off.