The Map of Chaos (77 page)

Eric's eyes popped out of his head.

“Good Lord, then you are . . . Arthur Conan Doyle!”

“Yes, my boy, at least I think I am . . . ,” Doyle replied, still staring intently at the nearby buildings.

“I can't believe it!” exclaimed the young lad excitedly. “I'm a great admirer of your work, Mr. Doyle! You see, I . . . this is just a temporary job. Actually, I'm a writer, too . . . Well, not a real one, of course,” he added in a modest voice. “I'm only an amateur . . . I'm writing my first novel, although, now that I am only able to write in my spare time, I doubt I'll ever finish it—”

“Young man,” Doyle interrupted in an authoritative voice, “it is up to you whether you invent excuses or stories. I created Sherlock Holmes at my medical practice, where I had no patients. A real writer!” he snorted. “I wish I knew what the devil that is. Why don't you think of yourself as a make-believe attendant?”

Eric's face broke into a smile.

“Yes . . .” He nodded thoughtfully. “In fact, that is precisely how I feel, as if everything that takes place in my life should be happening differently, as if this weren't my real life . . .” Then he stood squarely in front of Doyle. “Sir, may I send you the manuscript I am working on so that you can give me your opinion?”

Responding to Doyle's alarmed look, Murray came to the rescue.

“If you want a famous author's opinion about your work, lad, I suggest you send it to H. G. Wells here.” He pointed a thumb at the diminutive gentleman in his nightclothes, to whom Eric had been too polite to pay much attention. “I've never known anyone more sincere in his opinions or more discreet when it comes to giving them.”

“Oh . . . Mr. Wells,” the guard exclaimed. “I . . . I beg your pardon, I didn't recognize you in your . . . ahem . . . Naturally, I am also a fervent admirer of yours . . . I have read all your novels several times, in particular
The Island of Doctor Moreau,
which is my favorite—” He broke off suddenly and screwed up his eyes exaggeratedly. “That's odd: I think I had a dream about it last night, though I don't remember what exactly . . .”

“Perhaps the beast folk were chasing you through the museum?” Wells suggested nonchalantly.

The attendant looked at him openmouthed.

“Yes, that's exactly right. H-How did you know?”

Wells played it down with a wave of his hand. “It is a fairly common dream among, er . . . budding writers and museum staff.”

“Other parts of that dream are coming back to me . . . ,” Eric went on, slurring his words as if he had just emerged from a long bout of drinking. “Ouroboros, my dragon, was in it, too, setting the whole neighborhood alight from the air, and . . .”

“Ouroboros?” the man with the horsey face inquired.

“Yes, that's the title of my novel:
T
he Worm Ouroboros
.” Eric grinned timidly. “It's a Scandinavian myth: a sort of dragon or snake that devours its own tail, symbolizing eternal rebirth. You see, I've always been fascinated by the Norse myths, and my novel is an attempt to imitate—”

“Yes, yes,” the man with the metal hand cut in, exchanging a meaningful glance with the others, who nodded as one. “I think you should return to your post, lad. The museum will be opening soon, and I expect you have things to do . . .” He placed his prosthesis on the young man's shoulder and shepherded him gently inside while Eric observed his metal hand nervously. “Ah, and don't be alarmed if you come across a few officers from the Yard in the museum taking notes and samples . . . It is simply a routine inspection, nothing of any importance, though we trust we can count on you to be discreet. If you prove you are able keep quiet, I'll bring you Mr. Doyle's and Mr. Wells's details, so that you can send them your manuscript . . . all right?”

Eric nodded and, after one last dazed glance at the remarkable group, entered the museum.

“Remember, you are only living one of your many possible lives. There are others. An infinite number!” Doyle shouted after him.

“And for the love of God, if you want to be a writer, shorten your name!” added Wells.

When the doors closed, Murray remarked, “That's incredible! He doesn't remember anything. He thinks it was all a dream! And his writer's fantasies also appeared to him! Just like my Captain Shackleton!”

“And my Sherlock Holmes!” exclaimed Doyle.

“And I saw Martian tripods,” Wells chimed in, “and, as I told you, when Rhys was chasing us, I even conjured—”

“Well, I'm damned,” Doyle interrupted. “That means everything we imagine exists somewhere!”

“But . . . where are all those creatures now? And what happened to the damaged buildings? And the dead bodies?” said Jane. “Look at everyone: they are all strolling along calmly . . . no one seems to remember a thing!”

“It's true,” said Murray. “Does that mean the end of the world didn't happen?”

“But we remember it,” Jane reflected. “And that young man dreamt . . .”

Sinclair asked them to calm down and turned to Dr. Ramsey.

“Doctor, if I understood correctly what you were telling me on our way up from the Chamber, you come from the same world as Mrs. Lansbury, a world far in advance of ours. Perhaps you can shed some light on this matter.”

“Yes, Doctor, what is going on?” Clayton interjected. “Clearly the Executioner managed to prevent the infection, and now everything is as it would have been had that dog never bitten Mr. Wells. And yet all of us remember perfectly what happened just now.”

“And we also remember Baskerville, and the evil Rhys . . . ,” said Wells. “But if the epidemic never took place, how could we have met them? And, more important, why are my wife and I still in our nightclothes?”

Ramsey gave them a paternal smile.

“Mrs. Wells, gentlemen . . . I don't think any of you fully appreciate what a wonderful, magical universe you live in. Although that is not your fault. In fact, the reason your universe is so special is precisely because none of its inhabitants understands it in its entirety. You live in a fascinating universe where everything is possible, where everything you dream or imagine exists somewhere . . . and perhaps at this very moment in another place, someone is also dreaming you or imagining you . . . Did the end of the world happen? Yes. Did it not happen? The answer is also yes.”

“But both things can't be true at the same time!” protested Murray.

“Of course they can, Gilliam! Didn't you hear what the doctor said?” exclaimed Doyle, a feverish look in his eyes. “Everything is possible! Everything! That means somewhere all the realities we encountered and experienced exist exactly as we remember them, and because we remember them. All those lost worlds: the epidemic, Baskerville's adventures, Rhys's odyssey, the Day of Chaos . . . But the world we are living in now, where none of that happened, where we managed to prevent the epidemic and therefore its devastating consequences, could also be in the process of being remembered or recounted by someone at this very moment. It also
exists
 . . . Perhaps we are all a memory of a memory of a memory, and so on until infinity.”

“What the devil does that mean?” Murray muttered.

“Perhaps you are right, Mr. Doyle.” Ramsey nodded with satisfaction. “Existence is no more than an endless, repeated imitation of itself, like that snake devouring its own tail . . .”

“Or one of those things that simply happens because it
can
happen . . .” Jane added with a mysterious smile.

Wells looked at her in bewilderment.

“And why are we the only ones who seem to remember anything?” asked Clayton.

“You have all been in contact with the Supreme Knowledge. You have understood the profound truth of what has been happening. You have become Observers and, as a result, in some sense foreigners in your own universe, at least for a short time. However, for them,” said Ramsey, pointing at the passersby in front of the museum, “the Day of Chaos never existed, because they have never stopped belonging to this world, in which that day never actually happened. How could they remember something that never happened? But you have privileged minds, minds that are practiced in the art of imagination, minds that are open to every possibility, and that have allowed you, for a few moments, to become spectators and actors simultaneously. That is why you can't forget. You have seen what
didn't happen,
but also what
might have happened,
and for that very reason
it did happen
 . . .” Ramsey looked at them one by one, his eyes radiant with joy, searching among their expressions of puzzlement and concentration for a glimmer of excitement that matched his own. He sighed, pointing vehemently toward the door of the museum. “Like that young attendant. He possesses a mind similar to yours, which is why he can sense that he has other lives. Who knows, perhaps deep down he is aware that there are parallel worlds where things have turned out differently for him. But clearly, thanks to having a mind capable of imagining other possible realities, he is able to remember what happened, though only in the form of a dream, because, unlike you, he hasn't been touched by the Supreme Knowledge. Do not attempt to understand this. Be content . . . simply to experience it. Therein lies the true beauty of your world. The supremacy of the emotions, magic, mystery . . . Today you were touched by the Supreme Knowledge . . . But tell me, can you say you feel happier than any of those people quietly strolling along? Of course not. The thirst for knowledge, the tyranny of reason . . . those are the viruses that destroyed my world and almost caused us to destroy yours. Since the dawn of our civilization, we on the Other Side tried so stubbornly to scrutinize every mystery around us that all we achieved was to speed up the disintegration of our universe . . . I am convinced that the true fabric of existence, the final layer below the subatomic level, is the imagination. And whoever tries to fathom its enigma destroys it forever. Some of us have finally learned this lesson, and we will have to teach it to our own civilization, now that we will be reborn in one of your worlds. Perhaps we will need your help, my friends. The help of those of you who have not forgotten . . .”

“You can always count on the help of Scotland Yard's Special Branch in this world, Doctor Ramsey,” Sinclair assured him.

“Thank you, Captain. Inspector Clayton, you told me just now that Sir William Crookes designed those splendid columns you used to imprison Rhys.” Clayton nodded. “Good. I believe I have some unfinished business with my old friend, whom I let down in the past, and to whom I have a great deal of explaining to do—a very great deal.” Ramsey looked absentmindedly up at the sky. “There is so much to be done! The Church of Knowledge should change its name, perhaps to the Church of Dreams . . .”

Clayton cleared his throat.

“Speaking of dreams, Doctor. When I fainted in the Chamber of Marvels . . . well, perhaps I ought to tell you first that during my fainting fits I frequently dream about a world where . . . well, it is difficult to explain. The point is that in that world the Day of Chaos also took place today . . . and I, er . . . I told
someone
from there about everything that was happening here.”

“I am aware of your dreams, Inspector.” Ramsey grinned. “And believe me, there is much I have to tell you about the important part they played in the final victory. When I assert that the ability to dream is what saved your world, I assure you I am not simply using a poetic image . . . Rest assured I shall happily to explain it all to you, as well as the excellent use we made of an old blood sample of yours . . .” Clayton's bewilderment caused Ramsey's smile to broaden. “But there will be plenty of time for that . . . What do you want to know now, my dear chap? Whether that
someone
will remember everything because she had been in touch with the Supreme Knowledge? Whether the curse of your fainting fits is in some way related to the cronotemia virus? Whether you will be able to carry on jumping mentally to that other world now that there has been no epidemic?”

“I . . . well, I would be glad if you answered all those questions, but what I really wanted to know is . . . whether an Executioner could take me to the world of my dreams. In body as well as in mind, I mean.”

Ramsey looked straight at Clayton for a moment and then shook his head regretfully.

“My dear chap, whatever world
she
ends up in, she will always be a monster; you know that. And I am afraid that if you went to any of her worlds, your own nature would become as monstrous as hers . . . I'm sorry, but I don't believe you can ever be happy together, because the worlds you come from are too different. Perhaps the love between you can exist only in dreams.”

If what Ramsey said wounded Clayton, no one could have detected it from the slight flutter of his eyelids. All of a sudden, Doyle stepped forward.

“But it would be possible to take someone to another world that is similar to this one—isn't that so?” he said, grabbing Murray's arm and thrusting him forward.

Ramsey nodded. After another gentle prod from Doyle, Murray looked at him, puzzled, for a few moments before suddenly reacting.

“J-Just a minute . . . ,” he stammered. “Are you saying that . . . if I asked one of those giants in black to take me to a world where my beloved is still alive . . . he would? Is that really possible?”

“We can try, Mr. Murray, we can try, although . . . ,” Ramsey started to say.

“Did you hear that, George?” Murray interrupted, his face flushing. “And you, Jane? I can search for the Emma in the mirror . . . I can find her, Arthur!”