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“Then you must go to him,” Swinburne said. “And he must return you to 1863. For, to answer Mr. Wells's question, these alternate histories are proliferating and turning time into a cacophony. Imagine ten orchestras playing different tunes in the same theatre. The musicians would lose their way. Some would play the wrong melody by mistake. Musical expressions would be misplaced and mixed up. There'd be pandemonium. And that is what's happening. If this situation is allowed to continue unchecked, the borders between each version of reality will be breached. Diverse technologies will become horribly intermingled. People's personalities will be bent entirely out of shape. Events will develop in increasingly eccentric directions.”
“But how can I reverse the damage?” Burton asked.
“I haven't a clue! I'm just a poet! But you'll find a way.”
The king's agent looked at the opening in Swinburne's root. He didn't want to enter the cave; didn't want to see the grotto or the temple; and, especially, he didn't want to see Herbert Spencer.
He noticed a flower-strewn mound. It looked like a grave. The back of his mind seemed to flex, as if to divulge a secret, but the information didn't come-only deep sadness.
He addressed Wells: “Algy is right, Bertie. And that means I have to leave you now. I have to enter the temple.”
“I'm coming with you.”
“There's no need, and it might be dangerous.”
“I've seen this thing through with you from the start. I need to be there at the finish.”
Burton considered a moment, then nodded.
“Algy,” he said, turning back to the vermillion blossom. “I'm sorry this happened to you.”
“Sorry?” the poet responded. “Don't be sorry! This is everything I could have hoped for! My senses are alive, Richard! And whatsenses! I've never felt so engaged with life! So intoxicated by it! Finally, I feel the inexpressible poetry of sheer being!It's wondrous!”
Burton reached up and placed a hand on the side of the flower. “Then I'm happy for you, my friend.”
Swinburne's petals squeezed into a pucker, and the flower slid forward and placed a dewy kiss on the explorer's forehead.
Drawing away, Swinburne said, “Off you go.”
Burton reached up to his vehicle's saddle and lifted down his rifle. Seeing this, Wells stepped back to his harvestman and did the same. They walked together across the glade to the opening in the plant's root.
The king's agent looked back. The huge red flower had risen up into the sunbeam. Its petals were open. A trio of butterflies danced around it. He smiled and moved into the hollow limb.
Swinburne whispered:
“A wider soul than the world was wide,
Whose praise made love of him one with pride,
What part has death or has time in him,
Who rode life's lists as a god might ride?”
Sir Richard Francis Burton and Herbert George Wells walked through the hollow root and down into the grotto. They stepped out of an opening in the limb, crossed the chamber, and wriggled through the narrow tube in its wall to the shelf overlooking the vast cavern. After following the path down, they were met by the Batembuzi, who shepherded them to the Temple of the Eye.
The war correspondent gazed in disbelief at the monolithic edifice. “By gum,” he said. “It dwarfs even the pyramids!” He glanced nervously at their escorts. “It's fu
“Historically, priests have probably lived underground more often than any other segment of the world's population,” Burton commented.
Wells gave a dismissive grunt. “The power of faith over rationality.”
“I used to think they were the opposite ends of a spectrum,” Burton answered. “Now I'm not so certain.”
“Surely you're not resurrecting God, Richard?”
“No. But perhaps I'm resurrecting myself.”
“Ah. Faith in oneself. When confronting the unknown, perhaps that's the only thing one can truly hope for.”
“I certainly have nothing else.”
“You have my friendship.”
Burton looked at Wells, reached out, and patted his shoulder.
“Yes. I do.”
They trudged along the central thoroughfare, reached the steps to the temple entrance, climbed them, and passed through the tall double doors. The Batembuzi ushered them to the foot of the staircase then slunk away and were absorbed into the shadows.
“Are they even men?” Wells asked.
“I have no idea, but, according to legend, the Naga managed to breach the natural divide between species to produce half-human offspring.”
They ascended to the hall, walked between its statues, and stopped at the gold-panelled doors.
Burton gripped a handle and said, “The last of my lost memories are in here, Bertie. Do you really want to face them with me?”
“Most assuredly!”
The king's agent swung the door open and they entered the chamber beyond.
He recognised it instantly. Everything was as it had been fifty-five years ago, except: “The Eye has gone!” Burton pointed to the empty bracket at the tip of the upside-down pyramid.
“That's the guarantee that you'll return to 1863,” Wells replied, “for obviously you removed the diamond and took it to London.”
Burton added, “Where it was recovered by the Germans after the destruction of the city. I go back knowing that will happen, so why do I allow it?”
“You'll find out! I say! This must be your Mr. Spencer!” He pointed to the floor.
The clockwork man was lying beside the altar. His brass body was battered, scratched, and discoloured, its left leg bent out of shape and footless. What passed for his face was disfigured by a big indentation on the left side. The speaking apparatus had been removed from his head and was sitting on the nearby block, among the various instruments.
Burton pointed out the exposed babbage to Wells.
“Do you see the seven apertures? They're where the Cambodian diamonds were fitted. They contained Spencer's mind and-and-”
“What is it, Richard?” Wells asked, noticing his friend's pained expression.
“K'k'thyima! I was wrong, Bertie-it wasn't ever Spencer! It was a Naga priest named K'k'thyima. He used the power of the diamonds to send me into the future-but I don't understand; the diamonds are gone, so how can I return?”
Wells pointed to something on the altar.
“Perhaps that holds the answer.”
Burton looked and recognised the key that wound the clockwork man. He picked it up.
“Help me turn this thing onto its stomach,” he said, squatting beside the brass machine.
Wells did so, then watched as Burton inserted the key into a slot in the device's back and twisted it through a number of revolutions.
The two men stood back.
A ticking came from the figure on the floor. A click and a whir and a jerk of the footless leg, then it rolled over, sat up, and struggled upright. It looked at Sir Richard Francis Burton, saluted, and pointed at the altar.
A tremor ran through Burton's body. “Of course. I have black diamond dust tattooed into my scalp. It must be co
He hesitated. “I'm torn, Bertie. My instincts object, but have I any other choice but to go through with this?”
“All the evidence tells us that you did, and therefore will. Hmm. I wonder. Does Fate eliminate paradox? Could Fate be a function of the human organism?”
Burton climbed onto the altar and lay down. He rested his sniper rifle between his body and left arm. “If it is, then perhaps these multiple histories are disrupting it, making us prone to paradox after paradox.”
“Then you know what you have to do, Richard.”
“What?”
“You have to seal your own fate.”
Wells stood back as the clockwork man circled the altar, closing the manacles around Burton's wrists and ankles.