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The Time Traveller's Servant

By: Hot_Sister



The Time Traveller's Servant

Author's Note

HG Wells's story "The Time Machine" was published in 1895 - a tale about an erudite inventor who builds a device to travel in time. My work is based on that: in fact, it puts the heroine of my tale - Daisy Potter - into the beginning of HG Well's original story. To do so I pinched the start of his story in terms of the description of his device and some of the characters to whom he demonstrates it. I fully acknowledge the genius of HG Wells and his work, and apologise to any who might be offended by my tinkering.

Around this central core, however, the work is all mine. It expands on the character of the inventor, explains his theories in my words, and it superimposes Daisy into the story to the point where she becomes the major character in her quest to right a tragedy. 

This work is not erotic - if you want that, please look elsewhere! It is a love story: of the tragedy of a love snatched away before its time, and the yearnings of a simple girl who discovers something of herself and others in an attempt to bring it back. 

I hope you enjoy it. 

Hot_Sister. November 2011. 

Prologue - England, March 1893

Daisy Potter sat beside her husband on the high seat of the carriage, dressed in her finest clothes and brimming with excitement at what the day would bring. It was Wednesday, and they were heading into the market. Rory Potter sat tall and straight beside her, his hair slicked down and his stiff collar white against his skin, and his blue eyes sparkled as he turned and looked at her. 

'What were you thinking of buying, Daisy?'

She smiled up at him, happy that he was so ebullient. This outing was a rare treat indeed, for Wednesday was normally a working day and there was scant money for luxuries - but her employer had asked them to go into the market, and she had emptied coins from their little clay piggy-bank and found there was enough for a new frock and perhaps some material as well. Rory, who was the head Syce for the estate, had asked the foreman if he could exercise the chestnut mare, and so here they were, heading into town on a beautiful spring morning, the paintwork of the little carriage shining and the traces on the harness jingling like tambourines. 

'I don't really know, Rory. I was thinking of something with bright colours, perhaps, with the Spring dance coming up.'

He nodded, his eyes on her face. 'I think that would suit you nicely, Daisy - it would set off the colour of your hair.' He glanced at the thick tresses set that escaped from under her bonnet to curl over her collar, dark brown and glossy in the morning sun, and he smiled as he remembered rising from her bed this morning, gazing down at her as she slept, her lashes dark against the rosy dusk of her skin. He remembered last night, too, and he laughed with the sheer exuberance of being so lucky in love. 

They were passing the Fotheringale's farm, the neat white buildings set back from the road, almost hidden from view by the tall hedge of yew and honeysuckle. Beyond it was Hunter's Hill, the winding road disappearing from their view before meandering down the other side of the crest and thence into the township. The hedgerows were full of life - the bright splashes of primroses and daffodils and the sparkle of dew in the early morning sun. The horse's hooves rang on the road's surface, a steady beat that was comforting with its dependability, and she could feel the warmth of Rory's hand on her sleeve, even though the material of her coat. She felt him grip her arm, his voice animated as he spoke.

'Hello, what do we have here?'

Daisy looked ahead to see what had captured his interest. It was a Brewer's Dray, a huge cart loaded with barrels of ale, and it was stuck on one side of the road. It was canted over at an angle and Daisy could see that the two wheels on one side had run off the hard surface and sunk into the soft earth, close to the edge of an embankment that fell away steeply from the side of the road. The whole thing was in danger of tilting over, which would have been disastrous for the two beautiful Clydesdale horses still in harness. The driver was using his whip on them, and they were straining to pull the heavy load forward, its wheels slipping and skidding on the steep surface, dragging a furrow in the soft mud of the verge.

Rory brought the buggy alongside and reigned in the chestnut with a hearty 'Whoa, girl!' There was a lather of sweat on the Clydesdale's coats, steaming in the fresh morning air, and the froth bubbled around their mouths. They stood with their heads down, and Rory could see that they were almost blown. 

He handed the carriage traces to Daisy. 'Just move on a bit, love,' he said, 'and I'll hop down here and see if I can help.'

He went up to the two horses, touching their velvet muzzles, calming them a little. There was a young man on the driver's bench, and Rory called up to him 'I'd not be hitting them any more, son,' he said. 'They're just about knackered.'

The driver was petulant, his voice high and reedy and his lips soft and wet. 'I have to get this load to market.' 

'You'll go nowhere if you keep using the whip.' Rory stared up at him. 'Hold off a moment, and I'll look to see what can be done.' He patted the nearest horse and then moved down the side of the Dray, his feet slipping and sliding. The mud coated the two nearside wheels, thick and black and glutinous, and it clung to Rory's shoes and brushed against his clean trousers. He could see Daisy a little way beyond, the traces gathered in her slim hand, staring back at him with concern. He held onto a spoke of one of the massive wheels and peered underneath. The whole cart was twisted, the two bogged wheels at different levels, and he could hear the great oak trusses that supported the iron axles creaking under the strain. He glanced forward, observing the fall of the embankment ahead and how it dipped slightly before flattening out, and he thought that if they could drive through the dip there was a chance of pulling the front wheel back onto the road. 

He climbed back onto the road and spoke to Daisy. 'I need you to take the reigns on the Dray,' he explained, 'and to ease the horses forward when I call.'

She nodded, climbing down as he took off his coat and laid it on the carriage's seat. 'Don't let them jerk,' he said, 'move them nice and steady. I'll get the driver to hold the traces and guide them up away from the bank.'

She regarded him, her face worried. 'Where will you be, Rory?'

'I'll ease the back wheel a little, as best I can. It's important that it doesn't slip further down the bank.' He smiled. 'I'm afraid I'll get a bit muddy.'

She shook her head in dismissal. 'No matter...but you be careful, y'hear?'

He nodded and reached forward to touch her on the shoulder. Later she was to remember that moment of intimacy - the white of his teeth against the dark lustre of his skin; the marvelous blue of his eyes and the web of laugher lines at their corners, and the curl of his blonde hair against his collar as he bent to kiss her on the mouth, his lips warm and soft; and then he laughed with the joy of being alive on such a glorious day, and he went forward to speak to the driver. 

Daisy flicked the reigns, and saw the muscles in the two great backs in front of her bunching as they took the strain. The driver was on the road, guiding the horses away from the bank, and she could hear Rory's shouts of encouragement from somewhere behind her. For a moment nothing happened, then the Dray began to move, still canted over but gradually correcting, the wooden structure squealing under the strain. The front wheel entered the dip and was pulled up out of it, towards the road's surface, and the cart began to move a little faster. She was urging the horses on, flicking the reigns and shouting encouragement, and she felt the rear wheel tilting further as it entered the dip. Only a few feet more and they would be clear, and she shouted again, her voice shrill. 'Gettup, there! Ha! Ha!' 

And in that moment the horses reared up, spooked by something, and the cart rolled backwards sharply. The rear axle supports parted like a gunshot, the sound loud and clear in the crisp morning air, and the wheel collapsed. The back of the Dray titled violently as its underside fell onto the soft earth beneath, and the wheel was flung clear, twisting upwards as it moved. Its steel-shod rim struck Rory just under his knees, shattering both shins, and he was flung ten feet down the bank to land on his back with his arms outstretched like a crucifix. The impact knocked his breath from his body and he lay there for a moment in astonishment before the pain from his shattered legs reached his brain. He could see the blue of the sky above him, and the great wooden body of the Dray canted towards him, massive from this low perspective; and he could see Daisy turning to see what had happened, her face white with shock and her mouth open, her lips moving without any sound. 

For a moment all was still, and then he saw the great barrels of ale break free from their straps and tumble out of the tray, cartwheeling towards him in slow motion. The first missed him by inches, the rush of wind from its passing swirling his hair, but the second struck him squarely in the chest. For just a second he retained awareness - hearing the brittle crack of his ribs and then feeling the enormous weight of the cask, a sense of overwhelming force driving him deep into the rank, muddy earth. There was a sudden spurt of blood in his mouth, and then just a moment of agonized awareness, of overwhelming regret at leaving her thus. His blue eyes blinked twice and then opened widely, staring upwards at the bright spring sky, their light and vitality dulled forever by the dark swirling envelope of death. 

February 1895. 

Daisy Potter stood before the big oak desk and looked at the man behind it. He was tall and his hair was slightly unkempt, curling over the collar of his shirt, and his clothes could have done with pressing. The hands on the polished wood surface had long, sensitive fingers stained by nicotine or perhaps some other substance, and the arms on which they were suspended were thin. His face was broad, the forehead slightly bulging, and his lips were finely sculptured under the thin grey moustache. But it was his eyes that drew her attention - they were gunmetal grey, as clear as water in a mountain stream and sparkling with interest and intelligence as they regarded her.

'Won't you sit down, Miss Potter.' The voice was soft and measured. She could not imagine it ever being raised in anger. 

She settled into the proffered chair and looked around. The room was clearly his study and was desperately untidy, with every surface covered with books and papers piled high on one another. The long mustard coloured drapes on the windows behind the desk were stained, hanging limply like old laundry, and the glass behind them was smeared and indistinct. To her left a log fire crackled in the grate, giving the room a cheery outlook despite its untidiness, and one or two pictures hung unevenly on the walls.  

She turned her gaze back to the man to find him regarding her keenly, his eyes full of amusement at her presumption. 'What do you see?' he asked her.

'I beg your pardon, Sir?'

He smiled at her. 'I saw you looking around, Miss Potter...tell me what you deduce. I'm interested in your perceptions.'

She gathered her thoughts. 'Well, Sir, I can see that this is your study. I would say you are a learning man.' She paused, glancing at his face to see if she was offending, but he only nodded. 'You have many books, but only refer to a few of them as the dust on their shelves is undisturbed. You spend many hours in here, for there are three oil lamps to give light. You mostly spend time behind your desk, not in other parts of the room -' 

'How do you know that?'

'Because the carpet is threadbare between your desk and the door, and the chair you sit on is very worn.'

He smiled again. 'Exactly right. What else do you see?'

She shrugged slightly, looking around the room to elicit more clues: the ashtray and the empty balloon glass, and the sagging chair before the fireplace, the only one not occupied by books. 'You smoke cigars lightly and have an occasional glass of brandy, I would say, Sir, and sometimes you sit before the fire and consider things.'

He nodded again. 'Can you tell my line of work?'

'The books are weighty, and there are many papers here that suggest that you read extensively, and that keeping up with matters is important. I see no medical models, nor pictures of anatomy though. I would say that you are...' she pondered a moment, '...a Researcher, perhaps?'

He laughed, his teeth white and even. 'Almost right. I am a Scientist, and I have spent all my life researching.' He regarded her with interest. 'And you are seeking a position as a housekeeper, Miss Potter, and yet you have a keen eye and bright intelligence. Tell me a little about yourself.'

Daisy cleared her throat and regarded him. 'Well, Sir. My mother was a housemaid for many years - that is, before the rheumatism put her at home, Sir - and I helped out a bit where I could. I worked as under-housemaid in Lord Envoy's employment for a while, before he passed away, and then -' 

'Yes, yes, I can see all that from your references. But what of schooling, and education?'

'Very little, Sir, I'm afraid. My father passed away when we were little, and my mother had three children to raise. We all worked from very young.' She looked down at her lap for a moment. 'I love to read, when I can.'

'What do you read?'

She smiled again. 'Almost anything. I love to read stories of great people...of what they have done, but I'll read anything else, too.'

The man regarded her. She was a pretty girl, of that there was no doubt, of average height - that is to say, about five foot eight, and of slim build. Her face was perfectly symmetrical and of oval shape, with brown eyes that seemed bigger than they should be. Her nose was slightly upturned and her lips could only be described as rosebud, full and luscious and slightly curved at the corners to give her a sense of laughter and fun. Her hair was tied back under her bonnet, dark brown and shining with health, and her sombre dress could not hide her youthful figure that curved its way down to her slim and shapely ankles. He wondered why she was not married, or perhaps engaged.

'May I ask if you have an attachment, Miss Potter?'

He could see the colour rising in her cheeks, a dusty rose hue that darkened the smooth lustre of her cheeks. She thought of Rory, with his blue eyes and sense of fun, staring up at her as the life ebbed out of him. She shook her head - the past was the past, and nothing could bring it back. 'No, Sir,' she said softly. 'There was someone, but he was taken from me a year or two back.' 

'I see - I'm very sorry.' He swiveled his chair around and looked out of the grimy windows for a few moments, his broad head in silhouette, and then he turned back. 

'The employers you have worked for all had large households, Miss Potter. I don't have that luxury. It would just be you and the cook, you see. I need someone to help her, and to do the cleaning and perhaps wait at the table a bit when I have guests. Can you do that?'

She smiled down at him, a dimple appearing each side of her mouth and her face lighting up. 'Why, yes Sir, of course I could.'

'And when could you start?'

'Now, if you wanted.'

He nodded. 'Very well. Why don't we try you out? A month on probation, say, on seven shillings a week and your board. You may have two afternoons a week off, as well as Sunday. We'll talk again after the month to see what is to be done then. Does that suit you?'

She nodded, her eyes shining. 'Yes, Sir. Thank you very much.'

He smiled at her enthusiasm. 'That's good, then. Well, let's go and see cook, and she can explain your duties.' He rose to his feet, coming out from behind the desk and moving lightly across the floor. 'There is one thing, Daisy...if I might call you that. I don't just do research, I...invent things. I have a laboratory, which is through that door opposite.' He indicated a green door off to one side of the hallway, the paint dull with age and the handle tarnished from many hands. 'You are expressly forbidden to go in there unless I am with you - do I make myself clear?'

'Yes, Sir.' She wondered what was behind the door that was so important to him. 

'Very well. Now, come and meet cook.'

And so it was that Daisy Potter came to work for the Professor, as she came to call him. The month of her probation passed in a flash and she was hired on a full time basis as they suited each other admirably, which was odd considering their different temperaments. He was absent minded, untidy, unpunctual and sometimes obscure in his speech - whilst she was none of those things: but she loved the informality in the work, and the feeling that everything she did was not only appreciated, but actually needed as well. 

Daisy felt empowered for the first time in her life. Born into a poor working class family, economic reality and social stigma would have condemned her to a life of labour. Her early years in service had been a torment: a relentless routine of cleaning and fetching, of mindless chores and long hours. It would have been hard for even those of limited intelligence, but for Daisy it was especially difficult as it constrained her so much. Her marriage to Rory had been the one light in her life, as he was a bright and ambitious man and together they may have climbed out of the spiral of poverty: but even that chance was snatched away. 

Now here was the opportunity for learning, and she seized it with both hands. Slowly at first, and then with growing confidence, she soaked in learning and knowledge. The Professor's library became hers, and she began to catalogue it so that its contents were known. And she read books: a few autobiographies - mainly of scientific people, and then journals and papers that scientists had published, extolling theories or reporting on results. Much of the jargon was difficult at first, but the Professor was always willing to explain something and in time she could follow some of the logic and marvel at the fecundity of those that wrote them. She would dust the many displays in his laboratory - always with the Professor present - and would learn their names and their purpose, and she would help him with his experiments from time to time and carefully record each result in her neat round handwriting. 

Her mind, unfettered by much previous learning, expanded rapidly. She had a natural curiosity that caused her to ask why things were as they were, and often she found the answers unsatisfactory. She and the Professor would sometimes spend an hour or two in the evenings together, discussing a new paper or perhaps working together in the laboratory, their minds teasing out a problem. His mind was methodical and ordered, with logic as his weapon of choice - but hers was as free as a bird flitting from one branch to another, asking questions that she thought were obvious but which often got right to the heart of an issue to question its very validity. 

And so, with time, she became more than just a housemaid - she was his sounding board, his research assistant and, although he would not have admitted it, his companion to share thoughts and ideas in the evenings after the day's work was done. 

One evening she was sitting with the Professor in his study. He had offered her a little sherry and she had accepted, in deference to his habit of taking a small glass of brandy with his cigar. They sat in companionable silence for some moments, the crackle of the fire loud in the room and the smoke from his cigar swirling upwards to the yellowed cornice above their heads. 


The Time Traveller's Servant



'Daisy,' he said after some moments. 'Do you believe that it is possible to travel in time?'

She regarded him with some astonishment. 'You mean, to put yourself into the future, but keep your age as it is now?'

He nodded, his eyes on her face. 'Or to the past, I suppose. Any point in time, forwards or back.'

Daisy thought about it. 'I hadn't given it any thought, Professor. My mind tells me that it is impossible, as it is a dimension outside of those we consider to be physical, but...'

He interrupted her. 'I assume you mean the three dimensions that we normally use to consider and measure our world - length and breadth and thickness?'

She nodded. 'It is easy to imagine traveling along any of those dimensions, since all of them may be thought of as lines drawn on a piece of paper or marked out on the ground, along which we can move. I can travel the length of ground from here to Oxford, or to Reading, and I could even travel a distance under the ground or up in the air, if someone were to build a tunnel or a tower. But to travel through time...'

He laughed. 'There is nothing wrong with your reasoning, Daisy,' he said, 'it is exactly what most of us would think - because we do not regard time as a physical dimension, that we can touch or see. And yet I would argue that it is, because we can measure and plot it.' He smiled at her. 'It is a dimension, just like length and breadth and thickness - only our perception of it is different.'

Daisy shook her head. 'I do not understand how you can consider time to be a physical dimension, Professor.'

He leaned forward and seized a pencil from the table adjacent, and his fingers moved rapidly to mark several dots on the flyleaf of the book on his lap. 'Consider this, Daisy. If I read the temperature of the air at various moments of time - say, on every hour, then I can draw a line between them that marks the change of temperature over that period.' He joined the points and held the graph up for her to see. 'Is that not a dimension on a piece of paper, just as, say, a map of the road from here to Oxford is?'

Daisy regarded his work doubtfully. 'I suppose it is,' she said at length. 

'And does it not represent time, at least in this axis?' He drew his finger along the bottom of the line, and watched as the girl beside him nodded. 'And if we can represent the passage of time in this way, should we not be able to travel along that dimension, just as we can travel along a line between two other points - say, London and Oxford?'

'But we have no means of doing so,' she said.

He leaned forward. 'You are right, Daisy, but consider this. To travel the road of distance, which is one of the physical dimensions that we understand so clearly, you would use your feet, or perhaps a horse or carriage. That is what we humans are equipped to do. There was a time that we could not fly upwards, nor burrow downwards if we wished to travel along the road of thickness, if we consider that aspect to be such a dimension.' He paused, watching to see that she followed his argument, and then continued. 'But that has now changed. We can go upwards, now that balloons are available to us, and we have tunnels in which we can burrow under the ground - and I have no doubt that one day someone will develop a machine to go under the sea with us inside it.' 

He leaned forward and flicked the firm grey ash of his cigar into a nearby ashtray. 'So the ability to move on these lines of dimension requires only the means to do so - an air machine or a submersible to conquer some of the physical dimensions, or....a time machine to move along the dimension of time.'

Daisy stared at him. 'But such a machine is impossible!'

He smiled. 'I thought so too, until I began to reason with the problem. And now I think I have it.'

'You mean, you have designed such a machine?'

He nodded, his eyes bright with excitement. 'Better than that. I have built one.'

'May I see it?'

The Professor shook his head. 'Tomorrow, Daisy. I am entertaining some gentlemen to dinner, and I wish to demonstrate what I have done. Please make sure that you are present in the room after the meal, for I would like you to hear what is said and to see what I will show them,' and he would say no more on the issue, although Daisy was bursting with impatience to know what he had done. 

And so it was, the following evening, that Daisy found herself waiting on a select group of the Professor's friends and colleagues in the cosy warmth of his dining room. She had met many of them before at previous occasions when they called to play cards or to share a glass, and she looked around the table. There was the Doctor, his round face beaming and his cheeks rosy with the flush of the wine he had drunk, and Filby to his right, his red hair shining in the flickering light of the fire and his eyes like those of a ferret - bright with intelligence and angry with disagreement. The Psychologist was there too, mopping his bald head with a spotted handkerchief and peering over the half moon glasses perched on his nose, and the Provincial Mayor, a sombre man not inclined to joviality. On the far side of the table were two new faces, a young man who said little; and another, who Daisy took to be some kind of reporter. 

The meal was done and the plates were cleared, and the men leaned back in their chairs and sipped at their brandy. Soon the room was thick with the fragrance of cigar smoke and Daisy saw the Professor glance across at her. It was time.

'Gentlemen,' he said, waving his cigar expansively so that the tip glowed red with the passage of air. 'Aside from enjoying your erudite company, I asked you here this evening to discuss a project that I have been working on, and which I believe may be of some interest to you.'

Daisy could see the interest in their eyes, for the Professor was known for conversation that challenged the mind - particularly after good food and fine wine. She watched as they leaned forward, their eyes on his face as he spoke. 

'You will need to follow me carefully,' he said, 'for I shall have to challenge one or two ideas that are seeped in acceptance.' He drew on his cigar for a moment, watching the faces around him. 'The geometry that you learned at at school, for example, does not fit with what I have discovered...' 

She listened avidly as he took them to the idea of time as a fourth dimension, drawing out each point much as he had with her the day before. She could see that Filby was in disagreement with the principle but the Professor's logic was irrefutable, and the others were nodding in agreement, but without knowing where he was taking them. It was strange how the mood of the room was changing, she thought, from a jovial after dinner discussion to something more sinister, as if the Professor was challenging them. 

At length the discussion reached a plateau, with the Doctor summing up the collective feeling of those present. 'I accept your thesis, Professor,' he said, 'that time could be regarded as a fourth dimension - although I see the whole thing as conceptual. You simply cannot move at all in time...you cannot get away from the present.' 

'I agree,' said the Psychologist. 'You can move about in all physical directions of space, but you cannot move about in Time.'

Daisy leaned forward, watching the Professor's face. This was the point she had reached yesterday and it was now that he would reveal what he had done to disprove the argument. 

'Ah,' said the Professor, smiling. 'That is the crux of my great discovery, and it shows that you are wrong to say that we cannot move about in time. Imagine for a moment you recall an event in the past: can you not go back in your mind to that instant? Some would call it absent-mindedness, but I jump back for a moment. Of course it is in your mind only, but I have transcended time - I am living that moment in the past. Suppose I was able to capture that ability in a physical sense...to transport the whole body rather than just the mind? To drift along the time-dimension, or even turn about and travel the other way?'

'It's against reason,' said Filby. 'You can expound the concept as much as you like, but you will never convince me.'

'Possibly not,' said the Professor, 'but you begin to see the reasoning behind my work into the geometry of four dimensions - about a machine that would travel indifferently in any direction of Space and Time, as the driver decides -'

Filby laughed briefly, a short dismissive snort of contempt. 

The Professor stopped abruptly and regarded him for a moment at the implied insult. 'I have experimental verification,' he said, quietly. 'I have built such a machine.'

'Then let us see it,' said the Psychologist, 'though it's all nonsense, you know.'

The Professor smiled at us and with his hands deep in his trouser pockets he walked slowly out of the room, and we heard his footsteps shuffling down the corridor to his laboratory.

Daisy listened to the conversation in his absence, which was dismissive, and she felt anger towards them. Filby, in particular, was drawing a parallel with a conjurer he had seen in Burslem, as if to imply that somehow the Professor was of that kind too, but he was interrupted by the door opening. The Professor appeared, holding a small object in his hand. 

'So what do you have?' asked the Doctor. 

The Professor approached an occasional table in front of the fire and set down a small metallic framework about the size of a clock on its polished surface. The others crowded around, looking down at it. Daisy could see that it was mostly made of brass, the metal gleaming like butter in the soft light of the fire. She observed that there was ivory in it too, as well as some transparent crystalline substance, and in its centre was a small saddle beside a lever that could move forward and back. 

'This has taken two years to make,' said the Professor quietly. 'It is a small scale of one much bigger, but it works exactly the same way.' He leaned over the machine and pointed with his lean forefinger. 'This lever, being pressed forward, sends the machine into the future, or into the past if pulled back...and the saddle represents the seat of the larger machine.' He looked up at the circle of faces around him, then across at Daisy who was stood a little back from the others. 'In a moment I am going to press the lever and off the machine will go. It will vanish into future time...disappear. Now, have a good look at it, and satisfy yourselves that there is no trickery here. I don't want to waste my work and then be told that I'm a fraud.'

For a moment there was silence save for the crackling of the logs on the fire. None of the men moved, each staring down at the little machine as if it was about to make them disappear too. Daisy noticed that there was no joviality now - the mechanism on the table had drawn them into a spell, each of them was aware that something astonishing was about to happen, and that they were a part of it. 

At length the Professor put his finger forward, almost touching the little lever. 'Now,' he said, 'watch carefully.' For a moment he held it there, and then said suddenly. 'No, let us use another.' He turned to the Psychologist and taking his hand he told him to extend his forefinger, and caused him to push the lever forward. 

Daisy saw it all happen before her very eyes. There was a breath of wind in the room that caused the candles on the mantelpiece to flicker, and one of them to extinguish. The little machine seemed to rise briefly off the table and to swing around, and then it became indistinct, as a watercolour painting might look if doused in water. The crisp outline of its framework became blurred and then flickered once, affording a brief flash of crystal and brass and ivory; and then it was gone, leaving the surface of the table empty. 

There was absolute silence in the room for perhaps a minute, and then the Psychologist moved forward and leaned over the table, almost as if it was against his will, to look to the right and the left and eventually, underneath. 'Where did it go?' he asked. 

The Professor smiled. 'As it told you, it has been sent into the future. It is traveling, if you like, along that line of the fourth dimension that we discussed.'

'How far? Will we ever see it again?' the Doctor interjected.

The professor turned towards him. 'I doubt it, Sir,' he said. 'The machine will move forward for as long as the lever is pressed forward, and there is nothing to change that as it has no pilot.' He paused for a moment, thinking. 'I rather think that it is destined to move on until there is simply nothing left of this earth...until the end of time, if that doesn't sound too melodramatic.'

There was a clamour of voices, of questions, eager and shrill, and he held up both hands to forestall them. 'Gentlemen! Please! I understand that you have questions and I will do my best to answer them, but first let us sit awhile and partake of a cigar and perhaps a little Port.' He turned to Daisy. 'Would you mind, my dear?'

Daisy nodded, and moved quietly from the room. She could hear them talking still, their voices pitched high with excitement, and she smiled at how quickly they had turned from disbelievers to preachers. In her own mind she knew that what the Professor had done was exactly as he had said it was, and that it was something that would forever change the world in which she lived. She did not know how he had done it but she felt a strange contentment, for she would be a part of it from now on. 

She hurried down the corridor to the kitchen, her mind in turmoil. 

*****

Over the next few weeks Daisy was drawn increasingly into the Professor's trust, working with him on a full size replica of the machine. She could not understand the complexity of the physics that he had used to fathom out the concept, nor precisely how the device worked - but she became familiar with the construction of the machine, and with the concept of its operation. She questioned him constantly, building her knowledge with each answer. 

'So how will time appear to you, if you are sitting in the machine traveling forward?' she asked one day, as they were grinding the fine filaments of rock salt to be fitted into the quartz rods behind the pilot's seat. 

The Professor glanced up at her. 'That depends on how fast you are travelling' he said.

'In what way?'

'Imagine that you are in a theatre, Daisy, and that your seat is in this machine and the stage is what you can see from it.' He stopped working for a moment, brushing his hair back from his eyes with the back of his hand. 'In normal time, it may take a minute for a person to walk from one side of the stage to the other, but when you push the lever forward, everything on it will appear to speed up. If you apply the lever sparingly, the actors will appear to walk more quickly: and if you place the lever fully forward, they would move from one side to the other in a second, or perhaps less.' He thought about it for a moment. 'In fact, at full speed, a whole day and night may only take less than a second, just as if someone shone a strobe light at you, with each flicker representing a day. 

'And when I stop the machine? What will happen then?'

'Then you will be injected into the time to which you have traveled. If the machine is stopped, so too will you - and you could alight from it and walk about, just as you could get up from your chair now and walk to the other side of this room.'

'And could I interact with the people of that time?'

He nodded. 'Of course.'

Daisy thought about it for a moment. 'Will the pilot be able to choose the exact time and place to which he will travel?'

The Professor resumed polishing the rock on which he had been working, and he smiled at her earnestness. 'The exact time, yes. He will be able to set the year, day, hour, minute and second here, on the control panel, by means of these counters. The machine will take him to them, slowing as it approaches the appointed moment so that it does not overshoot.' He stopped for a moment to allow himself time to peer along the length of the rod, to check for its alignment. 'So too will he be able to set the point at which he wishes to land, but means of these second counters -' he pointed briefly to blank holes in the control panel. 'But we have yet to fit them, Daisy.' 

'And what of the past? Can I go back and change it?'

He regarded her thoughtfully. 'I assume you are talking figuratively, Daisy. I do not intend that you should travel in time - it is far too dangerous. As to your question, it is a good one, and none of us know the answer to it precisely. But let us think about it for a moment.' He closed his eyes briefly. 'Suppose I was to go back in time and kill my mother before she gave birth to me - what would become of me? Clearly I would not be born, and therefore I would not exist and therefore it would not be possible for me to go back and kill her.' 

'So are you saying that you would disappear in the instant that you killed her?'

'No, Daisy. Because if I was not born, I would not exist and I could not sit here contemplating the murder of my mother...but I am here.' He smiled at her. 'It is a conundrum, is it not? I suspect that the answer to your question is more complex.' He was silent for a while, and Daisy could see him thinking as he polished the glittering crystal in his hand. At length he turned to her again. 'One answer might be this, Daisy. I see no reason why we cannot go back and interact with the past as we see fit - but it will change nothing.'

'What do you mean, Professor?'

'Well, to use my example. Suppose I do go back, and I kill the woman I think was to be my mother. She is dead and she cannot give birth to me, but I am here nonetheless. What does that tell you?'

Daisy thought about it for a moment. 'The only conclusion is that she was not your mother.'

'Exactly. Despite what we do, what will happen in the future will happen. In fact, what we do when we travel will become a feature of that time, and everything that happens after it will take it into account...we will actually change nothing.'

'So every aspect of our life is pre-destined?'

He shrugged. 'Not necessarily. But what happens, whether it is because of the events of the time or because someone has traveled to that time and tried to change things, will happen, and it will be part of the destiny of that moment.' He looked at her briefly. 'These are weighty concepts, Daisy, and perhaps it is best if we don't dwell on the notion that we can change things...I am convinced we cannot.' He leaned forward and carefully slid the crystal that he had been polishing into the quartz tube on the main console. 'Ah, look at that!' he exclaimed. 'A perfect fit!'

Daisy handed him the crystal that she had been polishing. 'Would this do as well?' she asked. 

He leaned over and measured it against the tube opposite his own. 'Almost. Just a little more and I think it will be done.' He handed it back to her and their fingers touched, a moment of intimacy before he stood back and regarded the machine. 'Another few days, Daisy, and it will be ready.'

*

That night Daisy dreamed of Rory again, as she did more and more often. She was looking back from the high wooden seat of the Dray, feeling the pull of the reigns as the two horses bucked and fought in their traces, rearing up in unexpected terror. She could see Rory lying in the mud on his back, his lower legs twisted at an impossible angle and his pale face framed by the thick black treacle of the mud. She heard her own voice screaming in terror and she saw the two barrels tumbling through the air as if in slow motion, and she saw his naked fear as he comprehended his death. She scrambled down from the seat and ran to him, her legs stumbling through earth as thick and cloying as cold tar, and she lifted his head to wipe the bright blood from his mouth and to scream his name into the empty blue sky. His eyes were on hers and his expression was of intense sadness, and he tried to speak but the effort was too great. 




The Time Traveller's Servant



Daisy heard the roaring of a great wind in her head and she knew that he was leaving, and that her soul was being stripped of everything she had ever loved. She looked into his face for the final time, seeing his pupils moving slightly as they focused on her and then he blinked twice and their brilliance faded and died, like a lamp extinguished in the darkness of a winter's gale. And in that moment she perceived her life without him - the long, lonely days of pain and regret and the nights of tears and yearning. She scrabbled in the blood and the mud to stop him going, but it was to no avail, and so she knelt beside him and lifted his shattered body and hugged it to her chest, pressing her face against the flesh of his cheek, rocking back and forth and keening in her agony. 

And after a long time, the women from the nearby village came and led her away from that dreadful place.

Daisy opened her eyes in the darkness of her room and tried to quell her racing heart. They had said it would get easier but it had not, because there had been no time to say goodbye - to share a last kiss or enfold the gentle warmth of his embrace. Her tears burned like acid on the cold flesh of her cheeks and her heart was an empty, gaping void in her chest. She lay in her little narrow bed and she longed to hold him again, if only for one hour, to feel the comfort of his touch and to say all the things that lovers do when they know the dawn will part them forever. 

And after a while she turned to the wall and she slept again, dreaming this time of a glittering machine with the power to take her back, to give her the one last opportunity that she craved for so much. 

*****

The Professor gave the brass railings on the Time Machine a final polish, and then stood back and her put his hand on her shoulder for a moment. 

'It's done,' he said simply.

Daisy stood by his side, aware of the warmth from his hand and the unexpected intimacy it had brought. She regarded the time machine. The rear suspension was higher than the front so that it leaned forward slightly, crouching like a sprinter eager to be on his way. The rails gleamed ochre-yellow and the sheen of oil on the quartz rods shone in the overhead gaslight, offsetting the rich red leather of the high seat with its brass studs and walnut trim. She thought it looked more like a work of sculpture than a transportation device, although the cluster of gauges on the console with their polished brass tubes hinted of science rather than art. 

She glanced at the Professor. 'So what now?'

He smiled. 'Tomorrow, Daisy. Tomorrow I will take the machine forward - just a little way at first, and then I'll come back and tell you all about it.' He stepped forward and removed the large brass key from the console and slipped it into his coat pocket, and then her turned to her again. 'I'll not be gone long - in fact, I shall return to the very point in time that I leave, so tell Cook to prepare the normal lunch. Would you care to join me? I'm sure we will have much to talk about.'

Daisy nodded. 'Thank you Professor. I would.'

'Very well.' He reached up and turned off the gaslight and the room subsided into darkness except for the strip of yellow light from the open door. For a moment she thought he would touch her again but he only looked at her, his expression soft. 

'Good night, Daisy - and thank you.'

'Good night, Professor.' She heard the click of the latch as he followed her out, and she went up the stairs to her room and shut the door and her heart was heavy with guilt and shame.

*

The hallway clock had just chimed three when Daisy moved silently along the corridor towards the Professor's study. She did not light the gas for fear of waking him, but there was enough light from the pale moon to guide her down the stairs to the green door. She turned the latch and opened it, grimacing as the hinges squeaked, and then she was inside and the door was closed. 

The Professor's lab coat hung on the hook by the door and with trembling fingers Daisy removed the key. She lit the lamp on the table and brought it closer to the machine and stood for a few seconds looking at it, filled with trepidation at what she was about to do. For a moment her resolve failed, but then she remembered the final moments of Rory's life and she set the lamp down and climbed onto the device. She sat in the pilot's chair and with shaking hands fastened the broad leather strap about her waist, and she inserted the key into its socket. Although she had not yet touched the control column it was as if the machine sensed her presence, and she fancied that she could see the quartz rods glowing slightly and hear the growling of their energy as they readied themselves to hurl her back in time. She wondered if she would ever see this place again, and whether the Professor would curse her for stealing his work and whether he could ever forgive her, and she questioned again what it was that she wanted out of this journey and whether it was even possible. 

Daisy leaned forward and turned the ornate bezels on each of the timing dials: the year and month of Rory's death, and then the time that they had first stopped beside the Dray. She extracted a scrap of paper from her pocket and began to carefully set the coordinates of Hunter's Hill on the placement dial, leaning forward to better see the fine graduations on the dials and concentrating to ensure there was no mistake. 

She was just setting the final westerly coordinates when she heard a sound and she looked up quickly. The Professor was stood in the doorway, a lamp in one hand and the other extended towards her, as if entreating her to stay. For a moment neither of them moved and then he entered the room slowly and set his lamp upon the bench and his voice was calm and measured.

'Can we talk, Daisy, before you go? '

Daisy could not speak. She placed her hands upon the control column and shook her head, her eyes on his face.

'Please. I won't stop you, Daisy, but I must speak to you. ' He began to move slowly towards her. 'I know what you are doing - what you hope for. I must tell you -'

'How do you know? ' her voice was low, filled with anguish. 'How could you possibly understand?'

The Professor stopped, his arm still stretched out towards her. 'I know you loved him - and still do. I know that you yearn to bring him back. But you must ask one question, Daisy. ' He held out his hands in supplication. 'What would your life be now if he had lived? '

His words stabbed into Daisy's heart, tearing at the fragile dream that had lain there like a gossamer thread for so many months. She imagined Rory lying cold and silent in his grave and how decay and corruption would have eaten away all that she could remember of him. She remembered his last moments with her: the softness of his lips and the wonderful clarity of his eyes and the love that had passed between them in that instant, and the thought of not being able to share it again for even just a single moment lanced into her like a scalpel. Nothing would ever stop her from trying, and she seized the control column and pulled it into her stomach. 

In that instant the Professor leapt towards the machine, one hand grasping the brass railing beside the seat and the other reaching to seize her. For a moment Daisy thought he would succeed, but suddenly the entire horizon dipped and the device skidded sideways. The objects in the study became elongated for an instant, blurred and indistinct, their colours and textures vague and distorted: and then they were snatched aside in an instant of time to whirl away in a spinning cloud like debris in a tornado. The Professor's face was amongst them, smeared and distorted like the rubber mask of a clown with his mouth open and his features wild, illuminated for a second by flashes of light and dark like a strobe light into the eyes of a madman. 

The calm and order of the Professor's house disappeared in an instant and time machine lurched wildly, spinning and bucking, whirling through a flickering storm of grey and black like fine volcanic ash but without form or weight. Vast images loomed before her, blurred and indistinct, tilting and turning and flashing past in clouds of grainy particles and streaks of light. The seat buckled and shook and the leather straps bruised her flesh, and the instrument panel in front of her shook so violently that she could not read the dials within it - even to discern the direction of her travel. And so she clung to the controls as a pilot of a small boat caught in a violent storm might, gritting her teeth and hoping that the violence would soon cease. 

At length Daisy began to comprehend the nature of the machine's furious movement and allow for it, and she was able to gently ease forward on the control column. Almost immediately she became aware of a faint flickering of alternate light and dark superimposed on the turmoil and twisting of the machine, and she presumed that these were days passing her by. The flashes gradually became stronger and their tempo slowed. She perceived the source of light to move rapidly above her from one quarter to another, like a lantern swung in an arc, and the bucking of the machine reduced somewhat and she was able to look around. 

And as the machine slowed the fog of confusion cleared even further, the source of light revealed as the sun, illuminating the coachwork and the gleaming brass rails as it sped overhead before plunging into the darkness of a brief night. Through the fog she could discern the faint image of the land below, not moving relatively as she had expected but rather moving with the seasons: a leafy forest rotating rapidly from the stark bare branches of winter to the golden cloak of autumn; a field crowned with wheat then barren and frosty. She perceived a large structure, perhaps a church, being dismantled before her eyes - the tiles disappearing, the timber and stone stripped away like a corpse succumbing to the ravages of worms; and then the winter's mud and confusion of the building site smoothed away to a virgin paddock decked in the soft green and gold of summer. 

The days became longer still, the intensity of each one flickering with bursts of sunshine and periods of rain. Beneath her the movements of life became visible too: a horse and cart speeding backwards on the road below; a ploughman frenetically undoing the furrows of his work before hurtling into the barn. Daisy glanced at the dials and saw that her coordinates were as she had set them, the machine hovering above the allotted place whilst the seasons still unwound below her. To the east was the village of Blaxstone and beyond it the estate where they had worked. She carefully turned the dial of the eastings, and the machine immediately tilted away. Wrong way she thought, and reversed the motion, watching as the village drew closer until it passed beneath her and the stone cottages that had been her home with Rory became visible in the flickering light. 

As the time dimension slowed, so did the erratic motion of the machine. Daisy could see the dial now, moving more slowly as it counted down towards the date and time she had set in the Professor's study. On impulse she reached forward and wound it back a further seven hours and then she adjusted her coordinates to hover directly over the roof of her cottage. She watched as the sun sunk in the east and the dawn's light briefly illuminated the farm below, and she realised with a sudden pang of pain that it was the last dawn that Rory would have seen, although there was no sign of him; and then the darkness enfolded her and with a sigh the machine reached its time and destination and it settled onto the earth below. 

Daisy sat for a few moments, her heart beating wildly and her senses still reeling from the movement of the machine. It had come to rest at an angle although it was not obvious what had caused it, and she could hear the metallic ticking as its rods cooled. Above her head she could see the stars sprinkled across the firmament in a cathedral of splendor, and she thought idly that the Professor would probably be looking at them too: separated by three years and few score miles. She thought of the kindness and the opportunities he had given her, and of her betrayal of that trust, and she remembered the words he had uttered as she left on this journey:  'What would your life be now if he had lived?' 

For the first time she considered the question: what would her life have been if Rory had lived? It was easy to answer - she would still be a housemaid, married to the head syce in a little house not a stone's throw from where she now sat - a working girl with aspirations only to raise a family and to serve her husband. She would never experience the freedom of mind that working with the Professor had given her. She would never understand that even though she was only a woman, her world was only limited by her imagination and her ability. She would never realise the potential that her life could offer. 

Daisy placed her hand on the control column, feeling the warm buttery feeling of the brass handgrip under her fingers. She was tempted to take the machine back - to leave this place...to accept the past and seize the future. She understood that she had come to mean a great deal to the Professor and that he loved her; and she wondered if she might grow to love him too for his generous spirit and his kindness. 

And then she remembered the final moments of Rory's life, and her heart quailed. Nobody deserved to die like that, and if it was in her power to prevent it she should...and if, in saving his life, it condemned her to a life of restraint then it was a price that she must pay - for had she not stood in the village church, and sworn to honour him and to love and obey him? She did not know what she was doing here, or how she might change the past - but she only knew that she must try. 

She undid the straps and climbed clear, slipping the key into her pocket and stretching her limbs and looking around. A low moon provided enough light for her to identify the little gazebo in the village green, and she set off towards the house wondering what she was going to do. Perhaps she could wake him, talk to him: warn him what tomorrow would bring if he stopped at the Dray; but she did not know how he would react to seeing her when he knew his wife was asleep in his bed. Perhaps a note, then, left on the kitchen table? 

The cottage was in darkness and Daisy reached above the lintel and drew down the key, turning it in the lock and slipping quietly inside. Her shoes tapped briefly on the flagstone floor and she slipped them off and padded through the little parlour to the living room, moving towards the kitchen where a lamp and a paper and pen would be available. The heavy curtains were drawn back and there was enough light to discern the heavy furniture and the dark outlines of the pictures she had hung on the walls, and a wave of nostalgia swept over her. 

She quietly entered the kitchen and set her shoes on the table. The room was bathed in the soft light of the moon and she could see it was all in order: the plates stacked on the shelves and the worktop clear, and the breakfast things ready for their early start. The curtain through to the pantry was closed and she eased it aside, entering the little room and reaching up for the matches and a candle: and as she did so the latch on the back door clicked loudly, and the door began to open.

Daisy turned quickly and pulled the pantry curtain closed, her heart hammering. The back door was never locked, for the village was secure and it gave access only to the back garden. She peeped through a gap in the curtain, watching as a figure appeared - no, two figures, stepping into the kitchen quietly. She could see the first was Rory, carrying a lamp with the wick turned down, and he set it on the table and turned back to the second figure and his voice was low.

'You know you cannot come into the house, ' he said, and he reached forward and touched her face. 

The girl stepped forward and embraced him, her arms tight around his chest and her face buried in his shoulder. He stroked her hair gently and pressed his lips to her head before gently disengaging, his hand lifting her chin so he might gaze into her eyes. 

'I love you Rory, ' the girl whispered. 'I wish that we could be together always. '

'One day, perhaps. ' He touched her mouth gently with his fingertips, and then leaned forward and kissed her softly. Daisy watched as the girl responded, reaching up to hold him, her breasts pressed against his chest as she arched her back to receive his lips. For a long moment they clung together, and then he gently pushed her back. 

'I must go, my love. I have a busy day tomorrow. '

'I know. ' Her voice was husky with emotion. 'But tell me we can meet again, Rory! Give me a day when we can be together, even for only a few hours. ' 

Rory held her shoulders and they gazed at each other. For the first time the light fell upon her face and Daisy recognized her as one of the village girls. She saw how her lips were swollen by kisses, and how his unshaven chin had rubbed upon her cheeks, and she perceived the softness of her gaze as she looked into his eyes. It was the look of a lover: of tenderness and adoration, of hope and hopelessness: the look of a girl who has given all of herself and will do so again, for as often as it takes to wrest him from the arms of another.

With a sinking heart Daisy watched as they clung to each other, murmuring words of love and betrayal, touching and kissing. She imagined them lying on the old blankets on in the little shed with their bodies entwined, safe from prying eyes. She envisaged how the girl had opened herself to him, her legs tight around his back and her sighs soft in the darkness. She saw how he kissed her and the last lingering touch before she turned and slipped through the door and was gone, and she heard the creak of the stairs as Rory stole back to his wife's warm bed: to her bed, where he would lie beside her with the taste of another woman on his lips and the memory of how her body had felt as he entered her. And after a while he would sleep, and in the morning he would rise refreshed to start another day with the dark stain of lies and deceit on his heart. 

For a long time Daisy stood, her mind full of what she had seen and heard. So much of her marriage made sense now. The little things that she had thought were merely his idiosyncrasies now took new meaning - the late nights, when he crept to her bed with excuses of work; and the days when he was absent, and his moods and periods of anger. She did not cry, although she thought that might come later: for now there was only the cold well of emptiness and the hollow pit of betrayal. 

All of her instincts told her to leave now, to let fate take its course - to free her from the shackles of a sham marriage and to seize the opportunity to open her mind and her life. But she knew too, with utter certainty, that even if Rory lived the marriage was doomed to fail and one day soon she would be just as free. She understood that one way or another she would work for the Professor, for the future had told her that: and so the question was, did he have to die? She thought not, and she could not condemn him to do so for that was a power beyond her calling. 

The village clock was striking midnight when Daisy lit a single candle and sat at the kitchen table to write the note. It was brief in its wording and was unsigned, for she knew that it was she who would read it first in the morning. She folded the paper and left it in one of the porridge bowls, and then she moved silently through the house and closed the door softly behind her.