The Map of Chaos (50 page)

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Doyle, who was too indomitable ever to have considered giving up on life.

“In fact I was just striking an attitude, Arthur,” Wells explained. “But it was on one of those afternoons that my twin approached me, and there, gazing into the murky depths, the strangest conversation I had ever had in my life took place. The reason why he jeopardized the universe by speaking to me was purely literary. He had already written
The War of the Worlds
in his world, but he wasn't very happy with the ending, in which the Martians conquered the world. And so he made me a gift of the plot, on the condition that if one day I wrote it, I would give it an ending that held out more hope for the human race. And that is precisely what I did. I gave it an ending in which the human race triumphed. I suppose that my other self realized that one of the few advantages of his unfortunate situation was that he could improve his work.”

Doyle let out a guffaw that sounded more like a horse whinnying.

“You amaze me, George! Your whole life has been destroyed, and all you can think about is improving one of your novels! That alone would be enough for me to recognize you!”

Wells shrugged, annoyed because Doyle was reproaching him for something that the old man and not he had done, despite the fact that for a good few minutes now he had been trying to convince them that they were, in some sense, one and the same person.

“The fact is, when I first met your scruffy, eccentric old coachman, Gilliam, I never identified him as that stranger,” Wells went on, “although whenever I went near him I was beset by a curious unease, a sort of vague anguish that was completely incongruous . . . And today I realized why. Perhaps because of the peculiarity of coming face-to-face with myself, or because his presence reminded me of the constant anxiety I suffered as an adolescent . . . All I know is that this acute sadness only afflicts me when I go near him, and that is proof enough for me: the old coachman is my twin from another world . . .” Wells gave a tired sigh. He knew he was right, but no matter how convinced he was, part of his brain could not help finding it absurd. “I never met him again after that. He carried on watching over me from afar, making sure everything that happened to me was also engraved on his memory. But he soon realized that not all the details corresponded. And that brought him to an important discovery. It was several years before he understood the reason for those differences, before he worked out that his initial assumption was incorrect; he hadn't traveled to—”

“His own past, but to another world!” Doyle interrupted.

“Why, those were his exact words. How the devil did you—”

“Elementary, my dear George! When your twin first arrived here, he assumed he had gone back in time. He had no way of knowing he was in another universe. How could he have? Before he started to notice the differences between your two lives, he must have believed he had only jumped through
time,
that is, he had traveled back into a past that preceded his birth . . . It was only later on that he realized he was in another world, a different world, where events didn't occur in the
exact
same way.”

Once again, Doyle surprised Wells with his swift powers of deduction.

“The same mistake you made when you crossed the pink plain, Gilliam,” Doyle said, turning to Murray. “You thought you were traveling through the fourth dimension into the future, when in fact you were approaching a portal that led to another world . . .” Murray flashed a surly look at Doyle. “Oh, don't be offended, Gilliam, apparently it is a common mistake nowadays to think one is time traveling when in fact one is jumping between worlds. So Baskerville's world and our world move in tandem,” Doyle summed up, taking a couple of steps sideways, eyes shining as he cradled his injured hand. “Doubtless with an infinitesimal distance between them, as you described in
The Wonderful Visit,
George.”

Wells realized with a shudder that yet again this was something he had already written about. He thrust the thought aside with a shake of his head and returned to the conversation with Doyle.

“I'm afraid so. Although I believe there aren't only two worlds. There are at least three: ours, the coachman's, and the one we glimpsed in the mirror, because what we saw there
was
another world. A world almost identical to ours, apart from a few differences, such as, for example, that there Emma is still alive. However, the other Wells doesn't come from that world. He told me so when I described it to him, and for some reason, he seemed genuinely convinced of that. So we are talking about three worlds,” he concluded with a shrug.

“Why three?” said Doyle. “Wouldn't it make more sense if the number were . . . infinite? I am sure there are many more worlds, George, as many as there are portals on the pink plain, possibly even more . . .”

Then Murray, who up until then had been following the conversation without a word, asked, “What are the differences between the world in the mirror and the world your twin comes from, George?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your twin is adamant that he doesn't come from the world in the mirror, so he must have noticed something that didn't correspond to your description. What is it? Does it concern Emma?”

“Er . . . the truth is we didn't talk about it much, Gilliam,” Wells faltered.

Murray looked at him askance.

“I know you well enough to be able to tell when you are fibbing, George! What is it you aren't telling me? How does Baskerville know that the world in the mirror isn't his? Why is Emma still alive? Is it possible that in his world there was no accident and she and I are still together?” Murray had seized Wells by the shoulders and was shaking him with each question, but after the final one his energy seemed to drain away. “No, that can't be true, can it? Otherwise you would have told me the good news. So . . . ,” he surmised, stifling a sob, “there are infinite worlds, but Emma and I aren't happy in any of them, damn it!”

“I didn't say that, Gilliam,” Wells hastened to reassure him, feeling a lump rise in his throat. “All I meant was that I had a lot of questions to ask, and your coachman was fading so fast that—”

“Of course you had a lot of questions! I can think of several myself,” said Doyle, who didn't consider it an opportune moment for anguish or melodrama. “For example, who is this invisible man? Did you ask him that, George? Perhaps he comes from another dimension as well.”

“Of course I did, Arthur!” Wells retorted, peeved that Doyle doubted him even as he noticed Murray move away from them slightly, a forlorn expression on his face. Clearly he was no longer interested in their conversation. “But he told me that he didn't know him. That as far as he knows he has never come across an invisible man before today. However, he is convinced that there is a link between that creature and the mysterious men who have been pursuing him for the past two years, apparently with the intention of killing him.”

“Good Lord, and I thought
my
life was full of excitement!” Doyle exclaimed.

“He calls them the Hunters,” Wells went on. “And we saw them, too. Do you remember the incident at the opera house, Gilliam, when you saved Jane's life?”

“Naturally: How could I forget the day our friendship began?” Murray replied sullenly.

Wells sighed.

“Then you will also remember the strange man dressed in a cloak and hat who startled the horses before quickly vanishing down a side street.” Murray nodded disdainfully. “Well, he was one of those Hunters. And guess whom he was pursuing? Baskerville! Because Baskerville was there, right behind us, eavesdropping on our conversation. That was how he found out that you intended to dismiss your coachman, and so he applied for the job. As I already told you, one of his greatest consolations was to watch over Jane and me from afar, but also over you and Emma, because in his world you were two of his closest friends. He knew you called yourself Montgomery Gilmore now, and he even watched your theatrical proposal of marriage from the top of a hill. And do you remember the figure we saw on the moor the day we went to Brook Manor, which we all assumed was a prison guard?”

“It was another Hunter,” deduced Murray, who seemed to have laid aside his annoyance. “That explains why Baskerville was behaving so oddly that morning.”

“Precisely. For the past two years, the Hunters have been tightening the net around him, forcing him to change names and jobs, although he has always eluded them, mostly through luck.”

“And what is the connection between his pursuers and the monster that attacked us this evening?” Doyle wanted to know.

“
The Map of Chaos,
” said Wells. “When Baskerville was alerted to our cries and came running, he heard the creature demanding I hand over that book, a book he is familiar with and that bears an eight-pointed star on the cover, identical to the one on the Hunters' weapons.”

“Baskerville knows about the book! Then he must know its whereabouts as well as what it is for,” Doyle exclaimed excitedly.

“Er . . . I suppose he must,” Wells said gravely, “only he lost consciousness before he was able to tell me,”

“I don't believe it!” cried Doyle. “So you are saying that all we have is a long list of facts that are apparently meaningless?” Wells shrugged, avoiding Doyle's flashing eyes until he seemed to calm down. “Good. Let's not get agitated. We have two Wellses from two different worlds, both of whose lives are in danger, for reasons unknown to us, and the only thing linking their strange pursuers is a mysterious book whose whereabouts are also unknown . . . It is obvious which piece of the puzzle is missing. And it is regrettable, dear George, that you didn't manage to wheedle it out of Baskerville during your little chat.”

“Let me remind you that his words were those of a dying man,
dear
Arthur. He kept losing the thread, or simply repeating himself . . .”

“All the more reason for you to have reflected a bit more about what you were going to ask him. A good investigator must always make the person questioned discover that he knows more than he thinks he knows.”

“I agree with Arthur entirely, George: I don't think you asked the right questions either,” Murray chipped in. “If it had been me, I would have remembered to ask about my best friend's fate in whatever world.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon! Forgive me for being such a disappointment!” Wells exploded, raising his arms to heaven. “I am sure any one of you would have done much better in my place. Oh, yes, I can just see you: confronted by your twin from another world, discovering the true nature of the universe, while your two closest friends do battle with an invisible villain inside a burning house, and yet perfectly able to ponder each question calmly.”

At that moment, a terrible crash from the house shook the night, and they turned as one just in time to see the roof begin to cave in. As the house gradually collapsed in on itself, it seemed to cower, like a bludgeoned animal. Then, from among the rubble, flames appeared, reaching up to the sky as though intending to burn that, too. The din slowly began to die away, and they heard Jane's cries.

“Bertie, he has come round!”

The three men hastened to where the old fellow was lying. Reaching him, they paused uneasily, less because of the extraordinary miracle of knowing they were in the presence of a man from another world than because they were confronted by the solemn, distressing spectacle of death. The old man had opened his eyes and was gazing at them as if he could see right through them.

“George, is that you . . . ?” whispered Murray, who had knelt down beside Jane.

The old man nodded, smiling at him weakly, his eyes suddenly lighting up.

“Gilliam, my dear friend,” he said in a croaky voice, “how happy it made me to find you again! Despite how bothersome it has been calling you ‘sir' for the past two years—”

He broke off, a brief coughing fit obliging him to turn his head and spit out a gobbet of blood; then, wearily, he closed his eyes. Murray hurriedly shook his arm, which earned him a disapproving look from Jane.

“George, George, don't you dare die . . . I beg you, there is something I need to ask you.”

The old man opened his eyes with great difficulty.

“You always were a pain in the neck, Gilliam . . .” His voice sounded distant, as if he were already speaking to them from the Hereafter. “As an employer, as an enemy . . . I think I can only tolerate you when you are my closest friend.”

“You are also a better friend than you are a coachman, George,” Murray chuckled, relieved that the old man had opened his eyes again. “But there is one thing I do need to know . . . Were Emma and I happy in your world? Tell me the truth . . .”

“Gilliam, please,” Wells interjected behind him, “there are more urgent matters to—”

The dying old man and his younger twin exchanged a glance. A glance so subtle and swift that Murray, who was waiting for the least sign that his coachman was fading to shake him to life again, didn't notice it. But Doyle did, and his heart sank as he also saw the young Wells shake his head imperceptibly in response.

“My dear Gilliam . . . ,” the old fellow murmured with visible difficulty, “Emma and you were terribly happy in my world. In order to be together you had to overcome many things—too many things—but in the end you succeeded. Although I am ashamed to confess that it was no thanks to me . . . That is why, when I arrived here, I resolved to make every effort to bring you two together . . . And so I allowed myself to reply to the letter you sent to my twin, afraid that he would be as embittered as I was and decide to ignore it.”

When Wells, who had been watching the scene with a beatific smile, heard the old man's last words, his jaw dropped.