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.