The Time Traveller
9: Wragton 26-03-84
Time travel is a simple concept to understand. One moves forward ‘in time’ or backwards ‘in time’. That’s it. There’s nothing more to it. The mechanism by which one does the travelling, however - that is far too complex to go into. But there is an intrinsic mode by which it presents itself.
1984. Meant so much - means so much - to me. Travelling to that time, however was anything but precise. For instance, the precision of halting at the specific time one wishes to visit is like predicting the odds of a deck of cards in order after a handful of shuffles, or the precise outcome of one hundred random rolls of a twenty sided die.
It’s like flying over the heads of the multitude, ascending higher into the clouds until the people below are lost from definition, and become a mass of objects milling about the world in erratic mobility, with seemingly no direction to their movement.
Chaos. Randomness. The undefinable.
The air roars up there, above the moisture molecules fighting against gravity to remain aloft, before the land below is flooded. The sky becomes darker through the atmospheres, out into the utter lack of light, life and energy, into space - first inner space, then creeping into outer space, past the Moon, the grey satellite, beyond Mars, further than Jupiter, zooming with increasing speed beyond Saturn, Uranus and Neptune, to the outer reaches of the solar system, dragged inexorably toward the wormhole, sucked into a singularity, thrust through that single point, and thrust out the other side like a rejected mollusc, back into the universe, back to the Earth, forever hopeful that it would be the time, the place, the destination one had so hoped -
And it turned out to be further than one hoped. Back into the vortex, back to the tunnel, and out, into the future, beyond one’s lifespan. Time travel is not a precise science. But the things one sees while travelling that tunnel?
There is a place inside - or possibly more precisely outside - time, where the Guardians live. They look vague, having no defined form, but fuzzily, they are tall, thin and grey, with bulbous heads. They don't speak, but communicate in some sort of telepathic language made of symbols and noises, completely different to any recognised language.
But sometimes I got them. I understood them, but only sometimes. They spoke of History, though in which direction they would not state, as all directions were the same to them. They talked of Philosophy, of Theory and Mathematics, none of which I understood. Their minds were far in advance of mine, and their manner, their conduct was of another way of being.
But they are Guardians - of the time stream, to ensure that it isn't abused, mistreated or demanded of. Yet they accepted me, understood my plight, my desire, my mind, such as it is in their presence. They tried to help me, tried to make me understand, tried to make me one of them - but they were beyond me, and I told them as much. I was good, but they were better, and I would simply be the weak link in the chain, the faulty wheel. So I left them, as they directed me to the time and place I needed.
#
I suppose I was - am - looking for meaning. I’m looking to connect with that thing I never had, as I was either too young or too - well, it didn't matter now. I was here. We were here, In Wragton, Twenty Sixth of March, Nineteen Eighty Four.
Later that day, partying with the band as usual - I know! It sounds so absurd, yet here we are! - when Freddie starts talking to me about something. I don't remember where and how it came about, what we were talking about before he brought it up, but he could have simply lost an inhibition from the drugs or alcohol so readily available, and a certain kind of freedom that came with it, to relate a brief insight.
“I think I’m gay.”
“Okay?”
“Sorry, I don’t mean to burden you with this. It’s just -“
“It’s fine, Freddie. Love who you want to love. There’s enough hate around as it is.”
“But -“
“Look, Freddie, we label too much as it is in this world. Love who you love.” This seemed to have settled him down, and much of his anxiety drifted away as he joined in with the joke going round the room.
I couldn't help looking at him, like an outside observer. Flashes of memories struck me in my alcohol diluted brain, of an older Frederick Emery, much changed by his early experiences, becoming an Accountant, would you believe? In fact, he eventually became a de facto Accountant for a number of the band members of Woodrowe. He did their tax returns - all legal and above board. It was rumoured that he even had a fling with Callum Woodrowe, though this was pure speculation.
Looking at them tonight, however, I can see some of that flirtiness exuding from the pair of them. I didn't for a second think he was attracted to me, though it wouldn't have mattered. Just because - oh, screw it. I’m not going to be preachy. I like to think I like who I like and what I like. And I’m free to do so. What’s so wrong with that?
And I thought he had died, back then, with that glass bottle? Am I remembering it wrong?
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