East of Ealing

26

Norman held fast to his seat and stared forward into the darkness. Strange lights welled up before him, swung past to either side, and vanished away behind. He experienced no sensation of motion; it was as if he was somehow travelling outside of space and time altogether. He was in limbo. Norman looked at his watch. It had stopped. He scrutinized the date counter he had optimistically screwed on to one of the enclosing calliper arms; a tangle of wires dangled from beneath it. He had forgotten to link the thing up. Where was he, and more importantly when was he? He might have been travelling for an hour or a year or a century. He had no way of telling. He had best put the machine out of gear and cruise to a halt before he slipped back too far. The idea of finding himself trampled on by a dinosaur was most unappealing.

A terrible fear took a grip upon his heart. Exactly what would he find when he stopped? He could wind up in the middle of Rorke’s Drift with the Zulus on the attack. Or even in the sea or inside the heart of a mountain. There was no way of telling. Perhaps if he slowed down just a bit he could spy out a safe place to land. Norman’s hand hovered over the controls, a look of imbecility folding his face in half. He had pulled off The Big One this time and no mistake, but where was it going to get him? In big big trouble, that was where. Norman did his best to weigh up the pros and cons. Could he get killed in the past before he had even been born? Was such a thing possible? The situation he was now in lent sufficient weight to the conviction that nothing was impossible. The words of the great Jack Vance filled his head, “In a situation of infinity, every possibility no matter how remote must find physical expression.” He had that sewn into a sampler over his bed.

It was all too much for the shopkeeper and he slumped dejectedly over the controls and grizzled quietly, resigning himself to oblivion. What had he done? What in the name of dear Mother Earth had he done?

“Norman,” a voice called to him from out of the void. “Norman.”

“Who’s that?” Norman squinted into the darkness. “I know that voice.”

“Norman,” the voice grew louder. “Halt the apparatus, you will slip beyond reach.”

Norman hammered at the controls; he tore the ignition key from the dashboard, and a sudden rush of air buffeted him back in his seat. Light popped and flashed about him, the machine rattled and shuddered and with a great sigh, daylight spun into view from the end of a long dark tunnel and broke in every direction. Norman shielded his face, closed his eyes and prepared to make what peace he could with his Creator. There was a hefty whack and a moment of terrible silence. Norman flinched and cowered.

Warm sunlight tickled his fingers and the sound of birdsong filled his ears. Still not daring to look, Norman sniffed. The sweet scent of flowers, sweeter than any he had previously smelled – or was that now would smell? – engulfed him.

He had died, that was it. Died and gone to the good place. Hope always sprang eternal in the wee lad. Norman uncovered his eyes and peered through his fingers. The time machine rested in an Arcadian glade upon a richly-forested hillside, bordering a beautiful valley which swept in gentle rolls down to a picturesque and meandering river. Very nice indeed. This far exceeded his highest hopes of what Heaven might look like. The trip had been well worthwhile after all. Rising high above the hills beyond the river stood a shimmering white fairytale castle, pennants flying in the breeze. It was the stuff of storybooks, of childhood innocence. It was wonderful. Pushing back the calliper arms, Norman unclipped his safety belt and, plucking gingerly at his still damp trouser seat, set his feet upon the lush green carpet of dew-soaked grass. It was paradise; the enchanted glade.

“Norman.” The voice loosened the lad’s bowels, but he had nothing left to yield. “Norman.” An old man was approaching, hobbling upon a cane. He was clothed in a flowing robe of deepest black, embroidered richly with stars and pentacles and magical symbols picked out in silvern thread. Upon his head he wore a tall conical hat of identical craftsmanship. He sported a long white beard and was the very picture of all one might reasonably expect of Merlin the Magician.

Norman peered at the approaching apparition. He knew that face, that stooping gait, as well as he knew anything. A choked voice rose from his throat. “Professor Slocombe?”

The magician put his long finger to his lips. “All in good time, he said. “Welcome, Norman.”

“Where am I?”

“Why in Camelot, of course. Wherever did you think?”

“I thought, perhaps, well I don’t know, still in Brentford maybe.”

Merlin cocked his head on one side. “Brentford,” he said. “I like the name, I will see what can be done about that for some future time. But for now we have much to speak of. Will you come with me to yonder castle and take a cup of mead?”

“I think that would be just fine,” said Norman, the once and future shopkeeper of England.