micro-particle, the smallest sub-atom, to the universe. Is it not fascinating to speculate that we might all exist within the spaces of a few subatomic particles in some other, unknowably vast universe?
Flapping Eagle felt irritated. —It might well be interesting, he said brusquely, but I don’t see its relevance to the whereabouts of my sister.
—My dear Eagle, said Mr Jones, I have simply been striving, as it were, to widen your eyes. There is no other manner in which I can explain to you the location of Calf Island.
Flapping Eagle’s thoughts fell into a dizzy spin. He could not speak.
—Perhaps you have come across the theory of potential existences, continued Virgil Jones affably. So suppose there were, say, merely four potential pasts and futures for the Mediterranean Sea. In one of them, there never was nor will be an island such as this. In another the island existed but no longer does. In a third the island does not exist but will at some time in the future. And in the fourth … he gestured around him … it has existed; and continues to do so.
He allowed a brief dramatic pause.
—The dimensions come in several varieties, you see, he said. There are a million possible Earths with a million possible histories, all of which actually exist simultaneously. In the course of one’s daily life, one weaves a course between them, if you like, but that does not destroy the existence of pasts or futures we choose not to enter. What has happened to you is that you have fallen into a different historical continuum, in which Calf Island, and all of us, have our being. The place you came from knows nothing of us.
—So you are all ghosts, said Flapping Eagle, and I am mad. Is that what you are saying? I’m seeing things, places, that do not exist.
—That is really too depressing a notion, said Virgil Jones. Because it has this obverse: perhaps it is you who is the ghost. And your sister Bird-Dog.
—Where is she? asked Flapping Eagle viciously, as though seeing her would resolve all his confusions.
—I’m not sure, said Virgil. Up there somewhere. I assure you that the chances of finding her are remote; even if your arrival here proves you to be highly sensitive to the existence of the Dimensions.
—It’s not that big an island, cried Flapping Eagle.
Virgil Jones said nothing for a moment, and then: —Please think about it, Mr Eagle. You see why we wished to wait until you were well.
—I’ll find her, said Flapping Eagle.
—Touch wood, said Virgil Jones. He walked to a tree and did so.
—In a structure of reality where anything is possible, he said shamefacedly, I find it better to be safe than sorry. Hence my somewhat ridiculous predilection for superstition. There might be an evil spirit in that tree, after all. There might be an avenging god. It might be possible to conjure demons. The lines on one’s palm might speak the truth. Symbols might be as real as people. One theory has it that in this dimension, as indeed in yours, we overlay our symbolic natures with this vast, obscurantist weight of personality. Thus making it very difficult for us to know the true forces that move us. Given this never-ending stream of possibilities, I find my little foibles a comfort.
Flapping Eagle was sitting very still, his knuckles white, his fists locked shut, his mouth a thin, tight line.
—Come, come, Mr Eagle, said Virgil Jones. I had thought you were a more flexible soul than this.
—I’m going up the mountain today, said Flapping Eagle. I want to find Bird-Dog and Sispy and get myself out of this whole vile mess.
—O, but you mustn’t, said Virgil Jones.
—Why not? shouted Flapping Eagle.
—It’s the Grimus Effect, said Virgil Jones. It gets more powerful all the time. To tell the truth, it’s just a question of waiting until its power reaches down here. I really wouldn’t advise you to climb.
Flapping Eagle felt ill again.
—What Effect? he asked, wearily.
—Grimus. The Grimus
Flapping Eagle felt irritated. —It might well be interesting, he said brusquely, but I don’t see its relevance to the whereabouts of my sister.
—My dear Eagle, said Mr Jones, I have simply been striving, as it were, to widen your eyes. There is no other manner in which I can explain to you the location of Calf Island.
Flapping Eagle’s thoughts fell into a dizzy spin. He could not speak.
—Perhaps you have come across the theory of potential existences, continued Virgil Jones affably. So suppose there were, say, merely four potential pasts and futures for the Mediterranean Sea. In one of them, there never was nor will be an island such as this. In another the island existed but no longer does. In a third the island does not exist but will at some time in the future. And in the fourth … he gestured around him … it has existed; and continues to do so.
He allowed a brief dramatic pause.
—The dimensions come in several varieties, you see, he said. There are a million possible Earths with a million possible histories, all of which actually exist simultaneously. In the course of one’s daily life, one weaves a course between them, if you like, but that does not destroy the existence of pasts or futures we choose not to enter. What has happened to you is that you have fallen into a different historical continuum, in which Calf Island, and all of us, have our being. The place you came from knows nothing of us.
—So you are all ghosts, said Flapping Eagle, and I am mad. Is that what you are saying? I’m seeing things, places, that do not exist.
—That is really too depressing a notion, said Virgil Jones. Because it has this obverse: perhaps it is you who is the ghost. And your sister Bird-Dog.
—Where is she? asked Flapping Eagle viciously, as though seeing her would resolve all his confusions.
—I’m not sure, said Virgil. Up there somewhere. I assure you that the chances of finding her are remote; even if your arrival here proves you to be highly sensitive to the existence of the Dimensions.
—It’s not that big an island, cried Flapping Eagle.
Virgil Jones said nothing for a moment, and then: —Please think about it, Mr Eagle. You see why we wished to wait until you were well.
—I’ll find her, said Flapping Eagle.
—Touch wood, said Virgil Jones. He walked to a tree and did so.
—In a structure of reality where anything is possible, he said shamefacedly, I find it better to be safe than sorry. Hence my somewhat ridiculous predilection for superstition. There might be an evil spirit in that tree, after all. There might be an avenging god. It might be possible to conjure demons. The lines on one’s palm might speak the truth. Symbols might be as real as people. One theory has it that in this dimension, as indeed in yours, we overlay our symbolic natures with this vast, obscurantist weight of personality. Thus making it very difficult for us to know the true forces that move us. Given this never-ending stream of possibilities, I find my little foibles a comfort.
Flapping Eagle was sitting very still, his knuckles white, his fists locked shut, his mouth a thin, tight line.
—Come, come, Mr Eagle, said Virgil Jones. I had thought you were a more flexible soul than this.
—I’m going up the mountain today, said Flapping Eagle. I want to find Bird-Dog and Sispy and get myself out of this whole vile mess.
—O, but you mustn’t, said Virgil Jones.
—Why not? shouted Flapping Eagle.
—It’s the Grimus Effect, said Virgil Jones. It gets more powerful all the time. To tell the truth, it’s just a question of waiting until its power reaches down here. I really wouldn’t advise you to climb.
Flapping Eagle felt ill again.
—What Effect? he asked, wearily.
—Grimus. The Grimus
Similar Books
