The Time Traveller

4

What was there to say to that? 

What indeed. 

Each member of the history faculty busied themselves with their papers, books and pens, watered their office plants, stared into their tea cups and thought their own private, paranoid thoughts to themselves. What was Wieland, really? An academic with a little too much of the old acting gene interfering with his sense of propriety? A charismatic charlatan? Or just a boring old boot of a New-Ager? 

It was Dr Hemple who had the dubious honour of turning the twitching nose of speculation in a new, unsettling direction.

Late again for his tea one Friday afternoon, Hemple went rushing out of the Everton Building where the history faculty had its offices, taking the crumbling, concrete steps two at a time. So focused on getting home on time, he failed to notice the shoulder-strap of a rucksack one of the students sunning themselves on the steps had carelessly left in the way. Hemple's left shoe slipped into the loop like a rabbit's neck into a snare. With a high-pitched whinny of alarm, Hemple went flying forward, beaten leather satchel first – straight into the arms of Dr Wieland.

Hemple was unable to say how Wieland had come to be standing there at that moment. He hadn't seen him, and Wieland wasn't exactly a man you didn't notice, even if you were rushing for your tea. 

What Hemple did notice, as the daylight suddenly turned to total darkness, was the musky, exotic smell of incense that the black robe he had landed against emitted. The other thing was the hard object jabbing him in the arm as he attempted to regain his footing.

"Oh, Wieland. I seemed to have...er...thank you."

Passers-by stopped, a small cluster of students formed a few feet away from the two professors. The students on the steps held their breath waiting to see what happened next.

Dr Wieland pulled a metal object out of his cloak and inspected it from all sides.

"No damage done," he said.

"Oh, no? Good," said Hemple, confused. "What is that?"

"This? An Alemera."

"Sorry?"

Wieland smiled, the wrinkles around his eyes joining in. "An Alemera. An alchemist's compass."

The round metal object glistened brightly in the afternoon sunlight. Obviously a prop, thought Hemple. Typical actor.

"A reproduction?" he asked, unimpressed.

"No, original. Novgorod 1562."

"Looks brand new."

"I keep good care of it. Here, have a look."

Hemple had to admit that if it was a copy, it was very skilfully done. The metal seams and bolting, the design, even the weight of it in his hand was convincingly 16th century.

"And what does it do exactly? This...Ale.."

"Alemera. What any compass does. It shows you which way you're going."

"Of course."

Hemple could feel the watching, judgemental eyes of the students on himself and rummaged in panic about in his mind for something stingingly intelligent to say, but was still a little too shaken from his near-fall to find anything. 

His stomach growled.

"Sometimes, it's difficult to tell," said Wieland suddenly. "The different directions — you know, the different compass points — all begin to look the same. That's where the Alemera comes in. It can lead you to where you are going, or more importantly, back to where you've been."

"Fascinating," said Hemple.

"Very easy to get on the wrong path on your way back. Very. This particular Alemera has never let me down. Of course, you have to take into account that it's calibrated for western Russia, but that's not as much of a problem as one might think."

"Fascinating," said Hemple again, and, having decided that flight was preferable to fight in this instance, added, "Look, I must dash. Thank you for showing me the, ah, compass. Love to take a much more detailed look at it at a later date. But..." Here Dr. Hemple made a regretful face and took off, polka-dot necktie waving goodbye like a hand over his tweed-clad shoulder.

That night Hemple had a dream in which Wieland was standing at the foot of, not the Everton Building, but the central campus library. In his hand, he held the key to the promised departmental museum. It shone oddly, as if it were made of brass. Or gold.

"Lucky thing I found this," said Wieland, "or I'd never find my way back."

"Back to where?" asked Hemple, who for some reason was wearing only a mortarboard and pair of Snoopy socks.

The question was important, but Hemple didn't know why. Before Wieland could answer, the dream ended, and all Hemple saw until the alarm clock buzzed at seven a.m., was darkness.

The atmosphere in the history faculty lounge the following Monday afternoon was thick with gunpowder.

"A what? Never heard of it," said Dr Laventon.

"Entirely made-up," said Dr Colburn, "Wieland's testing us."

"Has anyone looked the term up?" asked Keegan.

"Exactly," said Hemple. "He thinks he's smarter than we are and with pranks like this he sure he's found a way to reel even us in. We're on his groupie target list."

"As if we were dupable idiots," said Dr Laventon.

"We may see through him, gentlemen, but if he keeps waving shiny comic-book toys around like that then people might start taking him seriously," said Dr. Thorpe. "Real people. Not undergraduate ignoramuses."

"Incompetence, that's what he's after," said Dr Colburn. "He's attempting to make us look like incompetents. First his 'eye-witness' facts and now this fantasy 'historic' instrument. He wants to unmask us as incompetent ninnies."

"This is getting utterly out of hand....," began Dr Thorpe.

As the conversation rattled on, Dr Keegan quietly got up and went down the corridor to the faculty library. Minutes later she returned.

"Alemera, also known as a Kiroscope or Alchemist's Compass," she read aloud from the opened book in her hand. "A compass-like device used by alchemists from the 14th to the 18th centuries during so-called "delirium temporis" episodes, in which alchemists believed to have the ability to travel through time. Delirium temporis is now thought to be a hallucinogenic state brought on by the respiration of certain chemical mixtures used in alchemy experiments."

Silence flooded through the lounge as each member of the faculty digested the information.

"Actor," said Dr Hemple.

"Drug addict," said Dr Colburn.

"Megalomaniac," said Dr Thorpe.

"Re-enactment freak," said Dr Laverton.

"Children. Little children. All of you," said Dr Keegan, and left the faculty lounge, shutting the door loudly behind herself.