13
October ????, evening
I
have taken to putting question marks instead of the year because one of the
fabulous things revealed in our discussions with BeamMeUp personnel is that,
well, I died about a hundred years ago at the ripe old age of 75. They tell me that I wrote many books, at
least one of them featuring Fogg and Passepartout. But they will not tell us the exact year or how we came to
traverse time. I don't think they know
answer to the latter, but fear it is uncontrollable side effect of their
transportation device, like the hallucinations Miss Jude experienced or the
shock that felled Fogg and Rebecca.
They
are hoping to duplicate their previous transition in reverse and return us
home. We have apparently supplied
Michaels' engineers with essential aiming information. Of course, to materialize the Aurora within
the walls of New Beltrain's London embassy would invite disaster, but
pinpointing that location gives them a target for re-direction.
Michaels
has tried to explain why I must return. Quite simply put, it's because he knows I have already done so. And although it is not certain, because I
did successfully return to the past to become now famous, it is likely that the
members of my party would arrive in safety as well.
Fogg
only asked us each our wishes in this matter. Do we stay here in safety with no past or friends or purpose? Or gamble on this route to home or quite
possibly to death? We each chose
home. But we cannot depart today or
tomorrow. Aurora cannot yet fly, and the
engineers want her mid-air at transition.
Passepartout
has struck up an acquaintance with a charming trapeze couple among our former
captors. At least engineer Peters told
me that they are "swingers." He rolled
his eyes heavenward as he said so. I assume
that like Jean they once performed in a circus and thus all will have much to
share. Passepartout has gone to visit
them this night. We do not expect him
back before morning.
I
see out my little window a flood of lights centered on the Aurora. She once again rests proudly on her
skids. Her ballonets are nearly
charged. Tomorrow we will take up
residence again. Our departure is scheduled
for the next morning after. Fogg and
Rebecca have gone aboard to light the heating coils in preparation and inspect
all the repairs once more. They have
been gone a very long time. I feel much
alone. What good is being an historical
figure without family, friends, or love?
I
see that Rebecca and Fogg have just left the gondola. They stand gazing up at Aurora's towering height. It is snowing large feathery flakes that
catch in their hair and dust their coats. They laugh and throw handfuls of snow at one another. Fogg surrounds Rebecca with his long
arms. Their breaths steam together in
one vast thin cloud of white. She turns
to face him. The sunshine of her smile
I feel from here. If just once she
would grace me with such a sweet regard, I would live on it forever.
Fogg
bends over her. They are . . .
I
think I'd best go make myself a cup of tea.
14
October ????, late evening
The
morning snowed steadily and the wind blew from the north. We feared a delay, but the weather passed by
noon. I cannot eat. Passepartout did not return until well after
the breakfast hour. Fogg has not
yielded all of his suspicion and snapped at Jean for being so late, although
from the grin on Passepartout's face I would say he does not care.
I
now write from aboard the Aurora. I
wear my own clothes once again. It
seems so long! I had forgotten how
stiff they are. Fogg has dressed in
full London regalia, the particularly fine blue coat that so becomes him and
his finest diamond cufflinks. I don't
think he plans to sleep tonight. He
paces about the cabins, checking and re-checking every little fitting. Passepartout inventories the supply
cupboards and will soon test the galley by preparing us a meal.
Rebecca
assists Miss Jude in gathering supplies to care for William. Rebecca refuses to surrender to her skirts
just yet. Miss Jude is too pre-occupied
with William to be aware of anything so mundane as clothes. They join us here in a few hours.
We
leave at the break of dawn, as we arrived here.
I
shall not sleep tonight, I believe. Michaels has gifted me a decanter of good cognac, a return, he says, for
many joyful hours of reading in his youth. Fogg's dipsomania that I have so frequently condemned now seems a very
reasonable option. I surely cannot
survive this night cold sober. I will
pour Fogg, Passepartout and I two fingers each and see where it goes from
there.
1 November
1862
I am
now in Paris. I sit here in my
laboratory at my own familiar table. When I arrived home a week ago, I went down to my knees and kissed these
dusty floorboards. I have had enough of
traveling for a while.
I
would finish my account of the Tchersky journey and close out this
journal. There is not much left to
tell.
The
morning dawned clear as the Aurora lifted into the air once again. It was my first good view of the
installation since our arrival and then my heart and eyes were elsewhere. There was not much to see. Low and narrow metal buildings stretched in
several rows connected by crossing-t's in three places. Smoke drifted from a larger building where
Peters said the electricity was created. We were to hover as best we could over a flagpole that rose from the
center of this installation. Fogg flew
the helm but we all were in the observation room, even little William nestled
in Miss Jude's arms. Passepartout's tea
and cakes lay ignored in the salon. We
waited.
Rebecca
moved to stand by Fogg, "Phileas, I need to apologize for something."
"Now,
Rebecca? This is hardly the time," Fogg
replied, distracted with minute adjustments.
"I
may never have another chance. It's
about that silly argument before we arrived in Tchersky. I want you to know that I was in the
wrong. I'm sorry."
Fogg
looked down into her face, "Oh that! Cousin, you know that I will always be your most humble servant. Please think nothing of it," and kissed her
gently on the cheek. At which precise
moment the teleportation beam struck us.
Michael's
engineers warned us of possible hallucinations or catatonia. We experienced something akin to an opium
dream. All of us together, the same
dream. In it we each fitted with the
others, sensation overlapping sensation. I could not distinguish my own soul from those of my companions nor
discriminate my vision from my hearing! Miss Jude's innocence left a sweet taste of sensation on my skin. William was a glow of life in my
nostrils. I felt the sounds of
Passepartout in my mouth and scented Rebecca with my fingers. Fogg's passionate mind enflamed me and my
own body's fires ignited from holding all of them within.
It
went on for an eternity and it was over in a moment, then the Aurora floated
calmly over the English Channel as it had countless times before. A sailing clipper made way below.
Now
I am home in Paris once again and this journal is completed. It was an amazing journey, a revealing
journey, but I would think twice before embarking on such a trip again.