
Once Upon a Time. . . 5
If Kujabi had been able to see it, he might have noticed that the creature
walked in a perfectly straight line. If he could also have brought himself to
follow the being that seemed to be made up from pieces of other creatures,
he might have identified some of the parts – one arm from an orang-utan,
the other apparently human, the legs of another massive ape, the head of a
Neanderthal but with a reptilian jaw, a body covered with hair but rippled
with pustules and erupting with scars and damaged tissue. . . If he had lived
four hundred years later, Kujabi might have realised that Death carried a
briefcase.
But Kujabi was dragging the antelope he had killed back to the village.
The creature’s mind was only on its mission. It had barely noticed the life
form that had blundered into its way and been thrown aside – ripped apart
by the Time Winds as it fell back unprotected into the portal. There was no
change in the ebb and flow of History, therefore the event was unimportant.
The creature hardly felt the forest plants and small trees that it trampled
through on its way to the exact, calculated point. It perceived nothing but the
manner in which Time was flowing around it, how everything was changing
and evolving, how the tiniest impact of one atom on another set up minia-
ture chain reactions of cause and effect that nudged History forwards and
determined its course.
The Agent stopped at exactly the right point in the forest, and put down
the briefcase. It was the sort of metal briefcase that might in centuries to
come contain a camera. Or a gun. A hirsute paw undid one of the clasps.
The creature’s near-human fingers undid the other. Its mismatched hands
reached into the case and took from the foam-padded interior a crystal box.
The scorching African sun reflected off the angled transparency of the lid as
the Agent slid it aside. Surprisingly gently, the creature reached a paw into
the box and carefully lifted out the delicate form within.
Then: a hand held up, the sun behind it in the sky. Fingers slowly opening
at the exact moment, at the exact point in space. A hesitation no greater than
a child’s breath, and then the butterfly was free. Its paper-thin wings beat
gently as it lifted itself into the air, dark red against the brilliant yellow of the
sun and the blue of the sky. It fluttered along its predicted course without a
care in the world. Without a notion of what it was achieving. Without any
consciousness of the part it might be playing on Time’s stage.
The Agent watched the butterfly disappear into the distance. Despite the
fact that it had no real existence in the world, the Agent could feel. Some-