Michael Moorcock - The Time Dweller

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The Time Dweller

A short stories collection by Michael Moorcock

Version 1.0

THE TIME DWELLER

DUSK HAD COME to the universe, albeit the small universe

inhabited by Man. The sun of Earth had dimmed, the moon

had retreated and salt clogged the sluggish oceans, filled the

rivers that toiled slowly between white, crystalline banks, beneath

darkened, moody skies that slumbered in eternal evening.

Of course, in the sun's long life this stage was merely one

interlude. In perhaps a few thousand years, it would flare to

full splendour again. But for the meantime it kept its light

in close rein, grumbling in its mighty depths and preparing

itself for the next step in its evolution.

It had taken time in its fading and those few creatures who

had remained on its planets had managed to adapt. Among them

was Man, indefatigable; undeserving, really, considering the

lengths he had gone to, in previous epochs, to dispose of him-

self. But here he was, in his small universe consisting of one

planet without even the satellite which had slid away into space

long since and, in its passing, left legends on his lips.

Brown clouds, brown light, brown rocks and brown ocean

flecked with white. A pale rider on a pale beast thumping

along the shore, the dry taste of ocean salt in his mouth, the

stink of a dead oozer in his nostrils.

His name was the Scar-faced Brooder, son of the Sleepy-

eyed Smiler, his father and the Pinch-cheeked Worrier, his

mother. The seal-beast he rode was called Urge. Its glossy coat

was still sleek with the salt-rain that had recently ceased, its

snout pointed eagerly forward and its two strong leg-fins

thwacked the encrusted shore as it galloped along, dragging its

razor-edged tail with scant effort. The Scar-faced Brooder was

supported on his steed's sloping back by a built-up saddle of

polished silicon that flashed whenever it reflected the salt-

patches studding the ground like worn teeth. In his head, held

at its butt by a stirrup grip, was his long gun, the piercer with

an everlasting ruby as its life. He was dressed in sealskin dyed

in sombre rust-red and dark yellow.

Behind him, the Scar-faced Brooder heard the sound of

another rider, one whom he had tried to avoid since morning.

Now, as evening quietly flowed brown and misty into black

night, she still followed, He turned his calm face to look, his

mouth tight and white as the scar which rose from its corner to

follow his left cheek-bone. She was in the distance, still, but

gaining.

He increased his speed.

Brown clouds boiled low like foam across the dark sand of

the flat, and their seals slapped loudly over the damp shore as

she neared him.

He came to a pool of salt-thick water and Urge splashed into

it. It was warm. Still she followed him, even into the water, so

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that he turned his steed and waited, half-trembling, until she

rode up, a tall, well-formed woman with light brown hair long

and loose in the breeze.

' Dearest Tall Laugher,' he told his sister, ' for me there is

no amusement in this game.'

Frowning, she smiled.

He pressed his point, disturbed, his calm face earnest in the

fading brown light that was all the clouds would let pass.

' I wish to ride alone.'

'Where would you go, alone, when together we might be

carried to more exotic adventure ?'

He paused, unwilling and unable to answer.

' Will you come back?'

' I would prefer not to,'

A cold, silent wind began to buffet them as it came in sud-

denly from the sea. Urge moved nervously.

' You fear what the Chronarch might do?'

'The Chronarch has no love for me-but neither has he

hatred. He would prefer me gone from Lanjis Liho, to cross the

great salt plains of the west and seek my fortune in the land

of fronds. He would not trust me with a small part of the

Future, as you know, nor give a fraction of the Past into my

safekeeping. I go to shape my own destiny!'

' So - you sulk!' she cried as the wind began to mewl.' You

sulk because the Chronarch delegates no honours. Meanwhile,

your loving sister aches and is miserable.'

'Marry the Big-brained Boaster! He has trust of Past and

Future both!'

He forced his restless seal-beast through the thick water and

into the night. As it moved, he reached into the saddle sheath

and took out his torch to light his way. He depressed its grip

and it blazed out, illuminating the surrounding beach for several

yards around. Turning, he saw her for a moment in the circle of

light, motionless, her eyes aghast as if he had betrayed her.

Oh, I am lonely now, he thought, as the wind blew cold and

strong against his body.

He headed inland, over the salt-rocks, towards the west. He

rode all night until his eyes were heavy with tiredness, but still

he rode, away from Lanjis Liho where Chronarch, Lord of

Time, ruled past and present and watched the future come,

away from family, home and city, his heart racked with the

strain of the breaking, his mind fevered fire and his body all

stiff from the demands he made of it.

Into the night, into the west, with his torch burning in his

saddle and loyal Urge responding to his affectionate whisper-

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ing. To the west, until dawn came slowly up from behind him

and covered the barren land with soft light.

A little further through the morning he heard a sound as of

cloth flapping in the wind and when he turned his head he saw

a green tent pitched beside a shallow crevasse, its front flap

dancing. He readied his long piercer and halted Urge.

Drawn out, perhaps, by the noise of the seal-beast's move-

ment, a man's head poked from the tent like a tortoise emerg-

ing from the recesses of its shell. He had a beak of a nose and

a fish-like pecker of a mouth, his large eyes were heavy-lidded

and a tight-fitting hood hid hair and neck.

' Aha,' said the Scar-faced Brooder in recognition.

' Hmm,' said the Hooknosed Wanderer, also recognizing the

mounted man confronting him. 'You are some distance from

Lanjis Liho. Where are you bound?'

' For the land of fronds.'

He resheathed his piercer and clambered down from the

high saddle. He passed the tent, its occupant's head craning

round to follow him and stared into the crevasse. It had been

widened and deepened by human tools, revealing pieces of

ancient wreckage.' What's this?'

' Nothing but the remains of a crashed spaceship,' replied

the Hooknosed Wanderer in such obvious disappointment that

he could not have been lying. ' My metal diviner found it and

I had hoped for a capsule with books or film.'

' There were never many of those. I'd say they had all been

gathered by now.'

' That's my belief, too, but one hopes. Have you break-

fasted?'

' No. Thank you.'

The hooded head withdrew into the tent and a thin hand

held back the flap. The Scar-faced Brooder bent and entered

the cluttered tent. There was a great deal of equipment therein;

the Hooknosed Wanderer's livelihood, for he sustained himself

by bartering some of the objects he found with his metal diviner

and other instruments.

' Apparently, you have no riding animal,' said the Scar-faced

Brooder as he sat down and crossed his legs between a soft

bundle and an angular statuette of steel and concrete.

'It was necessary to abandon her when my water was

exhausted and I could find none to replace it. That is why

I was heading for the sea. I am exceedingly thirsty, am suffer-

ing from salt-deficiency since I have no liking for the salt which

grows in these parts.'

' I have plenty in my saddle barrel,' he said. ' Help yourself

- good salt water, slightly diluted with fresh, if that suits your

taste.' He leant back on the bundle as the Wanderer, nodding

sharply, scrambled up, clasping.a canteen and left the tent.

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He returned smiling. ' Thanks. I can last for several days,

now.' He pushed aside his clutter of antiques, discovering a

small stove. He activated it, placed a pan on top and began

frying the leg-fish he had trapped recently.

'Which city was your destination. Brooder? Only two are in

easy reach from here-and both lie still many leagues hence.

Is it Barbart or Piorha?'

' Barbart in the land of fronds, I think, for I should like to

see green vegetation instead of grey or brown. And the ancient

places thereabouts have, I must admit, romantic connotations

for me. I should like to go and wallow in racial memory, sense

the danger of uncontrolled Past, insignificant Present and ran-

dom Future...'

' Some feel it as that,' the Wanderer smiled, shuffling the

leg-fish on to plates. ' Especially those from Lanjis Liho where

the Chronarchy holds sway. But remember, much will be in

your mind. You may see Barbart and the land of fronds, but

its significance will be decided by you, not by it. Try to do as

I do - make no judgments or descriptions of this world of ours.

Do that, and it will treat you better.'

' Your words seem wise, Wanderer, but I have no precedents

by which to judge them. Perhaps when I have placed some of

the Future in the Past, I will know.'

' You seem tired,' said the Wanderer when they were finished

eating,' would you like to sleep?'

'I would. Thanks.' And while the Hooknosed Wanderer

went about his business, the Brooder slept.

He rose in the mellow afternoon, roused Urge who had taken

advantage of his master's slumber to rest also, and wished the

Wanderer goodbye.

' May your blood stay thick,' said the Wanderer formally,

' and your mind remain open.'

He rode away and by dusk had come to the moss which

was primarily grey and brown, but tinted in places with patches

of light green. He took out his torch and fixed it in its saddle

bracket, unwilling to sleep at night because of the potential

danger of predatory life.

Once the light from his torch showed him a school of

oozers, moving at right angles to his path. They were far inland

for their kind, these great white slug-creatures that raised their

heads to observe him. He felt he could hear them sniffing at his

body salt as perhaps their leech ancestors had sniffed out the

blood of his own forefathers. Urge, without prompting, increased

his speed.

As he left them, he felt that the oozers represented the true

native of Earth now. Man's place was no longer easy to define,

but it seemed that he had been superseded. By remaining alive

on the salt-heavy Earth he was outstaying his welcome. If there

was another home for Man, it did not lie here but in some

other region; perhaps not even the region of space at all but in

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dimensions where natural evolution could not affect him.

Brooding, as was his bent, he continued to ride for Barbart

and, by the following day, had reached the delicate frond

forests that waved golden green in the soft sunlight, all silence

and sweet scent. Urge's bounding gait became almost merry

as they fled over the cushions of moss between the shaded

spaces left by the web-thin fronds waving and flowing in the

gusts of air which occasionally swept the forest.

He dismounted soon and lay back on a bank of comfortable

moss, breathing the scented breeze in luxurious self-indulgence.

His mind began to receive disjointed images, he heard his

sister's voice, the sonorous tones of the Chronarch denying him

a function in the House of Time-a function which he had

expected as of right, for had not his grand-uncle been the

previous Chronarch? He saw the twisting many dimensioned

Tower of Time, that wonder-work of an ancient architect with

its colours and strange, moving angles and curves. And then he

slept.

When he awoke it was night and Urge was hooting at him

to wake. He got up sleepily and hauled himself into the saddle,

settled himself, reached for his torch and adjusting it rode

through what seemed to be a network of black and stirring

threads that were the fronds seen in the cold torchlight.

The next morning he could see the low-roofed houses of

Barbart lying in a valley walled by gentle hills. High above

the roofs, a great contrivance of burnished brass glowered like

rich red gold. He speculated momentarily upon its function.

Now a road became evident, a hard track winding among

the moss dimes and leading towards the city. As he followed

it he heard the muffled thud of a rider approaching and,

somewhat wary for he knew little of Barbart or its inhabitants,

reined in Urge, his piercer ready.

Riding towards him on a heavy old walrus came a young man,

long-haired and pleasant-featured in a jerkin of light blue

that matched his eyes. He stopped the walrus and looked quizzi-

cally at the Scar-faced Brooder.

' Stranger,' he said cheerfully, ' it is a pleasant morning.'

'Yes it is-and a pleasant land you dwell in. Is that city

Barbart?'

'Barbart, certainly. There's none other hereabouts. From

where are you?'

' From Lanjis Liho by the sea.'

' I had the inkling that men from Lanjis Liho never travelled

far.'

' I am the first. My name is the Scar-faced Brooder.'

'Mine is Domm and I welcome you to Barbart. I would

escort you there save for the fact that I have a mission from

my mother to seek herbs among the fronds. I am already late,

I fear. What time is it?'

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' Time? Why the present, of course.'

' Ha! Ha! But the hour - what is that?'

'What is "the hour"?' asked the Brooder, greatly puzzled.

' That's my question.'

' I am afraid your local vernacular is beyond me,' said the

Brooder politely, but nonplussed. The lad's question had been

strange to begin with, but now it had become incomprehen-

sible.

' No matter,' Domm decided with a smile.' I have heard you

people of Lanjis Liho have some peculiar customs. I will not

delay you. Follow the road and you should be in Barbart in less

than an hour.'

' Hour' - the word again. Was it some division of the league

used here? He gave up wondering and wished the youth ' thick

blood' as he rode on.

The mosaiced buildings of Barbart were built in orderly

geometric patterns about the central quadrangle in which lay

the towering machine of burnished brass with its ridges and

knobs and curlicues. Set in the centre of the machine was a

great round plaque, divided into twelve units with each unit of

twelve divided into a further five units. From the centre arose

two pointers, one shorter than the other and the Scar-faced

Brooder saw them move slowly. As he rode through Barbart, he

noticed that facsimiles of this object were everywhere and he

judged, at last, that it was some holy object or heraldic device.

Barbart seemed a pleasant place, though with a somewhat

restless atmosphere epitomized by the frantic market-place where

men and women rushed from stall to stall shouting at one

another, tugging at bales of bright cloth, fingering salt-free

fruits and vegetables, pawing meats and confectioneries amid

the constant babble of the vendors crying their wares.

Enjoying the scene, the Scar-faced Brooder led his seal-beast

through the square and discovered a tavern in one of the side

plazas. The plaza itself contained a small fountain in its centre

and benches and tables had been placed close by outside the

tavern. The Brooder seated himself upon one of these and gave

' his order to the fat girl who came to ask it.

'Beer?' she said, folding her plump, brown arms over her

red bodice. 'We have only a little and it is expensive. The

fermented peach juice is. cheaper.'

'Then bring me that,' he said pleasantly and turned to

watch the thin fountain water, noting that it smelt of brine

hardly at all.

Hearing, perhaps, a strange accent, a man emerged from

the shadowy doorway of the tavern and, tankard in hand, stood

looking down at the Scar-faced Brooder, an amiable expression

on his face.

' Where are you from, traveller?' he asked.

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The Brooder told him and the Barbartian seemed surprised.

He seated himself on another bench.

' You are the second visitor from strange parts we have had

here in a week. The other was an emissary from Moon. They

have changed much, those Moonites, you know. Tall, they are,

and thin as a frond with aesthetic faces. They dress in cloth of

metal. He told us he had sailed space for many weeks to reach

us...'

At this second reference to the unfamiliar word ' week', the

Brooder turned his head to look at the Barbartian. ' Forgive

me,' he said,' but as a stranger I am curious at certain words I

have heard here. What would you mean by " week " exactly?'

' Why - a week - seven days - what else?'

The Brooder laughed apologetically. 'There you are, you

see. Another word - days. What is a days?'

The Barbartian scratched his head, a wry expression on his

face. He was a middle-aged man with a slight stoop, dressed

in a robe of yellow cloth. He put down his tankard and raised

his hand. ' Come with me and I will do my best to show you.'

' That would please me greatly,' said the Brooder gratefully.

He finished his wine and called for the girl. When she appeared

he asked her to take care of his steed and to make him up a bed

since he would be staying through the next darkness.

The Barbartian introduced himself as Mokof, took the

Brooder's arm and led him through the series of squares,

triangles and circles formed by the buildings, to come at length

to the great central plaza and stare up at the pulsing, monstrous

machine of burnished bronze.

' This machine supplies the-city with its life,' Mokof informed

him.' And also regulates our lives.' He pointed at the disc which

the Brooder had noted earlier. ' Do you know what that is, my

friend?'

' No. I am afraid I do not. Could you explain?'

' It's a clock. It measures the hours of the day,' he broke off,

noting the Brooder's puzzlement. ' That is to say it measures

time.'

'Ah! I am with you at last. But a strange device, surely,

for it cannot measure a great deal of time with that little

circular dial. How does it note the flow...?'

' We call a period of sunlight" day " and a period of darkness

" night." We divide each into twelve hours -'

'Then the period of sunlight and the period of darkness

are equal? I had thought...'

'No, we call them equal for convenience, since they vary.

The twelve divisions are called hours. When the hands reach

twelve, they begin to count around again...'

'Fantastic!' the Brooder was astounded. 'You mean you

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recycle the same period of time round and round again. A

marvellous idea. Wonderful! I had not thought it possible.'

'Not exactly,' Mokof said patiently. 'However, the hours

are divided into sixty units. These are called minutes. The

minutes are also divided into sixty units, each unit is called a

second. The seconds are...'

'Stop! Stop! I am confounded, bewildered, dazzled! How

do you control the flow of time that you can thus manipulate

it at will? You must tell me. The Chronarch in Lanjis Liho

would be overawed to learn of your discoveries!'

'You fail to understand, my friend. We do not control time.

If anything, it controls us. We simply measure it.'

'You don't control...but if that's so why- ?' The Brooder

broke off, unable to see the logic of the Barbartian's words.

'You tell me you recycle a given period of time which you

divided into twelve. And yet you then tell me you recycle a

shorter period and then an even shorter period. It would soon

become apparent if this were true, for you would be performing

the same action over and over again and I see you are not. Or,

if you were using the same time without being in its power,

the sun would cease to move across the sky and I see it still

moves. Given that you can release yourself from the influence of

time, why am I not conscious of it since that instrument,' he

pointed at the dock, 'exerts its influence over the entire city.

Or, again, if it is a natural talent, why are we in Lanjis Liho so

busily concerned with categorizing and investigating our

researches into the flow if you have mastered it so completely?'

A broad smile crossed the face of Mokof. He shook his head.

'I told you-we have no mastery over it. The instrument

merely tells us what time it is.'

' That is ridiculous,' the Brooder said, dazed. His brain fought

to retain its sanity. ' There is only the present. Your words are

illogical!'

Mokof stared at his face in concern. ' Are you unwell?'

' I'm well enough. Thank you for the trouble you have taken,

I will return to the tavern now, before I lose all hold of sanity!'

The clutter in his head was too much. Mokof made a state-

ment and then denied it in the same breath. He decided he

would cogitate it over a meal.

When he reached the tavern he found the door closed and

no amount of banging could get those inside to open it. He

noticed that his saddle and saddle-bags were resting outside

and he knew he had some food in one of the bags, so he sat on

the bench and began to munch on a large hunk of bread.

Suddenly, from above him, he heard a cry and looking up he

saw an old woman's head regarding him from a top-storey

window.

' Ah!' she cried.' Aah! What are you doing?'

' Why, eating this piece of bread, madame,' he said in sur-

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prise.

' Filthy!' she shrieked.' Filthy, immoral pig!'

'Really, I fail to-'

'Watch! Watch!' the old woman cried from the window,

Very swiftly, three armed men came running into the plaza.

They screwed up their faces in disgust when they saw the Scar-

faced Brooder.

'A disgusting exhibitionist as well as a pervert!' said the

leader.

They seized the startled Brooder.

' What's happening?' he gasped. ' What have I done?'

' Ask the judge,' snarled one of his captors and they hauled

him towards the central plaza and took him to a tall house

which appeared to be their headquarters.

There he was flung into a cell and they went away.

An overdressed youth in the next cell said with a grin:

' Greetings, stranger. What's your offence?"

' I have no idea,' said the Brooder. ' I merely sat down to

have my lunch when, all at once...'

' Your lunch? But it is not lunch-time for another ten

minutes!'

' Lunch-time. You mean you set aside a special period to

eat — oh, this is too much for me.'

The overdressed youth drew away from the bars and went

to the other side of his cell, his nose wrinkling in disgust.' Ugh

-you deserve the maximum penalty for a crime like that!"

Sadly puzzled, the Brooder sat down on his bench, com-

pletely mystified and hopeless. Evidently the strange customs

of these people were connected with their clock which seemed

to be a virtual deity to them. If the hands did not point to

a certain figure when you did something, then that act became

an offence. He wondered what the maximum penalty would be.

Very much later, the guards came to him and made him walk

through a series of corridors and into a room where a man in

a long purple gown wearing a metallic mask was seated at a

carved table. The guards made the Brooder sit before the man

and then they went and stood by the door.

The masked man said in a sonorous voice: ' You have been

accused of eating outside the proper hour and of doing it in a

public place for all to see. A serious charge. What is your

defence?'

' Only that I am a stranger and do not understand your

customs,' said the Brooder.

' A poor excuse. Where are you from?'

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' From Lanjis Liho by the sea.'

' I have heard rumours of the immoralities practised there.

You will learn that you cannot bring your filthy habits to another

city and hope to continue with them. I will be lenient with

you, however and sentence you to one year in the antique

mines.'

' But it is unjust!'

'Unjust, is it? Watch your tongue or I will extend the

sentence!'

Depressed and without hope, the Brooder allowed the guards

to take him back to his cell.

The night passed and morning came and then the guards

arrived. ' Get up,' said the leader,' the judge wishes to see you

again!'

' Does he intend to increase my sentence, after all?'

'Ask him.'

The judge was tapping his desk nervously as the Brooder

and his guards entered.

' You know of machines in Lanjis Liho, do you not? You

have some strange ones I've heard. Do you wish to be released?'

' I wish to be released, of course. Yes, we know something of

machines, but...'

' Our Great Regulator is out of control. I would not be sur-

prised if your crime did not provide the shock which caused it

to behave erratically. Something has gone wrong with its life

core and we may have to evacuate Barbart if it cannot be

adjusted. We have forgotten our old knowledge of machines.

If you adjust the Great Regulator, we shall let you go. Without

it, we do not know when to sleep, eat or perform any of our

other functions. We shall go mad if we lose its guidance!'

Scarcely understanding the rest of the judge's statement, the

Brooder heard only the fact that he was to be released if he

mended their machine. On the other hand, he had left Lanjis

Liho for the very reason that the Chronarch would not give

him trust of any instruments. He had little experience, yet, if

it meant his release, he would try.

When he arrived again in the central plaza, he noted that the

machine of burnished bronze - the Great Regulator, they called

it - was making a peculiar grumbling noise and shaking mightily.

Around it, trembling in unison, stood a dozen old men, waving

their hands.

' Here is the man from Lanjis Liho!' called the guard. They

looked anxiously at the Scar-faced Brooder.

' The life-core. It must certainly be the life-core,' said an

ancient, tugging at his jerkin.

'Let me see,' said the Scar-faced Brooder, not at all sure that

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file:///G|/rah/Michael%20Moorcock/Michael%20Moorcock%20-%20The%20Time%20Dweller.txtTheTimeDwellerAshortstoriescollectionbyMichaelMoorcockVersion1.0THETIMEDWELLERDUSKHADCOMEtotheuniverse,albeitthesmalluniverseinhabitedbyMan.ThesunofEarthhaddimmed,themoonhadretreatedandsaltcloggedthesluggishoceans,fi...

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Michael Moorcock - The Time Dweller.pdf

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Michael Moorcock - The Time Dweller

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