25 Ways How Not to Make a Time Machine by Trevor Jodoin
Chapter 1
The sun rose over the hills and traversed the long, unkempt grass on the front lawn. Its rays made their way to a lonely, slate-colored library that had boarded up windows and ominous mahogany doors in the front. All the windows were boarded except for one, which sat on the east side facing the park. A thin hand appeared on the window and rubbed away the dust that had collected on it. Wiping in a circular pattern, the hand slowly moved outward, creating a small port hole to see outside. The hand disappeared, being replaced by a light skinned man peering through the window from his antique wheel chair. The old man’s name was Victor Yelp and as he looked out at the park across the lot he was reminded of the past.
During the Great Depression the library was a popular place for children. Victor was a young librarian’s assistant then and he loved everything about books. His favorite subject was science fiction. The likes of Jules Verne’s mesmerizing novels A Journey to the Center of the Earth and From the Earth to the Moon captivated him. And he grew up longing to one day embark on an adventure like those in Verne’s books. Unfortunately, the closest Victor Yelp ever came to journeying to the center of the earth was when he fell into a hole at the park, damaging his spine and confining him to a wheel chair. It was then, as a child no older than fourteen, that he realized his only adventures would be the ones he had in the library. Over the years he continued to work and eventually became the head librarian. However, as time went on, the town government saw less and less use for the library and began to cut its funding. The library began to deteriorate as Victor was unable to perform all the upkeep required to maintain the expansive it. And soon it was just Victor and the books alone in the library.
* * *
“Abigail, could you bring me the cream?” asked her father.
Abigail opened the refrigerator and grabbed the carton. The door slammed shut behind her as she made her way to the table. She placed the cream in front of her father and sat down.
He glanced up from his copy of the morning paper. “Why are you smiling at me like that?” he said.
“Do you know what today is?” she said.
He glanced at the date on the paper as he returned to his article. “It’s August 23rd. So?” he said.
“It’s Monday.”
“Yeah. And?” he said.
“You said last week that you would take me to the library.”
“I did? I don’t remember saying that,” he said grinning from behind his paper.
Although he hid behind the paper she knew he was kidding. “You do too, now let’s go!”
“Fine, but I have to be back soon because I have a call with my publisher at noon.”
Abigail felt slightly disappointed but reminded to herself that some time at the library was better than none.
“Okay, I’m going to go put my boots on and then we’ll go,” she said.
“Wait. Why do you need to wear your boots?”
“Because we are going to walk through to park and the grass is wet,” she said.
“Can’t we just drive? It’ll be faster and you can have more time at the library.”
“No, I would rather walk. Besides, the car would take longer ‘cause you have to go around the huge park. The library is right across from us through the park,” she said and turned on her heel, ending the discussion. Abigail walked through the doorway into the living room on her way upstairs.
Her father craned his neck around his paper to look at the empty doorway.
“Can’t I at least finish my coffee before we go?” he called to her.
Abigail reappeared in the doorway and stared at her father with her arms crossed. She held the stare for a few seconds and then walked over to the cupboard. She opened it and grabbed a travel mug from the lowest shelf. Turning back to her father she tossed it underhand to him. He barely caught it before it knocked over his coffee, and looked at her unenthused.
She smiled and took off through the doorway and up the stairs.
The grass was soggy beneath Abigail’s boots as she and her father trekked across the large expanse of park before them. Abigail tried to listen for singing birds in the morning air but all she could hear was loud sipping coming from her father as he drank his coffee. Abigail thought he looked so content reading the tribune and drinking his coffee that she decided not to disturb him.
They had walked more than half the distance to the library and Abigail could start to see more details in the library. The windows were all blacked out except for one. She focused on it, squinting, and could see a glowing circle of light in the window where someone must have wiped away the dust. It was strange, but Abigail became more excited just knowing that someone was inside.
The sloshing of Abigail’s boots fell silent as they came to the cool cement on the edge of the parking lot. Abigail could feel the rough surface of the asphalt in the parking lot through her boots. Making their way onto the opposing side walk adjacent to the library, they passed a black car. The car was pristine with classic white-wall tires and metal bumpers that shined in the morning light.
“What kind of car is that, dad?” she asked.
Her father looked it over and said, “It’s an old Cadillac. Probably from the 1950s,” he said.
“I wonder who owns it.”
He looked through the driver’s side window and studied the steering wheel. “Well whoever owns it, they’re a paraplegic,” he said.
“What is that?” she said.
“Someone whose legs don’t work.”
They walked around to the front of the library, which was held up by two carved pillars. Abigail compared them to the arms of Atlas holding up the world. The twin doors that sat at the top of the three steps were carved from a mahogany tree and were as heavy as one. They walked up the steps and Abigail’s father tried to open the doors. It was no use.
“Maybe it isn’t open yet. Maybe we should come back another day,” he said.
He looked back at Abigail, a vacant expression on her face.
“I’m sorry, Abigail. Do you want me to take you to get waffles? We’ll come back after,” he said.
Abigail looked past her father and scanned the faded double doors as a scientist studies lab rats. Raising her left fist up behind her head she brought it down hard on the door, making a loud thud that echoed like a pile of books that had fallen from a great height. She waited and listened, pressing her ear to the wood. The wood was warm against her skin despite the frigid morning air. Backing up she knocked again. And again. As her hand rose for yet another knock, a noise came from behind the door’s knob.
The door receded and in its place stood a wheel chair, with an old bearded man in it. A dark gray blanket was draped over the man’s lap, covering everything but his two brown plaid socks. His eyes focused on Abigail’s pink boots and moved up her body, arriving at her small heart-shaped face. The old man’s eyes were like sink holes, where small pools of muddied water had formed. His glasses magnified them and Abigail thought it made him look funny.
“May I help you?” asked the old man in a raspy voice, looking to Abigail’s father.
“This,” said Abigail’s father standing behind her with his hands on her shoulders, “is Abigail. We just moved here a few weeks ago and she has been begging me to visit the library since we got here. Could we poke around for a few minutes?”
The old man withdrew his stare from the father and moved down to Abigail, who was sporting a huge smile. He sat for a minute just staring and then he licked his lips and spoke.
“Who is your favorite author?” he asked Abigail.
Abigail drew back her smile and was quiet. She lowered her head and thought. Looking back up at the old man she smiled again and said, “My favorite author is H. G. Wells, mister.”
The old man did not react at first but after a few seconds his face relaxed. “He,” leaning in towards Abigail, “is a very gifted writer. My name is Victor Yelp and I am the librarian,” he said holding out an old hand.
She shook his hand, which was warm and inviting, and stepped forward as he wheeled himself back from the door. Her father grabbed the door and held it open as she walked in. She was mystified as she stood in the library’s lobby. The lobby was dimly lit by a tarnished silver chandelier that hung from the ceiling. A large upholstered couch with arms like gnarled tree branches sat on one side of the lobby. On either side of it sat two weathered end tables made of mahogany. Their legs looked incapable of moving as they were tangled with thick cobwebs, almost as if they had been ensnared by spiders. The entire lobby had been clouded by a mist of unsettled dust. Abigail saw that all the furniture was powdered with a fresh layer of dust like a stack of hot cakes at the diner. She was excited to see what the rest of the library looked like, which couldn’t be any less exciting than the lobby.
Abigail continued to follow Victor as he wheeled through the large doorway that led into the library. Although the library was well lit compared to the lobby, there were still some dark areas but Abigail felt that the dark expanses of the library were more inviting rather than frightening. There were rows upon rows of shelves that were completely filled with novels, autobiographies, anthologies, and every other genre of book in the word. No shelf space was left untouched by a book, or dust for that matter. Along with every shelf came an amount of dust equal to its size, which judging by the height of some of the bookcases, was quite a lot. Every so often the line of dust that sat on the edge of each shelf was broken by the removal of a book. A section of dust was completely gone as if the book itself was dragging its bottom, unwilling to be taken from its final resting place.
Victor stopped in front of the gigantic librarian’s desk in front of them and wheeled himself around to face Abigail and her father. They both stood and took a moment to admire the library’s decorative interior. Abigail began to fidget as she looked with anticipation at all the books on all the shelves. Her father noticed this and knelt down, tapping her on the shoulder. She turned to him and he said, “Abigail, maybe you should ask Mr. Yelp where you can find the science section.”
Abigail turned to Mr. Yelp but before she could open her mouth, he stopped her.
“It is right over there, Abigail,” he said pointing a long finger over to a towering group of book shelves to their left.
She smiled, gave a sort of half curtsy and ran off down one of the aisles, leaving her father and Victor alone at the front desk.
Running past bookcase after bookcase Abigail began to grow tired, seeing that the section Victor had pointed out to her was much further than she anticipated. Her run turned into a jog and eventually as she approached the soaring bookcases it became a walk. The bookcases were long and seemed to go on forever even though she had run so far already. She held her arms out as she walked, fingering the spines of the books as she walked down the aisle. The bookcases were fairly close together for an adult, but were a good enough distance for a ten-year-old girl to open her arms. She closed her eyes and focused on the tips of her fingers glazing over each book. Some of them felt rough and worn, others were smooth, some stuck out further than the one before it, and some were sunken in. Eventually she came to a big book that was much larger than the rest on the shelf and it stuck out a good 3 inches above the rest. Abigail’s fingers got caught on its large spine, stopping her. She opened her eyes and looked at the book, turning her head sideways she read from the spine, Traversing Timelines.
She lifted the book up and removed it from the shelf. As she held it she realized it was much smaller than she had anticipated. Other than the title, the book did not seem very interesting to Abigail. The cover was old and the edges were beaten, most likely from being dropped by kids. Aiming at the vacant space in the book shelf she proceeded to replace the book, but as she did she noticed something peculiar. In the empty space, far in the back where the light could not reach sat another book. Abigail stuck her free hand into the book case, retrieving the lost book and putting the other one back in its place. The book was smooth and felt almost new in her hands. Its cover was a dark, forest green hue with gold swirls around the edges. The book’s title, however, was what intrigued Abigail the most. Impressed in gold was the title, 25 Ways How Not to Make a Time Machine. It was surprising to her that the author’s name was not on the cover. Despite its visibly old appearance, the book’s title was modern. Sparked by curiosity, Abigail opened the book, hoping to find the author’s name. She found it on the first page, under the title.
“Dr. Mason Emmitt Weber, PhD,” she read.
She flipped the page but before reading it she got into a more comfortable spot, sitting down on the carpeted floor with her back pressed against the bookcase and her legs pulled into her chest with the book resting on her knees. She continued. The next page was completely blank except for a small note, a dedication:
To my Emma,
I hope that I can forgive myself just as you always have.
Abigail felt the ink of the dedication typed on the page, her fingertip sensing the emotion that was buried beneath each word. Her finger floated down to the bottom of the page and turned it. Abigail read to herself:
If you are looking for a manuscript discussing the possibility of traversing time and space I suggest you inquire your local librarian for securing a print of The Time Machine: A True Success by Dr. Daniel O’Connell, PhD or Traversing Timelines by Professor Henry P. Lars. These are exceptional books that may afford greater knowledge on the subject. On the other hand, if you are in the mood for inventing then this is a book for you.
When I first began my research on time travel in 1955, I discovered early on that the key to success was based in the approach. Throughout the history of human life, assumptions have been derived about the nature of time. I first had to relinquish these assumptions, starting with a “tabula rasa” to base my hypotheses from. My very first assumption was the relevance of both time and space. If we are to travel through time we must also be mindful of space, or the area in which we travel. When I refer to area I literally mean the place that we are in when we travel through time. For instance, if we elected to travel to the year 1920 while standing on the Golden Gate Bridge we would more than likely fall 220 feet into the San Francisco Bay after successfully traveling to that time. It is for that reason that I chose to investigate space traveling. Before delving any further into my first experiment I would like to reiterate here that none of these inventions will lead to the creation of a time machine.
Sitting on the floor in the soft light of the library Abigail felt inspired by the author’s words just as she had when she read H. G. Wells. This, however, was a different type of inspiration. When she read this it gave her motivation to design gadgets from ideas she had to make life more convenient, albeit kiddy things, like an automated tooth brush. With a little science, she thought, I can do anything I set my mind to. Unfortunately, she didn’t know anything about science other than what she read in fiction. Turning the page, she continued to read, but there was only a small paragraph at the top of the next page. It said:
The Transpatiumator
The Transpatiumator is a device that has the ability to move a single inanimate or living organism from one location to another location. The range of the device is rather short, about a ten foot radius, but be wary not to move to a space another object is occupying as you may find yourself partially inside of it. Included below are several sets of drawings and designs as well as a list of supplies and equipment necessary to build the Transpatiumator. Please refer to the safety protocols before performing any test runs.
Abigail flipped through the next few pages, studying the drawings and reading the side notes left by the author. Most of the notes were confusing to her but she felt confident as she looked at the pages and somewhat understood the meaning of the figures. She came to the page listing the materials, most of which she was unfamiliar with even though she had read countless science fiction novels. As she read through them some strains of hair fell into her line of sight, covering the words. She touched her hand to her forehead and moved it down her face until she caught the hairs and pulled them back behind her ear. Far off she heard a sound, like a voice in a dense fog shouting. She lifted her head and listened for a moment, then rushed to her feet.
“Abigail! Abigail, where are you? We have to be going!” said her father.
Abigail ran back up to the front desk and stopped a little short. “Sorry Daddy, I just found this book and started reading it. Here have a look,” she said handing it to him.
“No, that’s okay. I’ll take a look later. We need to be going,” he said. “How do we go about checking out the book?”
Victor held out his hand to Abigail and she handed him the book. He lifted his glasses from where they hung in front of him and read the title. He looked at her and gave a subtle smile, “You don’t need to do anything. She can take it as long as she promises to bring it back soon,” he said.
“Thank you very much. I promise you she will. I’ll make sure of it. Come along Abigail,” said her father walking toward the door.
Abigail took the book from Victor but before he left go of it he whispered to her, “bring it back tomorrow and I will tell you about the author,” he said. She smiled at him excited and turned on her heel to go catch her father, who was holding the door for her.
* * *
Victor waved to them both as the door slowly closed and the light vanished from the lobby once again. He wheeled himself around the front desk and positioned himself in front of a small drawer. He opened the drawer and there, lying inside, was a small novel. He picked it up, both hands shaking from old age, and laid it down on the desktop. With his left hand he pulled back the cover and ran the palm of his right hand through the gutter of the page, creasing it to stay open. He began reading: The year 1866 was marked by a strange occurrence, an unexpected and inexplicable phenomenon that surely no one has forgotten.
