An Itch In Time

Since my last blog, I have been . . . 'away'. Well, that doesn't really do what I have been up to any justice at all. The thing is, I have been time travelling. No, really, I have. Allow me to explain:

A few weeks ago I was walking my sister's dog through a local wood, when a panicked man holding a bag to his chest came bursting out from a bush. He looked in a bad way and kept looking over his shoulder. Then an odd thing happened: he looked me up and down and, appearing to recognise me, grabbed me by both shoulders and dragged me behind a tree. He crouched and took what can only really be described as a contraption out of the bag. There were lots of wires and what I decided to call 'nodes' and other bits and pieces but in the middle of it all was a black sphere, about the size of a mango. He placed my hands on the sphere and pressed his hands on top. He closed his eyes and muttered something to himself. How do I describe what happened then? Reality appeared to shimmer. When it stopped shimmering, the woods had vanished. In its place was the living room of a house. I say it was a living room as it was on the ground floor and at the front, but there was no furniture: just bare floorboards. My sister's dog barked once and then began sniffing his new environment with a critical nose.

"What the f-" was as far as I got. The man I was with went for the front door and was halfway down the path when I pulled him back by his collar. I wanted to know what had just happened. I mean, wouldn't you? He glanced around him, nervously, and reluctantly pushed me back inside the house where, I got the impression, he was about to tell me something but only once.

It seemed the sphere with all the wires and other clever-looking stuff was a machine for travelling in time and space. Apparently, all humans are capable but that part of our brains which can do it is so out of use it's effectively useless. What the sphere did, according to the man, was amplify our normal abilities. All you have to do is lay your hands on it and concentrate on where or 'when' you want to go.

Had I not just been transported from the woods to . . . wherever I was, I might have struggled to believe him.

"But if I were you I'd forget all about that bloody contraption," he warned, "and get the bus home. We're not far from where I found you. Where exactly I cannot say. I am sure you can manage."

He turned to leave again but I slammed the door shut in front of him. He bowed his head and sighed.

"Who or what were you running from, and why did you bring me here at all?" I asked.

"There are people who want that machine and they'll do anything to get it. They were close behind me but I bought a little time. If they had caught me and seen you anywhere nearby we'd have been been in for it."

With that, he opened the door and was gone.

I paced the room for twenty minutes while the dog slept. At least I think he slept. He was snoring but he had his eyes open.

But I digress. I put the machine back in the bag and got the bus back home. I dropped the dog off with my sister and spent the rest of the day wondering what to do next. But, what would you have done? You'd have tried it out. I was always going to; I don't know why it took me so long. I rested my hands on the sphere, closed my eyes, and thought -- hard.

My eyes were still closed when I felt the atmosphere change. I was obviously outside, somewhere hot and busy. I opened my eyes and had to blink in the bright light. I was in a market. The ground was dusty and everyone was dressed in robes and sandals. I ducked into the shade of an alley beside me and fought to slow my racing heart.

It had worked!

Opposite me was an opening and I felt an urge to step into it. I did so. The interior of the building was dark compared to the oppressive glare of the sun and much cooler. There was straw on the ground, a wooden table scattered with wood chippings and tools. I had only been there for no more than thirty seconds when a voice asked me if it could help me.

I say that is what it said, but the thing is -- and I cannot fully explain this -- it spoke in a foreign language I didn't even recognise yet I understood it perfectly. Even odder, I replied in English and my companion understood that too.

"Can I help you?"

The man who had walked in from a back room had dark skin, like an Arab, long, black hair and a tight beard growing from his face.

"Um . . ." I said.

"Well?"

"Are you . . ."

"Am I who?"

"You're . . ."

"I'm . . ."

"Jesus?"

"Who wants to know?"

I wasn't expecting that. I stuttered a little. How would I even begin? As it turned out, I didn't have to.

"Time traveller?"

I was incredulous.

"Look, I'll tell you what I told the others, I'm not interested."

"Not interested in what?" I asked, when I had recovered the power of speech.

"Your warnings about the future. I've heard them all."

"Do you mean to say you've been visited by time travellers before?"

Jesus laughed.

"You're joking, right? You don't really think you're the only one who's had this idea?"

"Well, I . . ."

"The angel Gabrielle who visited my mum: time traveller. The three wise men: time travellers. Now I am approaching my thirties I get about half a dozen a week through here."

"And what do they say?"

"Don't do it, mostly. Stick with the carpentry."

"You don't think that might be a good idea?"

"Why?"

"Well," I said, not knowing exactly where to begin, "all those religious wars. All those people tortured and murdered for you. Doesn't that bother you?"

Jesus rounded the work table that had been between us and pointed a finger at my face.

"Look, mate. I'm not taking the blame for any of that. Whatever people do in the future is their responsibility, not mine."

"But, surely," I tried to reason, but he had heard all possible arguments before.

"What do you think will happen if I keep my head down and don't get involved? That you'll return to your year and find love and light everywhere? No wars, no terrorism? Do me a favour! People are people. They'll find other causes to kill each other over." Then he paused and looked at me, quizzically. "What year you from?"

"2008."

"Right," he nodded, grinning. "Give it another thirty years and the biggest war humans ever have will kick off and I won't have anything to do with it."

"What's the war about then if it isn't religion?"

Jesus picked up a chisel and a hammer and stood over a lump of wood.

"The environment. That's right," he added, seeing the look on my face. "Global warming."

"There is going to be a war about global warming?"

"Yeah," he said, laughing, ironically. "It'll be the new religion. Even in the year you're from it's already bubbling away. Some poor bastard dares to question the science and he loses his job, gets hate mail, death threats . . . and the best bit is it's got absolutely nothing to do with me. It's just another cause people can attach themselves to. Another outlet for their fear, hate and conceit. Save the word? They can't even save themselves. Pathetic."

"And people die in this war?"

"It's a war, ain't it?" he sneered, chiseling away now. "About a hundred million people in the end."

I sat down, assimilating the shock.

"Now, instead of you coming to me and asking me what I am going to do about the future, what are you going to do about it?"

"Eh?"

"I said, what are you going to do about it?" He stopped chiseling and stood over me. "You come here with all your righteousness and think you can tell me what I ought to do; that it's all my fault. But what are you going to do about what's coming next? Anything? Nothing?"

"I don't know."

"Well, you think about it before you start judging me, all right?"

I felt very foolish. A hypocrite.

"I'm sorry," I said, weakly.

"That's all right," he said, "turn the other cheek, right? That's what I end up saying, isn't it?"

"I shouldn't have come here."

This seemed to change Jesus' attitude toward me.

"You mean well, I don't deny it. And it isn't your fault you come from a time when everyone is still looking to blame someone else instead of taking responsibility. That will change, apparently, or so I have been told." He crouched to my level. "You know, some people come to see me and tell me not to do anything differently. They are from far into even your future and from their perspective, it was good the human race got a good hard look at itself."

"I never really thought of it that way," I admitted.

"You wouldn't. The year you're from, everyone thinks the human race is doomed; that it's coming to an end -- and soon. There's this feeling that you spent your whole time hating and killing. But it wasn't your whole time. There's a lot of time left. Growing pains; that's all your lot are going through. Now," he said, standing, "unless you want a set of table and chairs, you ought to be getting back."

Feeling like a child who has a lot to learn, I took one last look at Jesus as he worked and went back out into the alley. I placed my hands on the sphere and concentrated. When I opened them again, I was back in my house, with much to think about.

Anyway, that's where I have been. I may use the time machine again, but if I do it won't be for a while.