Tempus Frangit

By The Wanderer, (writing as Misnomer Jones)

For those British readers who recognise the title from somewhere in your youth, welcome friend. Hail the mighty Eagle!

The inspiration for this tale came from "Time Out" a short story written a long time ago by my favourite author John Wyndham. It was John Wyndham's works that opened my eyes to the written word when I was but a child. Very soon after I found my first tale of his, I was reading anything and everything he had written that I could lay my hands on, under various pen names.

The beginning of my tale here lifts some of John Wyndham's "Time Out" plot and plot devices; but is much longer and ends somewhat differently. Where "Time Out" was a short story, "Tempus Frangit" is more of a novella. Maybe I should also point out, although the setting for the yarn's start is way back in the 1980s, the story it is being related to the reader many years later.

Clarification:- Jacksie = a persons bottom. Curtilage = the area of land attached to a house and forming one enclosure with it. Pleb = member of the lower social classes.

In southern England, the "English Channel" or "Le Manche" (as our French neighbours prefer to refer to it) is generally referred to simply as "The Channel". The "Bristol Channel" divides the South-Western Peninsula of England from Wales.

Tempus Frangit

Capitulus I

Suddenly, I was struggling into consciousness. I'm not one to wake quickly at the best of times. All I was aware of, was, that something had stirred me. I had no idea of exactly what; just that something had disturbed my slumber.

Then I became aware of my wife's voice from beside me -- I do believe possibly accompanied by an elbow jabbed in my ribs -- demanding, "What?"

"What?" I echoed in return.

"Well, really!" Sylvia added.

Still not fully awake, I had no idea of what was going on, or why Sylvia had woken me. It certainly wasn't for any... er fun and games. We were way past that stage in our... er relationship. You know, for Sylvia to wake me at all times of the day or night just to tell me, or prove that she still loved me. Or, because she was overcome by the sudden urgent need to... Yeah, lets leave that subject, shall we? Sylvia and I had been married for about ten years by then, and the "youthful exuberance" had long left our marriage bed.

Where was I? Oh yes, I was just struggling back into full consciousness, wasn't I?

Hey yeah, you have no idea what an apt question that is going to turn out to be.

Christ, stop wandering all over the place, George, and get on with the story, or we'll be here all bloody night.

"What do you want?" Sylvia demanded.

Right, there I was, lying in the pitch dark -- the moon was not due to rise until just before dawn that night -- trying to come to terms with the fact that Sylvia had woken me to demand that I explain why I had woken her up. Yeah well, that was about the gist of the situation, I think.

"Sylvia, I didn't wake you!"

"You did!"

"No I didn't; you just woke me!"

"You must have... Well, something woke me, it must have been you! Didn't you just go to the bathroom?"

"No, Sylvia. I'm not at the age where I have to run to the bathroom in the middle of the night, just yet!"

"You did last Friday night."

"So did you, Sylvia. And I believe that had more to do with whatever we were eating at the Drury's party, than the quantity of alcohol we had consumed. I hate all that foreign food they dish up."

"Yes, very iffy wasn't it. I wonder if any of the other guests had the midnight runs?"

"Not something I care to discuss in the middle of the night, Sylvia. Now, why did you wake me?"

"I didn't, but something woke me. The bed shook, or there was a loud noise... or something. Do you think we've got burglars?"

"Sylvia, we live in the middle of bloody nowhere. Unless you think one of the holidaymakers is going to come all this way, just to rob the people across the road. How would a burglar find his way here anyway? Besides we've got sod-all worth stealing."

"There's the car... and the TV."

"The car's only got three wheels on it, Sylvia! You know that Doug and I didn't finish fitting the new brake calliper, because of the rain yesterday afternoon. And who the hell would want that bleeding old telly of ours. 'bout time we bought one of those Trinitron do-what's-its anyway; they're supposed to be much smaller for the size of the screen. Besides, it would take two people to carry the bugger we've got at the minute."

"Well, you wanted the big screen TV in the first place; I hardly ever watch it."

"No, only every damned soap opera that is ever on, and all the damned repeats."

"Well, I have to..."

"Yes, Sylvia, and I'm not complaining about what you watch on the television. But can I get back to sleep now, please? I have to get the car finished tomorrow so that I can get to work on Monday."

"Well, no. Something woke me and if it wasn't you..."

"It was probably distant thunder, Sylvia. It was very close last evening... still is actually. Those rain clouds probably developed into a thunderstorm inland somewhere."

"Or, I suppose it might have been Concorde, of course." Sylvia ventured.

"Sylvia, Concorde, doesn't make sonic booms around here at this time of night. It flies down the Bristol Channel during the afternoon."

"And around seven-thirty."

"No I think that's the French one flying down the Channel and we only heard that one when the wind was in the right direction. Anyway, take my word for it, Concorde does not make its sonic booms at this time in of night... or should I say morning? What woke you was possibly distant thunder. Now can we please get back to sleep; it's..."

I was going to tell my wife what time it was, but when I looked, I saw that the bedside alarm clock was repeatedly flashing 12.00 back at me.

That gave me two pieces of information. Firstly, that there had been a power cut, a not unusual occurrence out in the sticks, where we lived. And secondly, that the damned back-up battery in the clock had run down, again.

I reached over to switch my bedside light on, and it took a few milliseconds to reach full brightness. "Bugger," I thought, "the power is still off; we're running on back-up power.

-----

At this point, I suppose I should explain here that we lived in an isolated coastal community, some way off the beaten track. Our mains power had the habit of failing, but our cottage still retained a complicated -- and somewhat old -- Lister generator and battery back-up system from way back before mains power had even been laid on to the locality. Mind you it might have been an old system but it was an efficient system too, that had been adapted so that when our mains power did fail, it cut in and supplied just enough power to run a couple of light bulbs from the batteries. And then, it automatically started the generator, if and when anything requiring more power was switched-on.

Well, it was better than nothing, when the frequent South-Westerlys that roar in off the Atlantic Ocean, took down the overhead power lines during the winter. As I said, a pretty frequent occurrence.

Community, did I say? That's a misnomer if ever I heard one. Maybe I should have said, it had once been a community, or small hamlet at one time. However, just after Sylvia and I had purchased our beautiful little cottage, the whole damned place was condemned to suffer from what is euphemistically known as "Planner's Blight!"

The powers that be -- far away in London -- had announced that our little bit of coastline was the perfect spot to site a nice new efficient nuclear power station, along with an offshore wind-farm and possibly wave-energy installations to boot. Early in the environmentally sustainable energy frenzy they were covering all the bases by talking about such things. But as politicians are wont to do, just talking, nothing in the way of actual actions appeared to be happening.

Net result, the equity in our lovely, and rather expensive, little old cottage all-but evaporated overnight.

No one, and I mean absolutely no one, relished the thought of buying a house next door to a proposed, possibly (no matter how vaguely) nuclear power station construction site. Especially when the beautiful sea views were more than likely going to be scarred by giant wind turbines. God alone knew what the suggested wave energy installations were going to look like.

So, because no one wanted to buy houses locally, they no longer had value on the open market. Well not the kind of value we, and the other householders, had ploughed into the buggers anyway.

Of course the power station was only a proposal. It might never get built. So until it was decided whether the thing was actually going to be built or not, there would be no compensation for any of the homeowners in our little hamlet. No compensation and nobody interested in buying the houses either, because no bugger had any idea how much compensation the government would pay, or even when. That ball was apparently in the Treasury's court, and everyone knows what those tight-fisted ars... No, lets leave it there, shall we? Me, politicians and civil servants, we don't go together well.

The point I was trying to make is that spending serious money, upgrading our houses was a definite no no; so for the last eight years we'd been kind-a patching things up on an ad hoc basis. Our unique power system worked, and that was all that was really important.

-----

"The mains power is out, Sylvia. It must have been a clap of thunder from a lighting-strike, that woke you. Go back to sleep. I'm sure it will be back on by the morning."

"Humph!" she replied, turned over and went back to sleep.

I switched the off bedside light again. Pondered for a moment why it was apparently so dark that night, and then remembered that the moon wasn't due to rise until just before dawn, I also concluded that the clouds were blocking every trace of starlight; then I went back to sleep myself.

-----

I knew something was odd the moment I struggled to open my eyes the following morning. I couldn't put my finger on exactly what at the time, but I now realise that the daylight streaming in through the bedroom window was somewhat brighter than I'd expected. On reflection, our bedroom was much lighter than it had ever been before; but I had just awoken, all I really noticed was that the daylight seemed bloody bright.

Screwing up my eyes some, I slid out of bed and headed for the bathroom, taking a glance at the sky through the window as I went. I was hoping for good weather that day so that I could get the car's brakes finished. Yeah, and maybe get in a bit of surfing later.

Actually I got halfway through the bathroom door, before what I had seen through the bedroom window fully registered in my brain. I sort-of stopped in my tracks, and then took a few paces backwards, so that I could see the view once again.

Yep, that's what I'd seen all right; a clear pale blue sky, running down to the horizon where it met the blue-green sea. In the foreground was the long sweeping beach in the cove below.

I have no idea how long I stood there -- rooted to the spot -- staring at the view.

"What are you doing; are you going to use the loo? I want to get in there."

I suppose my climbing out of bed, had woken Sylvia.

I didn't reply, I was effectively struck -dumb by the scene before me. I think I just raised my arm and pointed out of the window.

Sylvia struggled out of bed herself and began to walk towards me. Asking, "What are you staring at?" and "Is the power back on yet?" as she did so.

But when Sylvia's eyes saw what my eyes could see through the window, she stopped and gasped. "Oh my God, where's..." and then she fell silent.

----

Now I'll have to explain to you why we both found the view from our bedroom window that morning so surprising.

Well, I've told you... well, mentioned it anyway, those winter gales that blow in from the Atlantic. Our cottage sat on the gentle slope of a hill; that side of the cottage facing almost due west. At the bottom of the hill sits most of the rest of the village -- or hamlet, I really think it should be called -- only ten houses in all. Beyond them was the cove with its slipway that the fishermen used to use. At one time the hamlet had been a fishing community, but there were no professional fishermen left in the village.

In the years since the plan for the Power Station had been announced, most of the former residents had moved out, and turned their onetime homes over to holiday lets. It was a way of making as much cash as possible out of the houses until the "powers that be" either built the bloody power station, when they would be able claim compensation; or abandoned the plan completely, when they'd possibly sell, or move back in.

From our bedroom window, usually, we could not see the village below, or the shoreline at all in fact. Many years before we'd bought the cottage, trees had been planted along the garden boundary to shield it from those vicious winter south-westerlys, I mentioned.

But that morning, those trees were not there. Neither was the fence that just a few hours before had stood at the end of our garden. Nor the other houses down in lower part of the valley, nor the hedgerows, nor anything else, that should have been there. Three quarters of the way along our rear garden path... the garden just stopped. Everything stopped, path, lawn, flowerbeds, side fences... everything! It was as if someone had come along with a giant bulldozer and obliterated it all during the night, and then replaced it all with... well, a sort-of stunted very dry looking prairie grass.

There was not even a hint of the stone jetty and its associated slipway, that crossed the beach to the sea. And what's more, the beach looked far wider than I remembered.

"I don't think this is very funny, George!" Sylvia eventually commented. Her tone implying that I had something to do with the sudden change of the environment.

Regretfully that was my wife's wont. If something went wrong -- or was not as it should be -- then surely George -- that's me by the way -- must have had something to do with it.

"Neither do I, Sylvia!" I replied.

"But how?" she asked.

"Buggered if I know, kiddo. It must be a bloody dream!" A reasonable and logical assumption, I thought.

"Don't talk nonsense George! We both can't be having the same dream."

"That, I will grant you, Sylvia. But you could be a vision in my dream, or alternatively, I a vision in yours."

"Humph, now you're being silly, George."

"No sillier than the fact that the rest of the world has suddenly vanished overnight. This has got to be a dream."

At that point Sylvia dashed out of the bedroom. I was still staring at the scene before me, trying to relate it to the landscape as I remembered it; albeit without the trees, shrubbery and the neighbouring houses. Basically it was close, but not quite the same.

To my mind the headland was... well slightly different... maybe shorter. I've already said that the beach looked bigger than I expected it would from up there at the cottage.

But then a slight scream emanated from somewhere else in the house, and Sylvia came rushing back into the room.

"It's the same out front, the Drury's house is gone." She blustered.

I opened the window and stuck my head out. From what I could see, just about everything, except the Sugget's cottage next door and most of its curtilage, was gone. Whatever had happened, there appeared to be a rough circle around the two cottages that remained as it should be. Everything outside that circle looked like a sort-of wasteland.

"Well, I'll be buggered; this has to be a dream." I said, almost disbelieving my own eyes. "These things only happen in those bloody TV shows."

"Sorry?" Sylvia asked.

"The Twilight Zone; this is like being in one of those fantasy TV show episodes."

"Don't talk rubbish George, how could we be in a TV show."

"Sylvia, I didn't say that we were in a TV show. I just said, that it's the kind of thing that happens to people in those shows. Completely inexplicable, and totally unbelievable! I'm going outside to see what's what."

"You'd better get dressed first, just in case there is a TV film crew hiding out there somewhere."

I looked at my wife, but didn't actually reply; although I did throw some clothes on... Yeah well, sometimes discretion is the better part of valour. But well... Jesus wept, was that a stupid statement for her to make or what? Film crew, my bloody left foot!

Besides, there was nowhere left out there big enough for a bloody film crew to hide in anyway. There was no way in hell that... Oh come on... you know what I'm trying to say.

However, as I said, I did get dressed. I wasn't expecting to find a TV film crew outside, but, because Doug and Rose's cottage next door was still there, then odds were that they would be as well and... Well, not that I'd mind Rose... No, lets keep this as clean as possible shall we...?

Outside, I inspected the front garden and then went out of our front gate and along the lane -- what was left of it -- until I came to the spot where everything changed. For some reason, the idea of stepping inside the Drury's garden gate opposite -- where the line of demarcation would have been closer, although their house wasn't there anymore -- felt tantamount to trespassing.

As I got near to the line, I bent down to take a close look at the dried-out looking grass on the other side of it, and promptly bumped my head on... nothing; but fortunately only gently.

Reaching out with my hand, I found that just before me was an invisible wall. Slightly vibrating to the touch, and even maybe, a little warmer than the ambient temperature; well it felt warm to my touch anyway.

It was also apparent that it physically cut into the soil; the ground level on either side of the invisible wall did not exactly match. For what it's worth, my brain went into over-drive; instantly concluding that everything on the side of the wall I was on was inside some kind of sphere made of pure energy

"A ball," I found myself musing out loud. "We're inside a ball of impossibility!"

"A what?" Sylvia demanded. Making me almost jump out of my skin; I had no idea that she'd followed me outside.

"Look, it's round, like a ball. It must be dome shaped above us; most likely a complete ball beneath as well, because it cuts the into the ground, and... well, it's impossible!" I replied.

I must admit that I was somewhat happier, once I'd managed to find a label for the thing... phenomenon or whatever it was.

Sylvia though, obviously had little understanding of what I was talking about.

"What is...?" she began to say, as she made to step forward onto the rough grassland. But then promptly bounced off the invisible wall and fell flat on her... er jacksie.

For an instant, she looked up at me with a surprised and somewhat perplexed expression on her face; but there was real anger in her voice when she spoke.

"What was that? Why didn't you warn me?"

"I thought you'd seen me..." I began to say, bending to assist Sylvia to her feet.

"That's your trouble George! You're always thinking, and never doing. You might have warned me that... well... that it was there. What is it anyway?"

"A ball of impossibility!"

"What, in heavens name, is that?"

"Buggered if I know sweetheart, but that's what it is. Damned impossible if you ask me, but we're inside the bugger anyway. Maybe we've been shifted into a different dimension somehow. Yeah, that must be it, something, somewhere, somehow, has shifted our little bit of the world into a different dimension. Only here..."

"Oh my god, all that science fiction rubbish of yours again. I told you those stupid fantasy TV programs would addle your brain eventually. If you're not watching your stupid videos, your nose is stuck in those silly novels. What next, is Dan Dan the Spaceship Man, going to come riding to our rescue or something?