John’s father had missed him while he was at school. It was obvious from his letters and frequent visits. Unlike the distantly cool fathers of his mates at Wellington, Rudyard Kipling felt more like a pal to his son than a domineering father. However, Rudyard’s expectations for him were just as apparent, only repeatedly encouraged instead of pressured.
“Daddo.”
Father peered up from the book, firelight reflecting off his own spectacles, and studied his son in the weak light. He had been reading aloud one of his Just So stories to his only son, a ritual Rudyard had maintained since John's childhood.
“Yes? Is something the matter, old man?”
John rolled the St. Christopher medal between his palms, leaning forward in the chair with his elbows on his knees. He had been wondering for sometime whether he should talk about Maria. While at school, he forgot about her in the busyness of his days. But being back home at Bateman’s, he couldn’t escape her memory.
He’d mentioned it to Bird but his older sister had shrugged and said the girl had probably returned with her family to America. When he pressed that he wasn’t sure if that’s where she really went, perhaps there was a more extraordinary explanation to Maria, Bird had rolled her eyes. Ever practical in her opinion, just like their mother, Bird had written off Maria as a one-time playmate who had merely moved on.
“Do you think that unusual things can happen in reality?” It was the best way he could broach the subject without betraying Maria’s confidence. “Perhaps meeting someone from somewhere else. From another world. Or time.”
Father closed the book in his lap with a gentle smile. “Are you asking me if there are such things as ghosts? I thought you proved that false at St. Aubyns when your classmate had you hunting for a spirit in the dormitory one night?”
John cracked a smile at the memory from when he was eleven years old and shook his head. No, Maria wasn’t a ghost. Her presence had been too electric, nothing like a sad, little wisp of a spirit.
“No, not exactly. Flesh and blood but not from here.”
Father hummed in his throat and ran a finger over his thick black mustache. “Travelers from another place or time. Like in the H.G. Wells book? The one I suggested you read but it only collected dust on your shelf?”
John winced. “Yes. That’s closer to it.”
“I’m not quite sure. I like to think there’s more to this space we occupy. With the way science is progressing in this century, I shouldn’t see why such leaps couldn’t occur. You should read that novel for yourself, The Time Machine. It’ll spark your imagination. A man from our time goes to the future.”
“How far into the future?”
“Oh many, many years. He observes the changes that occur with the passing of each century.” Father grinned. “I enjoy this kind of talk. That school is doing you good, son. What do you suppose society will look like in one hundred years?”
John shrugged. “Maybe better motor cars.”
“Of course. Progress is the hallmark of our species. What else?”
“Well, I suppose one should merely reflect on history and pick out the things that remain constant.”
“As in?”
“Families. War. Love,” John chuckled awkwardly and sat up, running his fingers through his dark, thick hair. “But do you suppose scientists could learn to travel not just in the physical world but through the years?”
Father reached across the distance and playfully swatted his son on the leg with his book. “That is exactly why you must read that novel. Why don’t you give it a try this holiday?”
Now John wished he’d never brought up the subject. He was much like his father in some ways; humorous and well liked among friends. But not when it came to academic studies and reading. John hated books. He’d much rather play a sport. But he also desperately wanted to please his doting father which was proving more difficult with every passing year.
John sat back in the creaking chair. “Very well.”
Father smirked from across the way and cracked open the leather-bound copy once more. “Now. Where were we?”
ns 15.158.61.12da2
