{"id":155,"date":"2019-10-25T11:59:00","date_gmt":"2019-10-25T11:59:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/141.148.246.190\/index.php\/single-post\/the-fate-of-mr-morrison\/"},"modified":"2022-05-04T12:31:00","modified_gmt":"2022-05-04T11:31:00","slug":"the-fate-of-mr-morrison","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/blog.alexisveenendaal.com\/index.php\/2019\/10\/25\/the-fate-of-mr-morrison\/","title":{"rendered":"The Fate of Mr. Morrison"},"content":{"rendered":"
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\u201cSir,\u201d the short, balding man came to the door, clutching the doorframe, and his chest. \u201cBit ou\u2019 of breath. Sorry, sir,\u201d he gasped.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cHave you run all the way from Bristol?\u201d Sir joked, placing his ink pen on his desk and standing. \u201cPlease, do sit. I can ring the servants for tea.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cNo, no, sir. Not necessary,\u201d the man said, straightening. He wore a three-piece suit, but it was plain. \u201cI have news for you, from the Inquiry.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cOh,\u201d he perked at that. \u201cPlease, come in, Walter. Let\u2019s have a sit to discuss the matter.\u201d Quickly he ushered the man into his study and closed the door with a cautious click<\/em> behind. He seated himself in an armchair by the empty fireplace and Walter took the one across, still wiping at his sweaty brow. <\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cThey\u2019ve found it, sir,\u201d Walter said, the information bubbling forth like a font whose blocked pipes had been thoroughly scrubbed. <\/span><\/p>\n

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Sir leaned forward, elbows on knees in astonishment. \u201cImpossible. Just from my estimates? How.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cI haven\u2019t the whole explanation,\u201d Walter said with regret. \u201cThey want you there, now. They\u2019ve already chartered a ship. Anderson and Walsh will meet you in London, and travel with you from there.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cAnd equipment?\u201d Sir rubbed his knees anxiously, glancing around the study. \u201cWhat tools shall I bring?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cEverything\u2019s in hand,\u201d Walter assured him. \u201cThe Inquiry has it all sorted.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cBloody fucking relief,\u201d Sir allowed himself a moment to breathe, and a chuckle escaped his lips. \u201cThe late Mrs. Morrison would hate to hear that language, but for Christ\u2019s sake, Walter\u2014they\u2019ve found it. They\u2019ve really, truly found it?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cAye.\u201d The man looked at him with worried eyes.<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cI haven\u2019t gone mad,\u201d Sir said, standing and pacing the room. \u201cI always knew it was there. The myths\u2014true! Ha! Not just a dream. Well, that will show those prats in Oxford\u2026\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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Walter stood awkwardly and tipped his hat obligingly. \u201cCongratulations, sir. It is a wondrous accomplishment. Without your research and writings\u2026\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201c\u2026and Anderson\u2019s resources and Walsh\u2019s resilience,\u201d sir added. \u201cYes, it is indeed incredible.\u201d He checked his watch. It was half past three in the afternoon. \u201cWhen does the next train board to London?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cWill you be ready to take the one at five?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cYes,\u201d he said, and at once began stacking books and papers into an untidy pile. \u201cWait for me in the foyer, will you?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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Walter dipped his head and escaped the study. The moment the door closed again, Sir walked to the bookshelf and pulled down a small black box. The top was inlaid with gold and silver floral designs. He\u2019d purchased it in Paris three summers ago from a rather pushy vendor. But his wife had insisted. She was never good at haggling prices. He brushed the smooth surface with a finger, then dug out a key from his pocket, placed it in the box, and opened it. Inside, pillowed by black velvet, lay a woman\u2019s small wedding band in yellow gold. \u201cFor you, my dear,\u201d Sir said, pressing his lips to the ring before placing it back in its little indent and locking the box. He slid it back onto the shelf then turned on the study with a sigh. Then he began his rushed packing. <\/span><\/p>\n

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The trip to London was gray and dreary, but soon, in his black coat and tan suit, Sir exited the train with Walter in tow. Walter carried his briefcase, which was full of books and writings. Sir had a small carrier of clothing gripped in one hand, and his hat in the other. As they exited Hackney Central station, Walter proffered an umbrella to ward off the English rains. \u201cRight this way, sir.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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They walked out of the station and around a corner, where two women stood in conversation under a black umbrella.<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cHello there! Sir, this is Anderson and Walsh,\u201d Walter offered each of their names as they approached.<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cMr. Morrison, I presume?\u201d Anderson gripped his hand and shook it. She was surprisingly tall and freckle faced, and her auburn hair was mostly hidden beneath her hat. She wore light trousers and a blazer despite the cold. Dressed like a man. Well, at least he\u2019d been warned. \u201cI\u2019ve enjoyed your writings. It\u2019s good to finally see the man behind the pages.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cPleasure,\u201d Mr. Morrison said.<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cWell, this\u2019ll be interesting, for sure,\u201d Walsh said in her lilting Irish accent. \u201cTwo Scots and an Irish. God help us. And the English brought us together.\u201d Walsh had brown hair, pale skin, and a gap in her front teeth. She, at least, wore a more feminine cut shirt, though she was still in trousers and a large overcoat. She gave Walter an appraising look. \u201cThanks for bringing him. You can leave, now.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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Walter\u2019s puffy face reddened for a moment, but he bowed in that proper English way and passed Mr. Morrison his belongings. \u201cGood luck, sir. Madams.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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Anderson laughed as the man waddled away with his umbrella. \u201c’Madams’,\u201d she said jokingly to her companion. \u201cHaven\u2019t heard that in a while.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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Mr. Morrison shuffled his feet awkwardly. <\/span><\/p>\n

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Walsh rolled her eyes. \u201cWe\u2019d better not hear that once we\u2019re on the ship. Ready?\u201d She turned to Mr. Morrison, who quickly pushed his hat back onto his head and nodded. The rain was a light mist, now, and clung to his skin.<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cGood,\u201d Anderson said. \u201cWe have a long drive ahead of us.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cI still can\u2019t believe it,\u201d Mr. Morrison said quietly as Walsh took his briefcase. The women led him down the uneven cobblestone street as a few autos rolled by, spewing smoke into the already smoky air. <\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cNo one will believe us if we don\u2019t get evidence,\u201d Anderson said over her shoulder. They walked quickly, and after hours on the train, Mr. Morrison had a hard time keeping up. \u201cThe Inquiry dumped a lot of money into this. We\u2019ve got to be prepared for the worst. Just wait until you meet the American! He\u2019s already at the ship.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cAmerican?\u201d Mr. Morrison asked in surprise. \u201cWhat use is an American?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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Anderson flashed a smile. \u201cBig guns.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cIt\u2019ll be dangerous,\u201d Walsh agreed. \u201cLuckily, we\u2019ve got you, Mr. Morrison, and your writings.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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The sarcasm was light, but Mr. Morrison said defensively, \u201cthese writings, Walsh, are going to make history.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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Walsh laughed. \u201cOf course, sir<\/em>. But I think the recovered artefacts may be worth a touch more.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cBut of course, we appreciate the accuracy of your\u2014ah, strange predictions, Mr. Morrison,\u201d Anderson added. <\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cWalter knew almost nothing about what they\u2019ve actually found,\u201d Mr. Morrison said. \u201cHow did you finally locate it?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cNot here,\u201d Anderson said, steering him around a street corner. \u201cAh, here he is! Hello, Young!\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n

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A tall black-skinned boy leaned against an auto but straightened when he saw them. He offered up a large, crooked grin. \u201cI see you found your man!\u201d The boy said in a Londoner\u2019s accent, eyeing Mr. Morrison with interest. <\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cA boy, our driver?\u201d Mr. Morrison asked doubtfully. <\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cA man,\u201d Walsh shot back immediately. \u201cNot a boy. And he\u2019s not our driver. He\u2019s our colleague. Although, he can<\/em> drive too. Weird that people can have more than one talent.”<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cHe’s black,\u201d said Mr. Morrison blankly. \u201cA colleague? Why didn\u2019t I hear anything about this?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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Young\u2019s face fell, but he didn\u2019t offer a defense. The reaction wasn’t uncommon. Instead, Anderson grimaced at Mr. Morrison, \u201cand you\u2019d best remember it, or we\u2019ll send you on the next train back to Edinburgh. He\u2019s a person, so you\u2019d damned well better give him respect.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cAnd a genius, to boot,\u201d Walsh said, beaming at Young.<\/span><\/p>\n

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Young gave her a shy smile, and Mr. Morrison noted her hand touch his shoulder in a familiar sort of way. Well, Mrs. Morrison,<\/em> he thought dryly, you\u2019ll never guess where I\u2019ve ended up. In league with a black man and two women dressed as men. Oh, God, and an American. This should be a rather unusual adventure. <\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cSorry about that, Young,\u201d Mr. Morrison cleared his throat awkwardly. Swallowing his pride, he shook the young man\u2019s hand. He wondered at how the boy had managed an education, considering. \u201cWhat is it you studied?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cJust about anything I could get my hands on, sir.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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So. Not a formal education. Alright, then. \u201cRight,\u201d Mr. Morrison said. <\/span><\/p>\n

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Young reached for his carrier and he relinquished it. \u201cLet\u2019s see if we can pack your things in the boot with the rest.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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The odd grouping drew the stares of every person passing on the narrow London road, but soon the boot was packed to capacity and they were all stuffed inside the small auto, rumbling down cobblestone. \u201cBest get comfortable,\u201d Walsh said, slouching into her seat and tipping her hat over her eyes as Young steered them out of the fog of the city, drawing even more surprised stares at a black man behind the wheel. \u201cI suspect there won\u2019t be much sleep ahead.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cIt is<\/em> exciting, isn\u2019t it?\u201d Young grinned. \u201cAtlantis, the lost city! And after all this time. Who knew?\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n

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Mr. Morrison tried to imagine a photograph of the four of them in the papers and wondered what the Inquiry might be thinking. \u201cA part of me always hoped, Young,\u201d he finally said. <\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cOh, you can call me Patrick,\u201d Young told him. <\/span><\/p>\n

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He thought he saw the twitch of a smile on Anderson\u2019s face as she peered out the window at the passing scenery. <\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cThere\u2019s no way they could have found us,\u201d the captain said, rubbing his forearm nervously. It was a habit he\u2019d picked up as a child, and now the hair was nearly rubbed raw. \u201cNot with their technology.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cSir,\u201d said the communication\u2019s officer, \u201cwhen our ancestors traveled back, they knew that human technology would advance. We suspected this would be a possibility before the building could be finished.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cBut it\u2019s too soon,\u201d the first officer agreed. \u201cMuch too soon. How could they have known?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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The historian cleared her throat. She rarely spoke in their meetings, but for once she had ceased flipping through her tablet. \u201cThe records have changed, sir. I\u2019ve found it.\u201d She held up the screen and showed a black and white photograph of five individuals and pointed her thumb at one of the men. \u201cThis man, Albert Morrison. It says here that in one year, he will have discovered the lost city of Atlantis.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cAtlantis?<\/em>\u201d the first officer snorted.<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cUs,\u201d the communication\u2019s officer realized in surprise. \u201cThey\u2019ll find us and think we’re the myth come-to-life.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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The captain stared for a moment. \u201cThat doesn\u2019t tell us how they found us.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cMorrison. Albert Morrison,\u201d the historian said pointedly. \u201cDoes that name ring any bells?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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They were all quiet for a moment. They knew the name. Of course they knew it. <\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cBut\u2014Morrison?<\/em> Are you sure?\u201d the captain rubbed at his forearm.<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cSir,\u201d said the historian, \u201cit\u2019s him. I mean, this is a century where only white men get credit for anything, so of course the rest were portrayed as assistants and grunts, but…”<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cHow do we stop them?\u201d The first officer interrupted.<\/span><\/p>\n

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A pause. <\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cMaybe we don\u2019t,\u201d said the historian.<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cWhat?<\/em>\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cHear me out,\u201d she said quickly. \u201cWhat if we let<\/em> them find us?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cAnd what?\u201d the first officer rubber her chin. \u201cTell them the future? Who we really are?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cExactly the opposite,\u201d the historian beamed. \u201cLet\u2019s tell them they\u2019re right, let\u2019s say\u2014\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cSay this is <\/em>Atlantis,\u201d the captain finished, eyes widening with the idea. \u201cBut if we do that, what\u2019s to stop them from leading the rest of the world to us?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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“We’ll have the damned British and American armies on us in an instant,” said the first officer. <\/span><\/p>\n

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\u201cWell,\u201d the historian turned her tablet back toward her and started typing, her attention\u2019s shifting, \u201cwe\u2019ll just have to think of something clever to keep them quiet, won\u2019t we?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/article>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/article>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

<\/main><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

An interesting discovery has been made by a wealthy and secret organization in Britain known as the Inquiry. A group of intellects and explorers are hired to pursue this discovery to the ends of the ocean. The only problem: the thing discovered knows they’re coming.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":852,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"episode_type":"","audio_file":"","cover_image":"","cover_image_id":"","duration":"","filesize":"","date_recorded":"","explicit":"","block":"","filesize_raw":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[4],"tags":[80],"series":[],"class_list":["post-155","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","tag-short-story"],"episode_featured_image":"https:\/\/blog.alexisveenendaal.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/04\/pexels-valentin-antonucci-691640.jpg","episode_player_image":"https:\/\/blog.alexisveenendaal.com\/wp-content\/plugins\/seriously-simple-podcasting\/assets\/images\/no-album-art.png","download_link":"","player_link":"","audio_player":false,"episode_data":{"playerMode":"dark","subscribeUrls":{"amazon":{"key":"amazon","url":"https:\/\/music.amazon.ca\/podcasts\/09c34bbc-b359-49af-a286-31830ed5634c\/short-stories","label":"Amazon","class":"amazon","icon":"amazon.png"},"apple_podcasts":{"key":"apple_podcasts","url":"https:\/\/podcasts.apple.com\/us\/podcast\/short-stories\/id1621456328","label":"Apple Podcasts","class":"apple_podcasts","icon":"apple-podcasts.png"},"google_play":{"key":"google_play","url":"https:\/\/podcasts.google.com\/feed\/aHR0cHM6Ly9hbGV4aXN2ZWVuZW5kYWFsLmNvbS9mZWVkL3BvZGNhc3Qvc2hvcnQtc3Rvcmllcw","label":"Google Play","class":"google_play","icon":"google-play.png"},"google_podcasts":{"key":"google_podcasts","url":"https:\/\/podcasts.google.com\/feed\/aHR0cHM6Ly9hbGV4aXN2ZWVuZW5kYWFsLmNvbS9mZWVkL3BvZGNhc3Qvc2hvcnQtc3Rvcmllcw","label":"Google Podcasts","class":"google_podcasts","icon":"google-podcasts.png"},"spotify":{"key":"spotify","url":"https:\/\/open.spotify.com\/show\/0lcQCRs52MfYlKs35lVX4K","label":"Spotify","class":"spotify","icon":"spotify.png"},"itunes":{"key":"itunes","url":"https:\/\/podcasts.apple.com\/us\/podcast\/short-stories\/id1621456328","label":"iTunes","class":"itunes","icon":"itunes.png"}},"rssFeedUrl":"https:\/\/blog.alexisveenendaal.com\/feed\/podcast\/default-podcast","embedCode":"

The Fate of Mr. Morrison<\/a><\/blockquote>