Down the Ringing Grooves of Change

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Banner by Aadler

Disclaimer: Characters from Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel: the Series are property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Kuzui Enterprises, Sandollar Television, the WB, and UPN.

April, 1873 – Georgia, U.S.A.
“It’s interestin’,” the dapper young man in the railway carriage says to Giles. “Intriguin’. And mystifyin’. Is there, p’rhaps, some obscure bit of British culture that might bring the meanin’ clear?”
The accent is so slow and elongated as to be all but unintelligible, but the man chooses his words with an almost courtly deliberation. That, and Giles’s recent years in America, make it possible for him to draw out the intended message. All the same, he pauses, making his own deliberations. It is vital that he limit his interactions to the barest minimum … but, having been addressed, he will almost certainly best accomplish that by drawing the matter to a smooth, undramatic conclusion.
“The answer, I’m afraid, is rather prosaic,” Giles tells the other man. “Not some abstruse literary reference, or some quirk in British cultural tradition; no, at the time he penned the verse, Tennyson was operating under the impression that the wheels of a railroad train rested in grooved tracks.”
The stranger is quick, nodding in instant understanding. “Rather than grooved wheels rollin’ on straight rails, I do see. But then, did no-one ever draw his attention to this … embarrassin’ misapprehension?”
There are any number of potential explanations for why the verse might have been left unchanged, and ordinarily Giles would enjoy a lively discussion weighing the likelihood of various speculative possibilities. This is not, however, the occasion for such indulgences. “I wouldn’t know,” he replies in the cordial, distant tone intended to convey I don’t really feel like talking. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m rather tired.” He leans back and closes his eyes, like a man settling in for a nap.
The launch into the past was unintended and unexpected, but his knowledge of the artifact he had been studying, and its accompanying analytical commentaries, have allowed him to understand the abrupt dislocation and how to proceed on an expeditious return. Apparently railways are the physical manifestation of the mystical mechanism that is to carry him home; this is his second change, and the first where it’s been necessary for him to speak in more than polite, noncommittal murmurs.
On the seat opposite him, Giles’s momentary travel companion considers the matter in equivalent silence. Amusing, the man thinks, that the great poet should choose a railroad train (like the one they’re now riding) as the symbol of a journey to the future, an emblem of change, and yet somehow for whatever reason fail to change his own slightly mistaken verse. Not a matter of any real importance, of course, but it does offer some minor entertainment value … Plus, there are the different aspects of change itself. In poetry, a train may carry a man to the future; in the mundane world, it carries him across physical distances, and that can bring about an entirely different type of change.
Coughing slightly, and automatically dabbing at his lips with the customary handkerchief, John Henry Holliday, D.D.S., begins to think on what changes might or might not be advisable for his own constrained future.

[Though the individual is historical, this version of him is drawn from Tombstone, which is the property of Buena Vista Pictures and Cinergi Productions.]

August 1922 – Yorkshire, England
He stands on the platform, watching and thinking, weighing his surroundings (and those persons contained therein) while his jagged thoughts turn over and over. In earlier days the turmoil inside him would have had him pacing, but the shifting bits of shrapnel in his leg have made such superfluous motion inadvisable, and his body years ago accustomed itself to the changed reality.
Still, he can’t rest, hasn’t been able for weeks. And, with new knowledge, the screaming drive to act has been provided the vital element previously lacking: a target.
Once again his inner vision swims with the hated face, the oily mannerisms. The familiar smirk, the allusive meaning hidden beneath the glib quips, the animal confidence radiating from the man, confidence doubtless honed and polished by victories over God knows how many victims. Especially the last … if she was the last. But, final or no, that is the one in whose name his soul shrieks for retribution.
Make him pay. Make him pay. No sudden blaze of fury, this is a ceaseless drumbeat, a buried vein of coal burning endlessly but unseen beneath however placid a surface he has been able to feign. It won’t stop, can’t stop until this demand is satisfied, and only one result can provide the satisfaction required.
Stop the drumbeat. Pull down the curtain. Never again have to endure the thought of the man strolling about, smiling at the memory of his triumphs. End it. Obliterate it.
Make him pay.
It is not any moral qualm that has held him back so far. He has killed in war, and those were simply enemies by the chance of finding themselves on the opposite side, not remotely comparable to the vermin he looks to expunge. Nor is it fear, at least not fear of any consequence to himself. The possible cost to another, however … that risk can never be dismissed, must be factored into any calculation. He cannot proceed unless he can be sure, absolutely sure, of visiting no further damage on his beloved.
The train has been waiting for some minutes, and will be moving on again very soon now. He begins to walk along the platform to where he is to board if he decides to do so, still cataloguing everything and everyone around him … and, disconcertingly, sees someone else doing the same.
Head and shoulders visible through the window of one of the carriages on the train, something a little not-quite-right about the cut of the clothing, hair a bit longer than most men currently favor, but the important part is the eyes. Moving, always moving, flicking over the station platform, the surrounding buildings, the people departing or arriving or waiting to meet arrivals, over him. Not fixing on him, but registering and then moving on to the next.
A man who pays attention, who watches and notices, is a man who will remember, and that is a hazard to be scrupulously avoided. John Bates continues on his way, picking out a deliberate path with his cane. He may purchase another ticket, or he may not, but the one now in his coat pocket won’t be used, not today.
Behind him, Rupert Giles continues his vigil at the window, giving the limping man in the bowler hat no further consideration.

[John Bates (Downton Abbey) is the property of Julian Fellowes, ITV Studios, and Carnival Films.]

February 1938 – Tyrol, Austria
The process is regular, and has thus far been reliable. Giles rides whatever railroad car in which he finds himself, until something within him prompts him to stand and move to the next car … and the next is on a different train in a different year, and he settles in to await the next such impulse to move on again. He’s come most of a century by now, and — presuming no change in the rhythm — another sixty-some years should see him back in Sunnydale.
He is finding his current situation somewhat uncomfortable, however, for two reasons.
First, this conveyance is rather more luxuriously appointed than those which transported him through previous time periods. Not the opulence of the fabled Orient Express, no, but clearly several cuts above the usual passenger train. More than that, this particular carriage is very much as if designed to suggest a salon; the seats are spaced farther apart, several are double- or triple-wide and set facing inwards toward each other like tasteful couches, and the few other passengers are well-dressed and apparently prosperous, keeping quietly to themselves and conversing decorously with their nearest neighbors. Giles is unquestionably out of place in this venue, and he sits as far distant as he can and does his best to be utterly inconspicuous.
Second … is the woman.
She is blonde, stylish, self-possessed and self-assured. Younger than him — late thirties to possibly very well-kept early forties — and of an utterly different social stratum. Her dress is lightweight silk, ideal for traveling, and of a timeless cut that will never be entirely out of fashion. She glances around the ‘salon’ occasionally, but spends most of her time reading from a small book with a leather cover.
Giles can’t say why she makes him think of Darla … but she does, and the very suggestion is deeply unsettling.
He never met or even saw the vampiress himself, of course, but the chronicles of the Watchers had several drawings of her (including one that Giles is positive must have been done by Angelus himself), and even a photograph from the late 1800s. There is no resemblance at all, the planes of the two women’s faces are entirely different. Even so, some quality came through — particularly in the probably-Angelus sketch — that accords with what he can see now: an effortless confidence, total certainty that nothing within her reach is outside her control. Not necessarily dangerous (though Darla certainly is, and she will be out there somewhere in this time period), but never to be trifled with or taken lightly.
He keeps her in the corner of his eye until the internal signal tells him it’s time for the next transition, then passes her to go to the door at the other end of the car, not looking directly at her but moving with a brisk directness that hopefully conceals his eagerness to be out of her presence.
Behind him, the Baroness Elsa von Schraeder smiles to herself. For all his efforts to hide it, the man in the unfashionable clothing couldn’t keep his eyes off her. Amusing, and gratifying. She had been considering whether she might need to reassess her situation, but finds herself reassured that her chosen course needs no modification. The engagement to Georg von Trapp is solidly understood, if not yet formalized; she need only take the time to ensure that the Captain comes to the marriage with the correct view of their relative positions.
No rush, then. She has plenty of time.

[The Baroness Elsa von Schraeder (the Sound of Music) is the property of Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein, Argyle Enterprises, and 20th Century Fox.]

December 1943 – Oxfordshire, England
He is traveling alone, and not wearing his customary uniform, doing what he can to preserve his anonymity for now. The brief, secret meeting in West Bromwich was … inconclusive, and it’s clear that further refinements will be required before the operation can proceed. Once again, the Admiral opens the slim briefcase and studies the sheaf of notes within: nothing explicit, no, that wouldn’t do at all in wartime, just blandly worded headings and categories to organize the mass of information he keeps hidden inside his head.
Some things are known. Some can be inferred with relative certainty from what IS known. Some are gaps awaiting further information, and contingencies can be developed to accommodate the possibilities bracketed by those blank spaces. What can’t be accounted for are the unknowns that might be vital but for which there are currently no warning hints. He’s been over this dozens of times, he and others, and he knows he can’t let the worry paralyze him — there are always unknowns in war, particularly this war! — but once again finds himself searching for some extra little precaution or preparation to increase the likelihood of success in the coming endeavor.
Inspiration continues to elude him, and he replaces the papers and closes the briefcase, looking about him for something to occupy his thoughts. It will be hours before he arrives back in London, and for the moment he welcomes any distraction from his own fruitless maunderings.
The train car is nearly full, some women and children and a few older men, but naturally most of the passengers are men in uniform, on brief leaves to visit family or returning to their bases. He himself is old enough that no-one is likely to wonder truculently why he hasn’t joined the service; and the fellow across from him, likewise in civilian dress, is around his own age and so unremarkable as well. Then the Admiral looks back; the man doesn’t seem to have an overcoat with him, which is a bit odd in this weather. Their eyes meet, and they exchange polite, distant nods. It is only boredom that prompts him to ask, “Going to London?”
The other man considers, then shrugs noncommittally. “Not sure yet,” he replies. “My schedule is … subject to interruption, these days.”
The tone does not invite further conversation, so the Admiral nods again and looks away. Internally, however, he is frowning slightly. The fellow is clearly British, but he pronounced the word “sked-ule”, not the proper English “shed-ule”. Perhaps he’s spent time in America recently …?
The thought triggers another, and then more, and Vice Admiral Herbert Rolland finds his mind pulled back to the matter that has commanded his attention for weeks now. American, yes, it’s been confirmed that the American actor — “General Carmody” — is being transported to the Alpine fortress, so the mission must commence in the next few days. Perhaps a touch more American involvement, a carefully selected specialist added to the mission itself —?
He is so occupied with these ruminations, he doesn’t notice when the other man leaves the carriage. If he did, he wouldn’t consider the fact important, not compared to the effort about to be launched, the penetration of Schloss Adler.

[Vice Admiral Rolland (Where Eagles Dare) is the property of Alistair MacLean, Winkast Film Productions, and Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer.]

July 1953 – Caithness, Scotland
Keeping to himself, Giles relaxes after the first quick survey of his newest environment. He’s watched for a pattern in the transitions, but seen only the suggestion of such. Geographically — except for the single slip into the U.S. — it’s been Europe and a few places in the U.K.; mostly but not always English-speaking venues, and fortunately none where he would have difficulty avoiding notice. Temporally, it’s even less regular; he’s not always been able to verify the date, but he’s seen no jumps of less than five years or greater than thirty. Still, every indication is that he continues to move forward, and every transition carries him closer to his own home time.
Looking out the window to take in the scenery (generically familiar, but nothing to identify a specific locale), he muses on the nature of time. In various forms of popular fiction, much is made of the “butterfly effect” in time travel. Personally, Giles suspects that the more accurate metaphor is of time as a river. The direction and basic course are set, unalterable except by the most extravagant efforts, with even changes successfully made being nudged by internal currents back toward alignment with how it would eventually have turned out regardless. By that paradigm, most (perhaps all) branches would shortly be subsumed and re-merged into the main course, the river itself manifesting only the briefest of changes.
It’s a comforting theory. He hopes it’s proven true, but will meanwhile take some care to avoid testing its reliability against a reality he very much would like to see preserved.
In the seat across from Giles, and one up, a conservatively dressed man with graying hair slaps down a folded newspaper in an abrupt gesture of anger or impatience. It was the motion that caught Giles’s attention, and when he looks up he sees that the other man noted his responsive glance. Giles knows he should look away, affect a polite obliviousness, but the temptation is too great. Nodding toward the paper, Giles murmurs, “Were, you, er —?”
For an instant the man’s lips thin slightly, nostrils flare just the least bit; then his expression is again one of respectable imperturbability. With the ever-so-familiar obligatory courtesy he answers, “Done with it, yes. By all means,” and holds out the paper to Giles.
With a near-silent Thank you, more mouth movement than actual sound, Giles takes the newspaper and opens it. His interest is in the dateline (ten years further along, good), registering the VISCOUNT’S DAUGHTER ARRESTED headline without actually noting it, journalistic sensationalism never having appealed to him. He turns the other pages, watching for any genuinely significant information regarding this present era.
Ahead of him but looking away now, the Viscount Windermere quietly seethes. The other passenger went straight past the front page, so any immediate embarrassment seems unlikely; still, it’s infuriating to be even potentially confronted with such … tasteless scandal. There have been too many such instances over the last several years, but this is the limit.
He vows to himself that Penelope — “Bunty” — is going to find herself facing some stringent changes in the very, very near future.

[“Bunty” (the Honourable Penelope Windermere, Father Brown) is the property of Rachel Flowerday, Tahsin Guner, and BBC Studios.]

January 2002 – Sunnydale
Xander arrives at the station in the company car occasionally available to him in his recent advancement to construction sub-foreman. “Whoa, I didn’t even know you’d gone out of the ’Dale,” he remarks to Giles. “And on the train? what’s the deal there?”
“It was, er, impromptu,” Giles tells him. “Something that came up suddenly.” He’s already established that, Pacific Standard Time, he’s only been gone for part of a day. “Nothing … nothing strenuous, but I would like to get home.”
“Sure thing.” Xander looks around. “No luggage?”
Giles shakes his head. “As I said, impromptu.” There is no reason for him to conceal the truth from Xander, but by now he has maintained his reticence through multiple periods of history, and isn’t comfortable simply discarding it; too, he genuinely is tired, and would prefer some time to re-acclimate before starting in on any sudden, startling revelations.
Xander accepts it without objection, only asking (once they’re both in his vehicle and en route), “Anything we’d be needing to know about?”
Giles gives it some thought. By its fundamental nature, travel through time is inescapably fraught with potential hazards, the prospect of inadvertently bringing about undesired alteration an ever-present threat. Fortunately, he was aware of the perils, and — by watchfulness, caution, and minimal action — seems to have navigated those treacherous shoals without prompting any damage. “There were certain issues that might have produced complications under the wrong circumstances,” he says to Xander. “As it happens, none of that came to pass. So, no, nothing to report.”
(He isn’t thinking of San Francisco, 1977, two stops ago, because he has no reason to. He wasn’t even aware when Ira Rosenberg went past the seat he otherwise would have taken — went past, because Giles was sitting in it — and found himself instead seated across from one Sheila Lieberman. And from this unplanned introduction, as the saying goes, et cetera.)
“Okay,” Xander says, nodding. “Boring trip overall, then.”
“Oh, quite,” Giles agrees. “But sometimes, ‘uneventful’ is much to be preferred.”
The train had already been preparing to leave again when the two of them drove away from the station. Now it lets out a long blast from the whistle as it passes through the outer limits of the city, and the sound is quickly lost in the distance.
Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range,
Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change. …
– Tennyson, 1835

– end –

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