The Wiltshire Discovery

Henry rode his mare through his family’s estate, the lynchets he had known since he was old enough to be walked down to the cherry tree stream by his late mother, and of which he knew every growing kidney vetch and cowslip that graced the tight-mown grasses, but which harbored a monstrous curiosity he had never before seen.

Worthmund was the name of his mare; a strong beast who impressed the most judicious onlookers with her proportions and statuesque physique— strong enough to best an ox in its prime, but with the stately grace of Arabian showhorses. She was relishing the exercise and huffed proud jets of steam into the brisk air as they rounded a bend and came out over the open sunrise.

Henry pulled her to a halt and bathed in the tiger-lily rays. The light blazed and waned within moments, and it was just as the day was paling into its long crossing that the face of some metal object entrenched in the turf glinted at Henry.

Taken aback, Henry slid down Worthmund’s side and marched up to the object, his riding clothes propping him back, erect and indignant. There were only two possible reasons this thing might be here: either the groundskeepers were growing even more inept and had dropped one of their tools, or trespassers had traipsed through on some devilish affair. Either way, this would force his hand.

He knelt beside it and tried to determine exactly what it was. As much as was protruding from the soil showed the top of a brass spheroid, grooved by some curving line. Taking his riding crop from under his arm, he prodded at it pathetically, but it did not budge. He was about to turn around and order his groundskeeper to fetch this thing so that Henry might scold him about it, but he found it difficult to turn away. Some maddening curiosity struck him, and he found himself throwing his hands into the cold earth about it, scratching and scraping gravel and muck out from the sides of the mysterious globe. He pulled it out at last, leaving a gaping crater in the otherwise trim and tidy landscape.

His hands trembling, he lifted the mud-draped object and scampered across the path to the small creek that ran through a collection of elms. Any of his footmen would have balked to see him squatting there by the water, covetously throwing water over the squelching mud. He washed the sphere clean and fell back into the sodden banks to look it over, coating his backside with sludge.

The brass sphere had four windows on each cardinal side, looking in on an odd hourglass helix of translucent floating particles, humming along paths to and from either end of the sphere. When Henry tried to focus on any single particle, it soon vibrated away and was replaced by the next, and invariably the next, so that his eyes could not make a clear distinction between them as they jostled on their course.

Henry grasped at several points along the edges of the sphere, looking for any moving pieces. At last, placing his hand into the groove, he found a band of metal that slid in an uncanny serpentine flow, as though it was bending freely along the curves of the groove. He was surprised when he caught a glimpse of the stream flowing through the windows of the sphere— it was flowing much faster than in his own view of the stream, and what really caught his attention was the dead leaf that floated down the by the window, and which had not been in the real stream at all. But, once the vision in the window had ceased, and as he sat there marveling at what he had seen, there came the very same leaf bobbing at a languid pace, dancing the same motions as had been in the sphere.

What Henry had not noticed, however, was the withering of the plants that surrounded the sphere in the moments when it was activated; but it is doubtful, even if he had seen it, whether it would have kept him from what he was about to carry out.

Buzzing with excitement, Henry dashed back to Worthmund with the sphere bundled in his arms. No longer was he concerned about where it had come from; his imagination reeled instead with the profit to be gained with this phenomenal bauble. If it truly showed the future, there were undoubtedly untold riches to be swindled.

But reservations began to creep in. He could not possibly bring such a conspicuous device to the racetrack, nor anywhere public. There would be a thousand eyes on him before he could even espy the horses, and the moment anyone else saw through the same aperture as him, they would discover his con.

He decided to perform some tests on this new toy and propped the sphere up against the horn of the saddle. He writhed the band along the twisting groove for about twice as long as he had before, then sat back and looked through the window. The grasses jostled at a gallop under the coming wind, darkened under the shadow of passing clouds, and a bird even arced into frame at breakneck speeds.

The augury lasted much longer than before, and Henry decided that he would really test the limits of how long it could last. After massaging an ache in his wrist away, he placed his hands back on the ball and spun it around for what must have been close to ten minutes. This time, the ball went on operating for a very long time, and as sunset burned through, leaving the charcoal of night, Henry began to notice a growing heat in his chest and stomach. He staggered back a little, but kept his eyes narrowed in on the window. Worthmund began to stamp, crying out, and the sphere threatened to roll off.

Henry jumped forward to steady the sphere and moaned, “Don’t worry about me, love, I’m alright. Just a twinge or two. I’ll need to ask that Sebastian add a bit less mustard to his wellingtons...”

The sphere went on for several more minutes, and when at last Henry saw morning dawn, he stamped with success, and vowed to make a preemptory tour of the racetrack that very night.

His breathing was heavy now, and he began to suspect it had to do with something other than mustard. A wheezing was in his throat, and he could barely lift himself back onto Worthmund, whose own head was hanging low.

“Alright,” he gasped, “Back to the manor now, love…” He nudged Worthmund with his heels, and she took one or two steps before crumbling under her own mass, careening onto her side, pinning Henry’s right ankle beneath her now immobile corpse. Henry screamed in agony and released the sphere into the air. It slammed into the earth, rolled down the slope, and into the stream.

Henry panicked— at Worthmund’s collapse, at his own pain, and at the ball now speeding away down the current. He was in a flurry of indecision. He was looking from Worthmund back to the stream, trying to lift himself up to caress his breathless horse, yanking at his leg to release it from under Worthmund’s deadweight.

Cursing through choking and coughing, he managed to rise up a little and push himself out from under the body. The ball was now quite far, but he did not have the strength to run after it.

“I need to get home,” he said aloud to Worthmund, knowing that she could no longer hear him, “I’ll come back for… for…”

He staggered up, but his right leg was now useless, and he promptly fell back onto his stomach. Instead, he pushed himself along with his arms, clawing at the grass and sliding his one usable leg out with sharp movements to launch himself forward an inch or two at a time.

Every moment, it was getting more difficult to see, and with each waking breath, he grew weaker, and his movements became less and less, until at last, only mere feet from the body of his most prized horse, he moved no more.

Henry was discovered later that afternoon— a time which Henry had seen with his own eyes, but could not have known that his own fate was wrapped up in in such a way. Few of his servants showed much emotion at his passing, except perhaps the groundskeeper, and as he had no one to survive him, his estate was soon foreclosed upon and sold to the highest bidder— an investor from the city who had always had a desire for it.

The sphere had rolled down the stream quite far, past the line of cherry trees and on to the poplars beyond the hedge, but it never left Henry’s estate. It rolled up onto the bank and is sitting in a particular corner of land where it will be discovered again, though after it has been overlooked by quite a few passersby.

However, one thing you must know, dear reader, and know with certainty, is that these things will happen again, in much the same way, and as it has before-- for this sphere exists to be found, and in our folly, we grasp at it.