In the Beginning

By John Bell

Time is all. A new cycle has begun.

The Atlas Mountains in Morocco, present day: A Berber boy, Uyyub, falls asleep under a sacred tree and dreams the tree talks to him. Curious and intrigued, he returns, but this time the tree talks to him when he is not asleep. Together they travel through time, charting the course of the evolution of life on Earth with particular reference to his clan’s genesis. Uyyub’s sister, Thiyya, joins them to watch the dirty-dancing dinosaurs and ends up interacting with events at the meeting between man and superman. Belief, Sid, is close by on all occasions to guide the brother and sister towards the final meeting with Time himself.

Our solar system is one of the several nurseries within the universe, devised by Time and his many personalities (the gang) to promote life and help staunch Time’s ongoing boredom.

The experiment on planet Earth is a miraculous success, giving rise to much speculation within Time’s gang. It is, therefore, being closely monitored and so the illegal time travellers are soon discovered, prompting a race between Time, who is determined to put an end to this anomaly; and the sacred tree, equally determined to enlighten the children fully of their heritage. Who will win the race?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Mar 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9781528968171

John Bell

John Bell has worked in leadership roles in ministry organizations, churches, and in business for the past forty years. Throughout his ministry, he has worked with men to help them to be better men, even amazing men. He leads a number of groups in the Chicago area and consults with companies on relational leadership. He launched Amazing Men in 2017. He has been married to his wife, Linda, for fifty years. They have four grown children, a daughter-in-law, a son-in-law, and four grandchildren.

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About the Author

The author is a retired forestry worker and head gardener, and is currently living in Morocco. He is single and has no children. He has travelled extensively through Europe, Middle East, India and Australia. He likes to walk anywhere and loves rambling in the mountains and swimming with sardines in the Atlantic.

Dedication

To Time in His element.

Copyright Information ©

John Bell 2023

The right of John Bell to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528935210 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528968171 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

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Acknowledgement

Thanks to David, Sue, Pat and John for all your help and forbearance.

To Pat especially for bravely enduring my unexpected appearances.

In the Beginning

Time is shutting Himself down fast and it hurts. All that remains of the last universe is a pack of large and voracious black holes who are actively hoovering up the last remaining crumbs of ‘what was’, turning them into, ‘what will be’. Their hunger will not be assuaged until the very last vestiges of the last universe are accounted for. Drawing ever closer, they fight amongst themselves like dogs over the few remaining scraps of past Time until finally they are forced to feed off each other, melding in the process, to form a singularity of epic proportions, a fizzling, sizzling mass of the disparate, a solitary seed, bearing all that is, was and ever shall be.

Imprisoned and suffering dreadfully from severe claustrophobia and detachment within His very own super compressed Self, Time no longer recognises Himself, but is just about able to intuit His purpose in this most discrete of states, He is, after all, the Maestro of all axiomatic truths and this is His ultimate truth. He holds His breath and braces for the inevitable rush that always accompanies Him at this most critical of points, experiencing a frizzon of … What? Fear? Surely not, but yes indeed, there is certainly fear here.

He imagines Himself delicately balanced upon the mountainous crest of a Big Dipper, pitched between what was and what is to be. He grapples with the unthinkable, of a reversal of play and gasps at such profanity. To go back is an impossibility, just as to halt entirely could never enter the equation, but at such a critical point He cannot help but think, what if, what if I have written the Book all wrong? He shudders and takes a frantic lick of a strawberry lollipop and that slightest of positive actions decides His future. With the Book held close to His chest in one hand and holding the rapidly melting lolly aloft in the other hand, Time recites the opening lines from the first page of the Book, and in so doing releases a fresh arrow of time and is, once again, propelled forewards at a stupendously fast rate of acceleration, inviting existence to enjoy another exhilarating ride with Himself.

A last frantic lick of His lolly and He sets to work in earnest, swelling rapidly into a joyously violent eruption which quickly reveals the ghost-like intimations of His many personalities. The first to manifest themselves fully are the twins, Entropy and Negentropy or Trope and Neg as they prefer to be called. Trope shouts with glee as he sets about restoring order from the chaos that was his twin’s domain within that last black hole; that distasteful singularity of all possibilities imaginable. Trope grimaces at the thought.

Naturally, Time has written the Book in such a way as to allow neither of the twins to gain outright supremacy over the other, for that would surely spell the end of Him in His entirety, and that ain’t never goin’ to happen, breathes Time happily. Trope has already won the first battle by neutralising all remnants of the last universe as they were still reaching for that final singularity. Such an act ensured the nascent universe is born out of balance, thus, cleverly ensuring a healthy future for all to enjoy. Time watches indulgently and chuckles. The first chapter has been re-enacted according to the ‘Word’.

Freed of all constraints, He now commences upon His favourite part of the ride and like a child at a fun fair whoops with pleasure at the prospect of the fun ahead. Existence erupts stupendously and chaotically ever faster, with greater quantities of energy revealing themselves so that after just a fraction of what we understand to be a second, His other personas materialise, ‘the gang’. Usna is the mathematical genius, Afis is lord of everything physical, Akru is the chemical wizardess and then there is Uss, their little sister, the queen of biochemistry. Each is imbued with a singularity of purpose and character so strong it is advised you do not dwell on their individual natures for too long.

Time relaxes, all the better to enjoy the gratifying spectacle as His potential futures gain purpose and intent as the gang furiously translate the written words into action, mass and structure. The first of many chapters has been mastered so Time lays His Book aside with an easeful grunt and meditates.

I am never wrong, even when I am. Trope and Neg provide all the tension I need to propagate Myself, while the others provide Me with substance and meaning. Whatever else could I possibly need? Time chortles at the rediculusness of the question.

I am schizophrenic by definition. I have to be: I am all that is, nothing more and certainly nothing less, because there is nothing outside of Me. How could there possibly be something outside of Me when I am all that is, know what I mean? Really, the very idea is utterly preposterous and should be ripped from the Book forthwith to save Me from ever having to think of such nastiness again. But then Time thinks further, and having thought, decides it is probably wisest to leave things as they are, after all it was I who gave Me meaning within these precious pages and they have never let Me down. Time scrawls a mental note across the evolving universe, telling Himself, in no uncertain words, that He must leave the Book well alone.

Laughing out loud and jumping up, He claps His hands for order and turning to an imagined gallery bows deeply, coughing politely and announces in a well modulated tone, no trumpets or angels to announce My ascendency, no roseate shrouds or wise men to ride My sands of time. I am the butterfly of perfection, the strutting peacock, the magnificent bull, the tiny atom. I am the encapsulation and reason for all that is. Time throws His arms wide in a magnanimous gesture. I have no need to proselitize My friends, My largess is of the purest unguent of ultimate perplexity, an edification of My self evidence. He pauses, head bowed, and frowns. It would be scary indeed if something managed to unravel Me! Oh, deary Me, I’ve gone and done it again, what a horrible thought? Where did that come from? It really doesn’t bear thinking about, so why did I think it? Mmmm, why indeed? Time lowers His arms and clenches His fists tight to the side of His swollen head and sways dangerously, upsetting the ongoing act of re-creation.

The gang stare wide eyed in amazement. Trope and Neg, too busy grappling with each other, remain oblivious to the drama unfolding about them.

It has taken the gang a mere thought for them to shrug off any juvenile delinquency they may have experienced to begin with. Now, having taken full account of their faculties and bearings, they set upon their allotted tasks in earnest, tracing intricately intertwining paths of connectivity as written by Himself, at least that is what they were doing until He began spouting. Distracted, they gawp at this most bizarre of spectacles while their latent powers rapidly wane about them.

Young Uyyub’s Secret Diary

Do we, as free thinking creatures create, promote or influence our destinies over and above all that surrounds us or does some force hold sway over us, guiding us, guarding us, while choosing to let us believe we have some control of our destinies? The answer to that question is judged to be dependent entirely upon one’s personal idea of what reality is or is not. Alas, the question perplexes me no end, but annoyingly, it interests me greatly too. We juggle and jiggle with our fortunes according to our wills, but just how self-determined are we? Does the fact that we are conceived at a particular moment in time really influence our futures? Indeed, do we even have a choice?

Immersed in time as we are, we must surely be aspects of time? Uy writes a note in the margin, reminding himself to question this last statement. How can he, a mere Berber boy, born of farming stock in the mountains of West Morocco, know what is or is not? How presumptuous is that? He smiles to himself and quickly pulls the pencil from his mouth and slurps to stop his drool from spoiling the diary. He swallows and puts pencil to paper again.

These are the thoughts of Uy the Idiot, according to my sister.

An Older, Maturer Uyyub and the Not So Secret Diary

Time gives us causality, providing meaning to our existence. We are obliged to follow the arrow of time, carried effortlessly, as we are, upon a complex chain of cause and effect promoted via interactions taking place at all levels of existence from the sub atomic and below, right the way up to what we think of as our reality. Such actions and reactions, when noted, give rise to a multitude of new expectations which work their way through time’s present, past and future simultaneously, offering yet more choices at every point in what we conceive of as time. These choices are open even to us mere humans, but come and go so fast we have no conscious notion of their existence let alone understand that they are actually options being offered to us. Time is the unifier and qualfier? Uy stops typing. Now that is an interesting thought and wonders if he dare propose such a thesis in a paper. Why not? He has been laughed at before, but more often than not he has been proved to be correct at a later date. Somehow though, I don’t think this question could ever be answered with certainty, unless the tree confirms the existence of Mr T to the world and, that will never happen.

If time interacts with its past, present and future simultaneously, then would it not also be possible for a time traveller to influence the future in some way? But said influence will already have been accounted for, both in the future and at the point of instigation. According to Mr T, all has been written in His Book and cannot be altered, so what about anomolies? Uy feels a headache coming on and stops typing.

Have Thiyya and I influenced the future of mankind in any way? Uy nods and smiles. Is it possible we could have given a boost to mankind’s evolution when we were privileged to witness the first encounter between man and superman?

Young Uyyub’s Secret Diary Continued

Our lives may be likened to a movie I suppose, but this movie offers several frames at any one moment in time, all of which are judged simultaneously with only one being accepted? Another note for the diary, justify, what will take us naturally through to the next frame. Uy smirks. And we think we will understand our universe one day. Fat chance. I say never, ever will we do so, just look at my sister. I shall never, ever understand her. Sorry, Thiyya!

These are the thoughts and writings of Uy who is not such an idiot after all.

Time, pleased to have the gang’s attention grins madly and takes a further deep bow while all about them, a gut wrenching drop in temperature and density heralds the next step in the evolution of the universe. Time’s heart soars with the sheer pleasure of it all. We are all relative, don’t you know? He shouts in glee. The ride is on. Come on gang, you are killing the future with your idleness. This is not the time to stop and stare.

The gang take the hint and resume their work with alacrity. Subatomic particles materialise as Usna performs somersaults and back flips, throwing out prodigious quantities of the most bizarre mathematical equations we could never dream of, and all of it performed with the sublime ease and consumate pride of an adept at work. Usna has been known to stagger under the strain of such mental gymnastics, but he has never, ever, been known to break into a sweat.

Many subatomic particles, having made their debut, immediately search out partners also desirous of unity. They whip themselves into bondage, held tight by dominant and submissive forces, using electromagnetism and even gravity when the couplings are particularly energetic.

The act of creation is a balancing act, carefully choreographed by the sciences. Chemicals appear, as if from a magician’s hat, then gases and liquids too and finally the beginnings of the very first solids. Time whoops again but His joy is immediately subdued by the looks of pained forebearance from the gang, but He is not about to be denied any joy and pouting, pronounces This is My time of greatest fulfillment, nothing can take that away from Me.

Uss, the baby of the gang, plays with and gurgles over her biological building blocks. She holds the promise of possible fun and adventure once the universe matures. She is the key to life and all its secrets, a dimension quixotic and mysterious by nature, something both dangerous and potentially uncontrollable. Well, it would be if it worked, but, alas, so far, life has rarely been a success. Her agenda has yet to be fulfilled; to be realised.

Time watches her from afar, egging her on silently to a better understanding of herself, while pitying her for her desperate failures. To aid her in this cycle He has incorporated some new ideas for her to play with. These ideas are based on a program rather than relying on conditional circumstances, but first the gang must be primed.

Paens of joy spill and spell from Time’s outstretched hands as the uiverse comes into focus. As adepts of the sciences, the gang conduct themselves with absolute decorum and integrity, Neg is the only member allowed to defy such ordered manipulation, for he is, after all, the king of anarchy. Unfortunately for him though, at this moment in time, his twin is by far the stronger, but Neg can wait, he knows his time will come soon enough, it always does.

Soon those lovely super stars will begin to burst and collapse causing deep rents in the fabric of space time, my lovely black holes, sighs Neg, oh, yes indeed, and then I can set to work and begin to undo Trope’s meddlesome house work.

Everything in its place, please! cries Trope, Let’s have some order here shall we.

Wish on Trope, that will never happen, not while I’m around that is, chortles Neg.

Time rhapsodises further. There is sound here but alas there are no ears to hear it. There is light here too, but nothing to appreciate the beauty it reveals. All is a chorus of silence as deafening as a leaf falling in a blind alley. Time shivers with the sadness of it all while wondering what a blind alley is. Here I am, My glorious aparel unfurling about Me and it goes unappreciated. Fresh symmetries are being revealed, re-workings of My glorious ghosts of the future’s past. I am colour, sound and texture in abundance, I am the dark and light of everything. I am all dimensions, oh so many dimensions. I have everything, but still I remain unfulfilled. This emptiness jeers at Me as insistent as toothache. There is nothing to appreciate My fine artistry, nothing to appreciate Me, it’s just not fair. It has always been the same, each new universe, My Book resonates with unfulfilled appreciation. Am I doomed to be unrecognised for what I am, who I am, how I am, where I am? Time is counting the which, what, why, wherefors on His fingers and happens to look up just then and His eyes alight on Afis. So what do you think, Afis?

Afis looks up startled. What, er, sorry, I never caught a word of what You were saying, Mr T, and really with all that is going on at present I don’t have enough of Your time to listen to Your self indulgent prattlings.

What! Cries Time, in hurt disbelief and leans foreward, stamping hard while breathing even harder. He points a shaking finger at Afis. You are sooooo ignorant. Your ignorance deafens Me, it is so loud, dear boy, Time steps back and sighs heavily, the light from His eyes gone. Why do I even bother?

Akru chips in quickly. Oh, Mr T, I heard You alright and I loved your speech, really I did, it was so very beautiful, almost poetic in my opinion, although perhaps a tad triumphal for my taste too, er, if You don’t mind my saying so, that is? All that about trumpets and what was it, butterflies and peacocks? Where did they come from and more importantly, what are they?

Oh, so you were listening, My dear Akru. Well, thank you so very much for that at least. It appears master Afis over there, is far too busy to take note of My artistic aspirations which I hasten to add, I postulate for your benefit, don’t you know? Must keep you busy, what?

How can we possibly benefit from Your over extended ego, mutters Afis under his breath and then to Time Himself. Why are You telling us this anyway? You have Your Book so why the dissatisfaction? Afis pauses, thinking fast and then his face darkens with awakening realisation. Oh, You’re not thinking of conducting another experiment are You? Please do tell me, us, You are not thinking of a further experiment?

Time’s face collapses like the fallen crest of a hoopoe. Oh, My dear Afis, you know how bored I get once the ride is under way. All I ever do is expand and contract, expand and contract, like a wretched accordian and for what? Time stops and looks up brightly. Here, I do sound like an accordian too, don’t I? I not only act like one, I sound like one too. Whatever next? And He bursts into uncontrollable laughter.

The gang stir uneasily, unsure how to react to such questionable behaviour. Time continues unperturbed. You think I do this just to keep you happily employed, dear boy? Time hrumphs. That is hardly the reason, I can tell you that right now and for free. I do need you, naturally I do, you are written into My Book, and please don’t get Me wrong, you all do the most wonderful job and I am so wonderfully indebted to you all, but I need more Afis, can’t you see that? I need excitement, I need to be acknowledged, to feel…um, er, appreciated, no…more than that, I need to be applauded, yes, that’s the word, I need to hear applause for what I am, don’t you see? I need to, to, to feel…um, er, wanted, don’t you know? He says this in a hurt voice.

Afis’s head goes light. So, You are going to run another experiment? The gang stops in its tracks causing the future of this universal cycle to sicken dramatically again. Be careful of what you wish for, Mr T, Afis says dryly and then resumes his chores in a silent grumble.

You are undoubtedly wonderful, My dear boy, as far as you go. Time coughs politely behind a chequered flag, Er, I mean as far as you all go, but I need more, yes. I am feeling so horribly unfulfilled, don’t you see?

So I take it You have already made up Your mind and You were not even going to consult with us? Afis looks about to see if the others are with him, but instead notes the gathering chaos about them and spies a grinning Neg peering at him, from behind clouds of unresolved gases and equations and shouts to the others urgently to get to it fast or they will all be out of business very soon.

He does not bother looking over to Time. And I suppose You have already posted this experiment in Your Book. Thank you so much for telling us, kind Sir; we do so love to be left in the dark, The sarcasm in his voice as sticky as molassas.

Unperturbed, Actually, dear boy, I have not written any such experiment as you so rudely suggest, but what I have done is made provision for such an event to take place, but only when we are all agreed on a suitable time and place. Actually… and Time draws Himself up to His full height and stares down, hard at Afis. I have also modified the structure and purpose of such events should we agree to them taking place again, so there.

Afis glances at Time,

So what kind of new structure and purpose, Mr T, do tell, I am all ears?

Time pulls a pained face. Well, nothing solid as yet. I have made provision for a program this time. Uss must read what I have written and work her magic so as to give life the chance to develop for once, if you see what I mean? Time wallows in quiet satisfaction as He sees a look of fear creep across Afis’s face. This time I have advised her to plan the experiment, no more of these slap, bang, wallop trials that end in a crisis every time. Time, hugely gratified by Afis’s reaction now feels compelled to go a tiny bit further. And I need you all to create a perfectly tailored nursery for this new life form. This has to work, don’t you see? Or I shall go mad with boredom.

New life form? mutters Afis and Time bursts out laughing again.

Live and learn, live and learn, My dear Afis, that’s My philosophy.

Well I would have thought You’d have learned Your lesson by now surely. Every experiment involving life has been an unmitigated disaster to date. This from a thoughtful Akru.

Time sighs. I know life has proved a tad difficult to realise, but this universal cycling lark is soooo booooring, don’t you know! He yawns wide to accentuate His point and then clamps a hand to His mouth quickly after an entire galaxy disappears down His maw. I need a distraction folks and I need it now. I need entertainment. How about we make this the last time, eh? And He smiles sweetly at each of them in turn, daring them to question His sincerity. Honest. He adds, His eyes are alight with questionable integrity as they wash over the awe struck gang rapidly, but He is not fooling any of them.

These experiments are so horribly dangerous, Mr T, surely if You have learned nothing else, You must have learned that by now, oh, and You know how distressing they have been for the created specimens and for us too, come to think of it? Remember how close Uss came to being wiped out mentally with that last experiment? You have no compassion, Sir. This from an irate Afis again. I seem to recall reading a clause You inserted and underlined in red ink no less, in that great Book of Yours, which read something like this. ‘Life = Pandora’s Box,’ what ever that is? ‘= Untennable = Dangerous in the extreme. Do not encourage under any circumstances’, the last, very heavily underlined. Afis’s voice is sparking with frustrated anger. As an afterthought, he shouts, You can’t tamper with the unknown: You know it. You wrote that Yourself…remember?

Time hums Beethoven’s funeral march, startling the gang into immobility and then lightens up. Actually I can do what ever I like, dear Afis, and right now I’m inclined to life, dangerous or not. I need excitement or I swear I will let this universe unravel for ever and ever. I will let Trope or Neg win the battle once and for all and you know what? I would be happy to let that happen the way I feel at present. Time pauses and coughs politely. There is something else you should know too…If you don’t start working again and soon, I won’t have to do anything, you will have done it for me.

Afis turns to Akru, That sounds a bit like blackmail to me Akru. What do you think?

I think, to think outside of the Book is to think of trouble, as always, but Afis, I also have to agree with Time and I think we should get our act together and fast. Look about us please do.

Afis glares at Time, hating to be beaten again and then scans the failing universe and sighs deeply before grudgingly re-commencing his work.

You are all so negative, snaps Time, stamping hard.

The gang look to each other and shrug, while Usna, who has been tuning in on the quiet, turns smokey and vague. The gang have lost the argument and know it.

Afis sighs. Personally I am perfectly happy with my lot. I don’t need any further excitement, thank you very much. I am sorry for little Uss, but as far as I’m concerned I am quite content for her to play with her building blocks as she always has done. Afis pauses and cups an ear. Hear that? She is chuckling happily to herself. She sounds fine to me, and so are we, thank you very much. So we still protest and say, no.

Hear, hear, Shouts Akru, making Afis’s day while Usna whizzes about them, in a disorientated spill of numbers and equations, as if stung by a tanderaman.

Pooh, I’ll show you, cries Time as He stomps off into the far reaches of the universe, which are not so very far away at this moment in its early development. You can’t stop Me and you know it. He shouts back at them.

Don’t we just, slave labour, that’s all we are. Mutters Afis while trying to regain his composure by adjusting the physicality of the universe. Balance is very nearly all.

My first day of school: No choice in the matter, just a statement of fact as decreed by our beloved government, an inevitability which, for the first time in my short life, causes me to stumble upon the question of integrity as I am ripped from days of almost exclusive parental love and eternal sunshine where each and every minute promises a new joy, a new discovery; where life blossoms exponentially, beautifully, willingly and freely. I have forgotten about Thiyya. Today, all that beauty is exchanged, shockingly for a prisoner’s bench set before a rickety, deeply inscribed and shaven desk within a stifling class-room crammed with sickeningly excited and scared children, who like me become slowly parboiled beneath a red hot tin roof. Life has just lost all reason, all meaning, and all sense of joy and then I do remember, no Thiyya, ahhhhh.

There are