A Tempest and a Teapot

Warning: Text is full of potentially insulting scientific inaccuracies. Scientists/ science nerds/ anyone who respects science: read at your own risk.

It was so tiny. It would fall through the pores in my hand, if I dared hold it. But I wouldn't dare. Now it hung in a vial on my desk, the only evidence of its existence being a minuscule spark of the faintest green light. One might think they could be forgiven for mistaking it for a prick of sunshine caught in the vial's glass walls, but such a crime was unforgivable. That's why the moment it appeared, I slowly ran my hands over my face, and sent a telegram to my brother.

Please come STOP I think something happened

In the vial was the entire living, breathing, pulsing universe, trapped in a particle of invisible nothingness. So far, the vial was a sealed vacuum, and as safe as a tiger tied with spider silk. At any moment, the little speck could unleash its full power.

From the window of my ramshackle garden shed, I watch my trees quivering in the breeze, alive with robins and swallows and other pretty feathered things. In the lulls between the wind, the roar of the sea, the melancholy cries of gulls, the scrape of carefree feet against gravel on the other side of the fence and countless other sounds of a wonderful world reached me.

What had I done?

I lay my head on my desk and stared at the tiny spark hanging in midair, like a green firefly frozen in time. I couldn't see it, of course, only the aura of pure energy it had leaked. The cork sealing the vial fit in so snugly, and I knew just the pop it would make when pulled out, but even temptation was too frightened to let me touch it. If it escaped, goodness knows what would happen.

The morning sun rose over the trees and floated high in the sky, like a helium balloon. Helium. Who was it that named all the elements, exactly? The scientists who discovered them, most likely. It technically wasn't an element, but even the energy of the universe condensed needed a label of some sort, and I was overqualified to do the christening. I was a scientist through and through. I used jam jars for test tubes, the stove for a Bunsen burner, lids for petrify-dishes, and the bicycle pump for whenever it came in handy. What the high street pharmacist and mail order could not provide, I found myself on long walks through the forest and along the beach. I discovered that one could make anything out of anything, and that if nothing was available, nothing would work just fine. My brother nearly fainted when he came upon the particle accelerator in my teapot.

All these now sat on the shelves and tables and in the cupboards and boxes scattered neatly around my shed, faithful disciples waiting eagerly for their mistress to name the latest addition to her collection. Deathium? Apocalypsium? End-of-the-world-igen? It sounded appropriate for the time being.

Now was the problem of what to do with it. My brother was a regular lab-coat scientist, busy as a housefly and just as hard to get hold of. Peter did have a brain though, and he would remember that his sister only ever called for help when in the deepest abyss of trouble. And yet, even scientist had to obey the heartless laws of physics. Peter's train would arrive three days' time, at the earliest. And it could go off at any moment. I would have to do something myself.

It seemed wrong to keep it in a garden shed, where it was so exposed to... well, whatever danger lurked in garden sheds. The house wasn't any better, though. It was too small and cramped. The children would come home from school any minute, and then a miskicked football might just cause the end of football as we know it. Or I could lock it up in a chest and face the inevitable consequence of losing the key. The danger wasn't where I kept it, the danger was it.

I would have to destroy it. But how? And how could I destroy the universe without destroying myself?

The sun reached the top of the sky and hung there unmoving. The wind died down, and the air became hot and syrupy. The birds went quiet. Everything slowed down, waiting for me to do something.

I sat up. If it went off, what difference would it make? There would be no pain or fear, only a quick flash, or no flash at all, and then everything would simply cease to exist. If nothing existed, there would be no one to lament what was gone. It certainly sounded a lot kinder than guns and shrapnel and nuclear bombs and other hideous weapons that killed one part and left the rest to suffer. It sounded a lot kinder than existence itself.

And yet, that didn't make sense. My saucepan gas pressurizer, my microscope fashioned from piping and glass bottles, my genetically modified petunias and everything else I had worked so hard to make: I didn't want those to simply stop existing. I looked at the teapot on the shelf above my desk and broke into sobs. My wonderful teapot! My most prized possession! Why was life so cruel?

I shook my head, trying to scold myself. If it really went off, I would die. My children would die, my brother would die. Everything would die, and it would all be entirely, absolutely and completely my fault. How could I cry over a teapot?

It was no use. I went on blubbing.

Ding Dong.

That would have to be one of the children coming home early from school. They couldn't see their mother like this, even if the end of the world was upon them. I allowed myself one last sniff, grabbed a stiff towel from a shelf, scrubbed my face, and shuffled towards the house.

At the door was Peter, holding a briefcase. 

“How did you do that?” I said, “Thank goodness you're here!”

Peter scrunched up his forehead and twitched his brown mustache. He hardly looked himself without his lab coat.

“What do you mean?” he said, looking at me with concern “I didn't do anything.”

After a long and loud confabulation, which could have been a lot shorter, I realized that no, Peter had not received my telegram, but by chance had been passing through the country and so, being a good brother, had popped in to see me. Eventually my story got out too, and we both ended up in the shed.

Peter knelt gazing at it, the green glow glinting in his brown eyes. The sun rolled off the sky's peak, and a shaft of gold light pierced the window and fell on the vial. It glowed even more fiercely. When Peter finally got up, he was aghast.

“I'm not even going to ask how you made that, Priscilla,” he said.

“I used the particle accelerator,” I said, pointing at the teapot. Peter peered up at it and shuddered.

“I thought you got rid of that thing. Don't you know it's dangerous?” he said.

Silence. The wind picked up.

“Do you even understand what your discovery can do?”

“It has the power to destroy everything. It is the Big Bang all over again. Listen, Peter...”

“This could go off at any moment.”

“I know, but it hasn't done anything yet.”

“Could you be serious for once? I said any moment. Today, tomorrow, or even now; we can't control this thing.”

“Of course not, so why not you listen to what I have to say?”

“Don't you understand? It will kill everyone, and it will all be your fault. Do you even feel guilty?”

I looked at my teapot and sucked in my trembling breath. Outside, black mountains of clouds marched in over the sea. The sun was swallowed up, and a stormy blue darkness swept into the shed. My poor, precious teapot. I couldn't cry about it now.

“I didn't call you in to tell me what I know, Peter, I sent for you so that you could perhaps help me deal with this mess,” I said.

“Mind you, I didn't come here at your beck and call, but alright then,” he said, “you're the miracle housewife scientist, what do you say we should do?”

Peter dumped himself onto the stool in the corner, crossed his arms, and frowned out the window. I pursed my lips and scanned the shed. Dusty jam jars, grimy flowerpots, stained pestles, chipped mortars, and no ideas. What did I say we should do to save the world? Peter did have the right to be angry. I had just sentenced him to an instant, painless death, which was certainly a lot worse than the slow deterioration by time and disease that he would face otherwise. Even so, the stakes were too high for him to just sit doing nothing.

“Could you at least think of...” I started.

“Quiet! I'm thinking.”

I clenched my fists and paced round the room again and again. The wind was on full throttle now, streaming through the gaps between the shed's boards in cool, salty jets. Thunder rolled in, and the trees bowed and hissed. The darkness sank deeper. It glowed brighter. Instant death. Any moment. I gave my teapot a final parting glance.

Isn't it strange how it's only when you ask someone else for help finding something, that you realize where it was all along?

“Get up Peter,” I said.

“Quiet!”

“I need that stool.”

Peter obeyed, and I dragged the stool over to the shelf, climbed onto it, and brought down the particle accelerator. My plan was so simple, it was almost laughable. All I had to do was put it back into the teapot, decelerate it, and then... well, anything could happen then. What a daft idea. But it was worth a try. I placed the teapot by the vial, and the green glow wavered slightly.

“Careful,” said Peter, “What are you doing?”

“I made the thing using the accelerator,” I said, “so maybe if I repeated the process the other way round, it would lose energy and until it disappears.”

I gently picked up the vial. It felt cool, smooth, and normal. The wind and sea went on roaring urgently. I held it up to my eyes, searching for any sign that my plan might not work. So far, it all made sense. I would be rid of the monstrous little thing now. I hadn't needed Peter's help after all.

I looked back at the table, and the teapot was gone. Peter was trying to cram it into his briefcase.

“Give it back please,” I said.

“I'm not going to let you try that, Priscilla,” he said, snapping the case shut, “that would be suicidal”

Peter reached out his hand. “I'll take the vial too, please.”

“What will you do with it?” I asked.

“I don't know, but I'm not going to leave it here with you. You were just about to throw it into that abominable teapot of yours”.

“And what makes you think putting it into the teapot is such a bad idea?”

“Because we don't know what will happen.”

“But I have an idea of what will happen, and according to the laws of science, it is a logical and sensible assumption.”

“Well, give it to me then, and let me do it in my lab!”

“Why? Why not I do it here, as the results will be exactly the same and as the universe is in such peril? Because I'm an amateur?”

“No, because you're mad!”

Thunder broke, and rain came down in torrents, rattling the shed and everything inside it.

“Goodness knows how the earth is still intact while you are living on it,” said Peter. “Everything could be destroyed at any moment, it will all be your fault, and all you can do is whine about who does what and cry over your silly teapot. Do you finally realize what you've done?”

Lighting, rain, deafening thunder.

Yes, I finally realized now. It's funny how you don't see what's right under your nose until someone points it out to you. Little snippets of happy memories, my children's smiling faces, the beach, trees in the breeze, the sun, helium balloons and other fragments of sweet life flowed before my eyes. Cold dread filled my bones. Every selfish excuse was washed away, like Peter's muddy footprints splashed apart by the rain as he climbed into the cab, vial and teapot securely in briefcase. Yes, it was all clear now. It was all my fault.

The week that followed was solid agony. I didn't tell my children of the inevitable annihilation awaiting everything in existence; let alone how it was all thanks to their dear mother. I gave them my full attention – what else could I do? – and so naturally, they were delighted to make mud pies with me for a week. That is how long the rain lasted. It might have been for the better, as the rain shrouded the outside world and prevented me from going out and seeing all the wonder that would disappear. And it might have been for the worse, as it shut me up with a house full of children and the knowledge that at any moment, they might be destroyed by me. The very sound of their beautiful laughter sent me into fits of silent guilt. I prayed that Peter would bring a safe end to my creation. The time I cried over a teapot seemed far, far away.

On the morning the sun finally came out, I picked up the newspaper from my damp doorstep and read the front line. Then I read it again, and again, until I grasped what it said.

Young Scientist Peter Hall Discovers New Ultra-weapon:

World Leaders Race to Buy it

The front page showed a picture of him and the vial and it. Only a careful observer would notice that the vial was made from the neck of an old vinegar bottle from my kitchen, but no one would bother to look. They were all too busy trying to get their hands on it. Thinking of it, Peter would have to give it a name now, if he hadn't already named it after himself. Apocalypsium? End-of-the-world-igen? The world certainly was drawing to a close. But it wasn't my fault; not anymore. I had tried, and Peter had failed. No one would ever find the name of Priscilla on that little speck of catastrophe. It's funny how comfort is found where you least expect it.