Methuselah
There once lived a man called Methuselah, and he was slightly older than Time—but only by a few minutes, which is statistically negligible except to Methuselah, who counted everything. It wasn’t a large advantage, being older than Time; in fact, it was mostly administrative. For one thing, he had to wait for the universe to open properly before he could get on with the business of existing, and for another, he had to fill out all the paperwork for the beginning of reality, which arrived late and unformatted.
Now, Time, of course, was meant to start first. That was the plan, as per the original specification handed down from the Department of Chronological Continuity (a fairly casual organisation that specialised in being surprised). But the chronometer jammed, the sundials weren’t ready, and nobody could find where the cosmic second hand had been left after testing. So Time overslept.
Methuselah, dutiful as ever, arrived early. He polished his beard, straightened his cosmic mantle, looked around at the empty stars, and muttered, “Well, this is awkward”. Then he checked his watch, which had not yet been invented, and sighed. Ever since then, Time has been trying to catch up—which is why there are leap years, retrogrades, and the occasional missed Tuesday.
And so, to entertain himself while the rest of creation loaded, Methuselah began the long habit of storytelling. He spun tales like comets spin tails: noisily, dramatically, and with great conviction, even if nobody was listening yet.
“Oh, I’ve a million stories,” he would say to the void, “and at least half of them make sense, if you squint”. He was a rather distinguished narrator, prone to losing his plot halfway through only to find it centuries later hiding behind a different protagonist.
One evening—or possibly a Tuesday before evenings had been invented—he decided to start with a familiar one. “You already know the story,” said Methuselah to the cluster of uncommitted atoms hovering nearby, “about the Ancient Historian who travelled backward through time just to fetch a small Greek urn.”
The atoms shimmered encouragingly; it was good manners among physical laws to humour one’s elders.
“He wanted that urn, you see,” Methuselah continued, “because in the far future, a magician would perform a trick—‘I bet you there’s a small Greek urn under that teapot!’ he would cry to the crowd, voilà!—and there it would be, right where history had misplaced it. The audience was astonished. The magician was relieved. And the historian—well, he was exhausted, because time travel always required explaining, and scholars hate explanations that end with, ‘Because I haven’t done it yet.’”
Methuselah chuckled, which in those days sounded a lot like thunder taking notes.
“But I can do better than that,” he said importantly, his vast white beard trailing concepts behind it. “There’s the magician who hid a playing card inside a growing tree, see, so that centuries later he could perform the miracle of pulling it out again—the miracle being that people applauded even though it was mostly arboriculture.”
He paused then, admiring his own cleverness. If smugness had been around, it would have adopted him as its patron saint.
The atoms waited. They were patient creatures, at least for the first few eons.
Methuselah tapped his chin and said, “But I have a far better story than either of those. It involves—oh, where did I put it?—a philosopher, a map made of sunlight, and something extremely unlikely happening to a duck. It’s my best yet”. His eyes brightened. “Come closer, the lot of you; you’ll never believe—”
And at that exact moment, Time arrived, panting slightly and muttering apologies.
“Traffic in the dimensions was dreadful,” said Time, who never quite forgave entropy for inventing rush hour.
Methuselah nodded with Olympian patience. “You’re late,” he said, with all the affection of a man addressing a dear friend who has been inconvenient since the dawn of dawn.
“I’m punctual, comparatively speaking,” said Time. “You simply got here early.”
“By six thousand years.”
“Yes,” said Time with dignity. “Exactly on schedule.”
The two of them stood together for a while—Time catching its breath, Methuselah trying not to look smug. Around them, the universe shifted from potential to actual as though embarrassed to have been caught out in pyjamas. Stars began to flicker experimentally, galaxies rehearsed their spins, and gravity began issuing invitations.
“Well,” sighed Methuselah at last, “I suppose I’ll tell you my story later.”
“That would be appropriate,” said Time. “Later is very much my department.”
“Perhaps during the Cambrian?” Methuselah mused. “Lots of audience potential in trilobites.”
“Whenever suits you,” said Time, already adjusting velocity and ordering a past from the catalogue.
So Methuselah smiled and closed his half‑formed book. “Then it will wait for another time,” he said, and as he spoke, the words folded into the fabric of years, softly, like a bookmark placed between eternity and tea‑time.
It is thanks to him we have stories at all: because one man arrived early, and one great concept arrived late, and the rest of us turned up just in time to hear the ending postponed forever.
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