Tomorrow's Guardian Page 4

CHAPTER FOUR: LESSONS

  Tom took a deep breath and waited for the next instruction.

  “Good, now what you must do next is imagine a clock in your mind. Any clock, but it helps if it’s one you are familiar with.”

  Tom smiled. His grandparents had such a one: a tall grandfather clock, which stood in their hallway. It was made of polished mahogany. The clock face had elegant hands pointing at Roman numerals. Beneath that was a smaller circle with the phases of the moon and the date rotating. Finally, at the bottom, visible through a glass door that could be opened, a long pendulum of silver and brass swung majestically to and fro giving a deep and solemn tick tock with each passing second. He had been fascinated by it for as long as he could remember. His grandfather would let him open the little door and use a small key to wind it up.

  It was this clock, standing in a hallway of a building which, if Septimus was speaking the truth, would not exist for millions of years that he called to mind.

  “Excellent, I can feel you have a good sense of what you need. Now, as the clock moves, reach out and feel time moving.”

  Tom could not have said that he understood exactly what he was doing, nor could he have taught others, but he was suddenly aware of the passing seconds. The pendulum swung, the clock ticked and he felt time pass.

  “Yes, that’s it. Now, what we are going to do is reach out and move the hands of the clock in your mind. Move them faster than they normally move and at the same time, do not let go of that link to the passing of time around you.”

  Tom opened his eyes and frowned at Septimus; he was not sure what the stranger wanted him to do, but Septimus said no more, so he closed his eyes again, summoned the image of the clock and felt time moving once more. Then, in his mind, he saw his hands reach up to the clock face and move the hands clockwise an hour. Suddenly there was a juddering feeling and when he opened his eyes and looked around, Septimus was nowhere to be seen. Tom started to panic as he saw that he was quite alone in the prehistoric swamp. He was just about to call out when there was a soft popping sound and the Welshman materialised next to him on the log.

  “Sorry about that, Tom. I didn’t expect you to get that right so quickly: you took me by surprise. Well done, you have just travelled an hour into the future! Now, we will try and move backwards in time.”

  This was much harder for Tom. Septimus explained that humans were used to travelling forward in time, albeit only as fast as time itself moved, but backwards was not natural. On the other hand, Tom had done it by himself ? without trying to ? several times in the past few months and after concentrating, he finally felt a falling, spinning sensation and found himself standing alone in the swamp, but in the middle of the night.

  Contrary to what he might have expected, Tom was almost overcome by a great feeling of relief. His fears of being shut up with Mrs Brown in a psychiatric hospital began to recede. What the stranger told him was true: he was a Walker and he wasn’t going mad after all.

  Septimus appeared after a moment, saw him and smiled. “Well done: you’re doing well. You’re a natural in fact. I reckon it’s the computer games: they speed reactions and stimulate the abstract areas of the mind that you need in order to manipulate time. It was different in my day!”

  Tom looked at him, quizzically. “Just when was ‘your day’? Where are you from anyway? Where is your home?”

  The Welshman looked startled. “What a lot of questions for a young lad. Well, let’s just say that I have wandered though a lot of places and a lot of times. I have picked up what some folk call a pretty mixed up accent from the countries I have been to, doing my job.”

  “What job do you do, Septimus? Why are you teaching me all this anyway?” Tom asked.

  The man stood up without answering and moved away. “That’s enough work for now,” he said abruptly. “I think you can go home and rest. You have a lot to think about, I’m sure.” Septimus blinked and suddenly the prehistoric valley with is ferns and strange creatures was gone. The journey through time took only an instant and again they were standing in Tom’s bedroom. As he looked at the digital clock beside the bed it flicked to 3:05. Tom could hardly believe it; they had been gone for just a few minutes – it had felt like hours.

  “What happens now?” Tom sat on the side of the bed. Suddenly the idea of waking up on New Year’s morning, or going back to school in a few days and seeing his friends all seemed ridiculous and unreal.

  “You must grow a little, Tommy. You must use some time to think about what we have spoken of. There is more, much more ... and some of it less than pleasant. If you choose to use your powers you must be trained so you can use them wisely. As for what you do with them then, well that’s a long story.” Septimus spoke in a very serious voice – quite different from his bubbling and joyful nature in the prehistoric world – but even so, he went over and playfully spun Tom’s globe so it rotated gently whilst he looked at it.

  “The skills you have open up to you a world you could never have imagined. But with that world comes danger.” Moving away from the globe, Septimus came to sit next to Tom on the side of the bed.

  “I came here tonight because you have started to show yourself to those of us who have the same powers. Whilst you were just an ordinary schoolboy you had nothing to fear, but now you are showing these powers, I’m afraid there are men and women out there who will try to use you to suit their aims and goals. You have made a potential target of yourself.”

  ‘And a spectacle too,’ thought Tom, thinking of the events at school recently. He grimaced.

  Septimus seemed to read his mind. “Perhaps your friends and family have noticed odd behaviour in you?”

  Tom nodded.

  “Right then, this is what you must do. You must NOT use your powers until we have trained you. Keep that clock in your mind. When you feel anything happening, hold tight to that clock and try to avoid random time travel. See if you can keep quiet and unobtrusive for a little while and one day I will come for you.”

  “You’re saying I’ve got to keep my head down.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Ok,” Tom nodded and then stifled a yawn.

  Septimus slapped him on the back and in a blur he was gone.

  For a moment, Tom wondered if he had imagined the entire event, if indeed it had all been a dream. In the corner of his room, though, he heard a noise that told him it was real after all: the soft squeaking of the globe, spinning gently to a halt.

  When Tom woke up late the following morning his family were all already up. His dad and his sister were, from the sounds of it, playing on the video game. He heard the words, “You haven’t got a chance” from his dad and, “You cheater!” from Emma. The smell of bacon and eggs was drifting up the stairs and he could hear the bubbling of the kettle as it reached the boil.

  Struggling into his clothes he went to join them, wondering if everything might return to normal now. Would he be just another ordinary boy, leading an ordinary life?

  To begin with, life did seem normal: the new term at school started and finished without any incident and the weeks drifted by. Soon the Easter break was over as well. In April, Tom’s twelfth birthday came and went, this time without any magically relighting candles. Although, of course, he knew now that they hadn’t been relighting candles at all.

  Four months had now passed since the New Year. In all that time there had been no opportunity to practise what Septimus had told him. Four months of normality; no Septimus and no time travel. Not that Kyle Rogers failed to take up any opportunity to remind everyone about the ‘Nutter’ in the class. But that was, in itself, normal enough.

  Then came June and Sports Day: Tom had been entered into the hurdle race for his team. He did not really expect to do that well because in the past he had usually tripped over one hurdle or another. Andy, who was racing for another team, usually won.

  “Good luck, Andy,” he said as they and two other boys lined up at the start.

  “You too, m
ate!” Andy replied and winked at him.

  Kyle Rogers, who was also running, was quick to get in his opinion. “You’ll need more than luck, Oakley, with your bandy legs!” Tom just shrugged and turned away.

  The signal gun fired and they were off. Tom started well and taking the first two hurdles in his stride found himself slightly ahead of his friend. Off in the crowds he heard his dad bellowing:

  “Come on boy, run!”

  He ran.

  He felt the thrill of the race and the pounding of his heart pushing him on. Three hurdles to go: now two and then one more. He leapt high and he was over! He sprinted for the finish and cheered as he realised he was the first across the line. Andy, close behind, was smiling at him.

  “Well done, mate, good race!” his friend said.

  “That’s my son!” yelled his dad to anyone who would listen. The clapping and cheering went on for a while. Tom had never won a race before ? or any other sport for that matter – and loved the feeling. Even better to savour was the sickly look on the face of Kyle, who came in last, arriving just in time to witness the scenes of celebration.

  Then, there was a click and a heave in Tom’s mind. Suddenly, he found himself approaching that last hurdle again. Except, this time he had now lost his stride and timing. He tried to jump it, but with a sickening smack he hit the wooden board hard with his shin and went down in a heap. Andy leapt the hurdle next to him and ran on to win.

  Tom hit the ground in frustration and shouted out: “No! NO – I won, I won!!”

  Everyone was staring at him now, each face showing a different reaction: his teachers angry at his behaviour; Andy, hurt and upset that his mate had done this to him, while Kyle was hopping about in glee at having more evidence of his rival’s mental instability. In the crowds, his father looked embarrassed and was certainly not telling anyone that Tom was his son, now. Tom’s face flared red with embarrassment and he turned his head to look away from his father.

  He was just trying to work out exactly what had happened when he spotted another face, one he did not recognise. Tom was pretty sure it was not a parent of anyone at the school. It wasn’t just that he was a stranger, but there was something odd about him. In the sports ground was an old oak tree that provided shelter on the sunniest of summer days. Leaning against it, where Tom was certain no one had been a moment before, was a man. He was tall and thin, maybe about forty–five years old, with once blond hair that was now turning white in parts. He was smoking a cigarette and staring at Tom from under a rather old–fashioned hat like the sort spies wore in black and white movies.

  There was something else odd too: the sun was beating down and Tom was sprawled on the ground panting whilst sweat trickled down his back. Yet only fifty yards away, the man was wearing a thick winter coat and showed no signs of discomfort whatsoever. A moment later, Tom’s view of the man was blocked by the shoes and legs of someone he certainly did recognise and just as certainly did not want to meet right now.

  “Just what was that all about, Oakley?” asked the shoes’ owner, Mr Beaufin, from under his raised and rather bushy eyebrows.

  Tom glanced up at him and then back at the tree, but the man and his rather out–of–place coat had vanished.

  That night, after serving detention yet again, Tom had a dream – except, he was no longer Tom and did not know who Tom was anyway. Indeed, he was not a he: he was a she and her name was Mary.

  “Mary!” The voice was urgent. Someone was banging at her door and shouting. It was late, maybe one in the morning or a little later. Confused and sleepy she opened her eyes and said, “What is it?”

  “Mary, come quickly!” She now recognised the voice. It was Jack, the master’s journeyman. She got up and threw a shawl around her shoulders. Opening the door she saw him hopping from foot to foot in front of her. She was about to send him away and go back to her bed, when she noticed smoke drifting up the stairs from the ground floor. Behind Jack huddled Mr Farriner, the baker, and his family.

  “Jack, I can smell burning!” she said in alarm.

  “Mary, you stupid wench, the whole place is ablaze. Come quickly, we have to get out!”

  Mary lived over the bakery in Pudding Lane in London. It had been her turn to put out the oven fire the night before, but she had forgotten to do it. Around midnight, sparks from the fire must have flown out of it and landed on the pile of firewood that was always neatly stacked nearby, for soon after midnight the fire was raging. It had spread all along the ground floor and was already igniting the neighbouring houses. Farriner’s apprentice, Jack, had been woken by the smoke and went to investigate, but was forced back upstairs. He had then roused the household – Mary being the last.

  “What do we do?” asked Mrs Farriner. “We can’t get out: we’ll all be burnt!”

  The children now started crying. Jack tried again to get down the stairs, but could not: the heat was intense and the very air was aflame. He suddenly snapped his fingers. “Out the back of my bedroom,” he said and hurried them all into his room. He moved across to the window, which was already open to provide ventilation on this hot September night. “We can climb out onto that roof,” he pointed.

  Close behind Jack, Mary could now see that the roof of the adjacent house abutted the bakery beneath the window. She stood back while the baker’s family climbed out and across the narrow gap onto the roof opposite. It sloped steeply and the children had to cling to their parents as they made the perilous crossing. Suddenly, from behind Mary there was a crack, a pop and a spitting noise. She spun round and gasped, for now she could see the flames had reached the upper passageway and were rippling towards her along the floorboards, which buckled, blackened and split as the fire advanced.

  “Come on, Mary!” Jack urged from the window, as he reached out to her with one hand. She stepped toward the window but, looking down, she could see the ground far below. She felt dizzy and started to panic. Terrified of falling, she froze.

  “Mary, you must come,” Jack urged as he moved out onto the roof ahead of her.

  The fire was scorching her now, but she was paralysed with fear and simply could not move. Suddenly, the fire swept down the wall of Jack’s room and leapt across the window, blocking the only route of escape. She screamed.

  “Mary!” Jack yelled in despair, “Mary!”

  Tom woke up, sweating all over and screaming his head off. “Fire!” he yelled, “Fire!” Then, he got up and started running about on the landing. His dad was out of his bedroom in a flash. Grabbing Tom, he shouted at him.

  “What is it, Tom, what’s going on?”

  “Fire! I think ... I mean ...,” Tom stuttered and then opened his eye wide and looked about him. He was standing on his own landing and there was no fire to be seen anywhere.

  He allowed his dad to take him back to bed.

  “You ok, Tom?”

  Snuggling under the covers, Tom nodded. By now, he was calming down and had no intention of telling his father the full details of the dream. “Yeah, Dad. Sorry about that. It was just a nightmare, I reckon.”

  His father nodded, but gave him a strange look as he left the room. Tom rolled over and pretended to go to sleep, but a few moments later, he got up and opened up a history book from his bookshelf and flipping through it, found a paragraph that began:

  ‘Early on the morning of the 2nd September, 1666, began the Great Fire of London. The first victim was the Farriner’s maid. She died when she refused to leave the bakery through a window in order to escape across the rooftops …’