Tomorrow's Guardian Page 6

CHAPTER SIX: REDFELD

  The Professor nodded. “They have caused you much grief, have they not? Confusion and ridicule too, perhaps?”

  Tom grunted an assent.

  “Well, indeed, I can understand that. Many of us have wished we had not been born with them, or have been given reason to have them removed,” said the Professor.

  “Is that possible?” asked Tom, feeling a glimmer of hope. What was the old man saying?

  “Indeed it is. We have a way of removing the powers forever: an injection that switches off the gene that you use to control Walking. But it is not a choice to be taken lightly as once gone they can never be returned. That is why I had you brought here today: to give you that choice. It is a decision you must think about for a few days, but not forever. We have found that in a boy the choice must be made before their thirteenth birthday. After that – or around that time – the powers become permanent. So you do not have long, Thomas, just until next April, I believe?”

  Tom nodded and got to his feet. “Is that all, sir?” he asked.

  “Yes, unless you have anything to ask me about?”

  With a shake of his head Tom turned to leave, then remembering the strange words on the door plate, he asked what they meant.

  “Custos crastinos? Loosely translated, it means, 'Guardian of tomorrow'.”

  That did not mean anything to Tom and his face must have shown his ignorance, for the old man gave him a kindly smile and explained: “It’s our motto, Master Oakley.”

  “But what does it mean exactly?”

  “It’s hard to explain, young man. Let me just say it is a neat summary of what we do here. Now, is there anything else you wish to ask?”

  Tom thought about the dreams he was having and wondered whether to tell the Professor, who was studying him, head tilted to one side in expectation, but Tom shook his head, muttered, “No sir, thank you,” and left the room, closing the big door quietly behind him. Matthews was waiting to escort him to where Septimus was leaning against his dad’s car.

  “Fancy a milkshake?” the Welshman asked. Tom, suddenly aware of being thirsty, agreed.

  At the end of the road was a café. They sat at a table outside on the pavement and drank in silence for a while. Tom thought about what the Professor had said and after a time he asked his companion what he thought should be his choice.

  “Well, if it were me, I would keep the power and use it. With some discipline and training you’ll be able to control it well,” Septimus answered promptly.

  “Use it for what, though? The Professor spoke of protecting the world and also of ... erm...” Tom stopped, his face going a little pink.

  “Of controlling the likes of me, eh?” the Welshman responded with a chuckle. “Ah, the Prof’s not so bad, but he’s a bit of an old stick–in–the–mud. If you take my advice, you will use your powers for yourself: for your bread and butter. Pop back to ancient Greece and pick up a nice piece of pottery that are two a penny and then sell it today at an antique market or at an auction, for thousands of quid. What’s wrong with that?”

  “So that’s what you do, is it?”

  Septimus grinned, “That and many other things. In your case I was hired to locate you and bring you to the Professor. But I liked the look of you, so I threw in some extra advice and teaching for free. My point is, you can do more than Professor goody–goody suggests and earn a bit of cash along the way. Where’s the harm in that, I ask you?” Septimus said, with a shrug of his shoulders.

  Tom was about to answer, when he was interrupted by a voice coming from behind them. “So, the boy has the choice of being a freelance peddler, who makes his way trading up and down the time line, or a policeman regulating others’ use of time travel,” the voice said, speaking with crisp, precise and slightly accented words.

  Septimus and Tom turned and saw another man sitting at a nearby table. He was smoking a thin cigarette, despite the laws on smoking. Neither the waiter taking an order from another customer inside the cafe, nor any other customer seemed to have noticed. The man had a long nose beneath which grew a thin, well–trimmed moustache, which like his short, neatly cut hair was jet black. His eyes were a deep green colour. He wore a smart but rather dated looking suit, which struck Tom as more fitting of characters in black and white movies from years before, than from the twenty–first century. Somehow, the man seemed familiar and although it took a moment to place him, the long overcoat, which was hung over a chair, and the old–fashioned brimmed hat that sat on the table, confirmed to Tom that this was the man he had seen briefly under the tree at his school the previous day. The man took a sip from a steaming china cup, which he replaced on a saucer next to the hat.

  Tom and Septimus exchanged glances and shrugged.

  “Permit me to introduce myself. I am Joseph Redfeld. I am a – how do you put it – Walker, too.”

  “Oh, enjoy a bit of rambling do you, boyo,” Septimus asked. “Have you tried the Pennine Way? Or how about Wales; I hear Snowdon is nice this time of year.”

  Redfeld glared at him. “Don’t take me for a fool. You know what I am talking about.”

  Tom sensed a slight change in the feeling of time flowing, almost like the lurch he had felt when he once went to France on holiday and the ferry had pulled out to sea and gone over the first big wave.

  Without warning, Redfeld deliberately knocked his cup to the floor, where it smashed into dozens of pieces. A waiter came rushing out with a cloth. Then, Redfeld gave a wave of his hand and Tom felt a slight judder again and suddenly the waiter was running backwards into the café. The cup reassembled itself and spun back up onto the table, followed by the coffee, which poured itself neatly into the cup. A moment later, the coffee cup was intact and gently steaming, and the waiter was back inside taking an order from another customer just as before.

  Redfeld took another sip from his coffee and then glanced over at Tom. “See how we can use our power to destroy and to rebuild? I am not just talking of coffee cups, you comprehend. I am talking of nations and empires. The opportunities we have are massive and he,” Redfeld indicated Septimus, “talks of selling Greek vases, whilst that old man down the street has no vision or courage! Custos crastinos? Pah!”

  The man pointed his finger at Tom. “I offer you a third choice. Come with me and you could be immortal. The power you have is truly great. I could make you a god! Very, very few are granted these powers. Even fewer can master them. But those who can have the potential to change their world: for good, for evil, for gain and for duty ... forever, in fact. Would you turn your back on the chance of that?”

  Still keeping Tom under an unflinching gaze Redfeld continued in a softer tone, “There is much that can be achieved which that old man does not understand, Tom. I can make it happen for you. I ask you to give the matter your deepest consideration.” At last he looked away, drank his coffee in one tilt of his head and stood up. On went his hat and coat.

  Suddenly, behind him, a bright point of light appeared and this expanded until it was hanging in the air in what Tom could only describe as a hole, blocking his view of the cafe behind. Through the hole, Tom caught a glimpse of part of a room. There was a table, a book shelf and next to it a bank of computers. A moment later, Redfeld seemed to step into the hole, which hung there for a moment longer and then collapsed behind him. With that, he had vanished. About them, the cafe customers carried on with their lunches, apparently oblivious to all this.

  Tom looked at Septimus who winked at him. “And there he was – gone!” he spoke, in a broad Welsh accent, before adding, “Well now, you do have a lot to think about. Come on, boyo ? I need to get you home sixty minutes ago!”

  “Who was that, Septimus?” asked Tom breathlessly trying to keep up with his companion as they ran back the car.

  “I’m not quite sure, sounded a bit foreign to me, boyo!”

  And that was all he would say. If Septimus did know who Redfeld was, he was keeping it quiet and
did not give Tom another opportunity to ask. Reaching the car, Septimus got in and waited for Tom to do likewise.

  “Sorry, Tommy, but it’s the Professor’s orders. He wants me to teach you a little more. I guess he hopes you will work for him. In any event, I’m going to have to ask you to do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “You must take us where we need to go.”

  “What! How?” Tom panicked. “I can’t drive!” He had images of his dad’s car nose down in a river somewhere.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not asking you to. I want you to move us back through space, like you did through time.

  “Septimus, don’t be daft. I’m not even sure I want this talent, so there is no point teaching me more,” Tom said.

  Looking irritated, Septimus said with a sigh, “Look, Tom, I can’t make you do this, but until you decide to be done with it all, you are in danger. You must learn how to control these talents better.”

  “What if I say ‘no’?” Tom said, crossing his arms and jutting his chin out.

  “Fine, that’s ok then. I’ll just get out and walk away and leave you alone.”

  “But Septimus, what about my dad’s car? He’ll go nuts if we don’t get it back. How would I explain it being here in London and how will I get home, I haven’t got any money!” Tom felt his palms going sweaty and his heart pounding within him.

  “You’re a clever boy. I’m sure you will think of something,” Septimus said with a wink and then reached out to place his hand on the door handle.

  “This is not fair – you’re blackmailing me!”

  “Yup, boyo . Not done it often before, but I could get used to it,” Septimus replied, grinning.

  Tom gave in. “Oh, very well, have it your way, what must I do?”

  “Close your eyes. I’ll guide you as well as I can. In your mind, imagine that clock face again. This time though, make each minute equal an actual minute as you slowly wind back time. We don’t have to worry about exact accuracy so don’t bother too much about the second hand. Start rotating the minute hand backwards, slowly. As you do, feel the time about you, me and the car. You must take the car with you: make it move.”

  Tom concentrated on the image of the grandfather clock in the hallway of his grandparents' house. Then, with a jump, he felt them begin to move backwards and downwards. The strain of moving the car as well brought sweat to his forehead and he felt rather dizzy.

  “Wow, slow up, Tommy, you’re going a bit fast. Coast a bit. We need to sort out the geography,” Septimus said.

  Tom eased off a bit on spinning the hands of the clock backwards and felt the speed with which the time was passing slowing down. “So, how do we decide where to appear?” he asked, his eyes still tightly shut.

  “Much the same as moving through time: you must think of a map or a globe in your mind. Find where you are, where you want to go and then imagine your finger moving towards it. Your talents will do the rest,” Septimus explained.

  Tom thought about maps. His parents owned a print of an old map of the world called the Mappa Mundi. It had been drawn in black ink, highlighted with red and gold leaf and using blue or green for rivers and seas. It was the work of monks from the thirteenth century, although his parents' version was a well made imitation produced by art students and sold door to door. His dad had liked the look of it and so bought one. However, the detail was not high and it certainly did not have the modern housing estates nor the supermarket marked on it. No ... he needed another map. Then he remembered that his father kept a road atlas in the car. Tom had used it once when his dad took him to Scout camp last summer. They had got lost a few times in the Peak District, so he had become rather familiar with navigating.

  He concentrated on the map and in his mind he visualised moving his finger across it. He could feel that he and Septimus were physically moving, as well as spinning backwards through time. The two sensations together made him feel confused and not a little nauseous at first. He found it difficult to concentrate on precision in controlling their journey; it was hard to hold the images of both the clock and the map in his mind’s eye. Eventually, however, he started to get the hang of it.

  “Well done, boyo!” his companion said.

  Tom opened his eyes just as the supermarket car park popped into view around them.

  “Well done indeed,” Septimus added, patting Tom on the shoulder. “Oops, here comes your dad – speak soon.” Then, with a wink and a slight popping sound, he was gone, leaving Tom staring at the empty space he had occupied.

  A moment later, the door opened and Tom’s dad climbed in, grumbling. “Sorry I took a while. Hell of a queue in there!” his father said, starting the car. “You know, I could have sworn we were parked in the next row – took me a few minutes to find you.”

  “Hah – fancy that!” Tom forced a laugh.

  That night, Tom found it hard to get to sleep. The strange world he had been shown, which existed in the shadows of the time–bound world, at once excited and frightened him. He thought of what Professor Neoptolemas had said, then about Septimus’ comments and finally about that stranger, Redfeld, who had interrupted them. They were all right: he had a choice to make. He could take Neoptolemas up on his offer and allow his powers to be removed and live an ordinary life. Or, he could keep them and do … what? Win the lottery? But no, the Professor wouldn’t allow that, it probably came under ‘opportunity for wealth.’

  He gradually dropped off to sleep thinking of choices and options. He started to dream that he was in the school hall doing multiple choice questions in an exam. He looked at the paper. It read:

  a) Forego your powers and become normal again.

  b) Use your powers to serve mankind.

  c) Use your powers to take what you want and get rich quick.

  In the dream, Tom chewed on the rubber end of a pencil and then tapped it on the desk while trying to decide on the answer. Then, the dream changed and he changed with it. Yet again, as twice before, Tom was gone and forgotten. This time he was Charles. No, that wasn’t what he was called. It was his proper name, certainly, but his mates called him Charlie ... Charlie Hawker.