by Nick Falk
‘Is that your pet pussycat?’ asks Wendy.
‘’Tis me dinner.’ The tramp grins, showing off his blackened teeth. ‘But I’ll tradeth it for a silver coin.’
The Mighty Professor Skeletron digs into his pocket. ‘Will you accept this?’ he asks.
The tramp leans forward, squinting. ‘What be that?’ he asks.
‘It’s a limited edition 1989 Batman figurine with handstitched polyester cape.’
The tramp considers this for a moment. ‘If I wear it round me neck,’ he asks, ‘wilt it protecteth me from the plague?’
‘Of course it will,’ confirms the Mighty Professor Skeletron. ‘It’s Batman.’
Thirty seconds later we’re back in Shakespeare’s bedroom. Shakespeare and Yesterday Sid appear to be wrestling on the floor.
‘Releaseth my arms,’ Shakespeare is pleading, clutching a bag of extra hot mustard powder. ‘I mean to do it! ’Tis the only way to force my mind to yield!’
‘Don’t be a fool,’ implores Yesterday Sid, holding him by the arms. ‘Your brain won’t even care. Believe me, I know!’
We ignore them and put the cat on the desk. It’s the skinniest cat I’ve ever seen. Its ribs are sticking out and it’s got a serious case of mange. We put a toy metal crown on its head to conduct its psychic energies. Then we step back and wait.
‘Meow,’ mews the cat, staring up at the ceiling.
‘Oh,’ remarks the Mighty Professor Skeletron. ‘I’m not sure this is going to work.’
I look at the ceiling. What’s the cat prognosticating up there? All I can see is dust, dirt and spiders.
‘HA!’ crows Shakespeare triumphantly, wriggling his way out of Yesterday Sid’s grip. ‘Now, to cast all doubts aside and act!’
‘Don’t do it!’ howls Yesterday Sid. ‘Your nostrils will never forgive you!’
Hang on a sec. What if the cat’s not prognosticating the ceiling? What if it’s prognosticating something beyond the ceiling? I think about what I saw outside. The endless stars, stretching away into infinity.
‘AIIIIEEEEEE! MY SINUS!’ screams an agonised voice behind me. ‘The very fires of hell beset me!’
And that’s when it happens. Just like that. An idea pops into my head. An actual, genuine idea. For the first time ever, my mind has come up with something useful.
I turn to the Mighty Professor Skeletron. ‘I think I may have a plan.’
‘This class hath disgraced me! Last place in the sonnet contest. LAST PLACE! Even Miss Wotton’s infants hath defeated us!’
Mr Haddock doesn’t look happy. He’s pacing up and down the front of the classroom, waving a pointy stick.
‘I shalt warneth thee again, foul urchins. If thy tales are not up to scratch today, verily shalt thy bottoms regret it!’ He smacks the stick on his palm to emphasise his point. Then he spins on his heel and eyeballs Shakespeare. ‘And as for thee, young William, if thou hast not penned the very works of Plato himself, I shalt leave thee sobbing in the stocks.’
Shakespeare gulps. Yesterday Sid puts a comforting hand on his shoulder. Plato was a famous writer from Ancient Greece, and Shakespeare’s only 12. It’s a bit like expecting me to write like J. K. Rowling. Shakespeare’s teacher is really mean.
It’s 6 am in the morning and we’re already in school. We had to pour goat’s milk on Yesterday Sid’s head to wake him up. I think the milk was off. He still smells a bit rancid. But when he remembered where he was, he was keen to come. He and Shakespeare have become firm friends. Yesterday Sid says Shakespeare is his ‘soulmate’. He reckons he’s the brother he never had. He doesn’t seem to feel the same way about me, which is a bit odd, considering we’re the same person.
‘Perhaps thou wouldst like to readeth first, William?’ sneers Mr Haddock. ‘I’m sure we wouldst all be amused by thy feeble scribblings.’
Shakespeare gets up, legs shaking.
‘Good luck, Shaky,’ says Yesterday Sid, patting him on the back.
We watch him walk to the front of the class. We told his teacher we were cousins from out of town. He didn’t seem to care. The more kids in his class, the more floggings he gets to give, I suppose. Elizabethan teachers loved floggings.
Shakespeare turns around and faces the class. He takes his story from his pocket. I’m pretty proud of that story. It was my idea to write it. I didn’t come up with the original idea, of course. But no-one around here knows that. It won’t be written for 400 years.
‘The W-W-War of the St-St-Stars,’ stammers Shakespeare, reading the title.
Hopefully this will go brilliantly: Shakespeare won’t be humiliated, he’ll stay bad at writing and my story will have saved the world.
‘Once upon a time,’ reads Shakespeare, ‘there liveth a lord called Duke Piestalker.’
He’s not stuttering. His confidence is growing. Good. It’s all going according to plan. We’ll be back at the wormhole by sunrise and home in time for breakfast.
‘Duke Piestalker had a great foe,’ Shakespeare continues, ‘called Lord Wader of Bath. They had a great battle on the Star of Doom. They fought with swords of light. And, when all was lost and nought but vain hope remaineth, Duke Piestalker vanquished his foe with the mighty power of the forceth.’
I look around the class. They’re loving it. Snotty, Spotty and Grotty are sitting at the back, and even they look interested. Brilliant.
I knew that cat was a proper prognosticator. Space. That’s what was needed. A story about space. Sidney Bice has saved the day.
‘What’s the forceth?’ pipes up a boy at the front.
‘The f-f-forceth?’ stammers Shakespeare.
‘Yes, the forceth,’ repeats the boy. ‘The weapon Duke Piestalker uses to smite Lord Wader. What is it?’
‘It’s … erm … it’s …’ stutters Shakespeare.
Oh dear. We didn’t cover what the force was. Shakespeare’s going to end up looking like an idiot again. And we can’t have that. The whole plan will backfire.
‘It’s a type of magic,’ I say, standing up.
‘A type of what?’ snaps Mr Haddock.
‘Magic,’ I repeat. ‘You know, witches and wizards and stuff.’
The Mighty Professor Skeletron inhales sharply and tugs on my stockings. ‘Shut up,’ he hisses.
Mr Haddock rises slowly from his seat. ‘Are you telling me,’ he sneers menacingly, ‘that young William here hath scribed a tale about witchcraft?’
‘Erm,’ I mutter.
Shakespeare’s gone white as a sheet. Droplets of sweat are dripping off his ruff. Oh dear. I think I might be mucking it up.
‘Actually … er … I wrote the witchcraft bit,’ I gabble, trying to recover the situation. ‘I thought it would make the story more fun.’
‘FUN!’ barks Mr Haddock, advancing towards me. ‘Thou thinkest witchcraft to be FUN?’
‘No,’ I reply, starting to sweat myself. ‘That’s not what I meant. I …’
‘Art thou a witch thyself, boy?’
Suddenly his hideous face is an inch from mine. I freeze. An awful familiar fear bubbles up from the depths of my belly. Mr Pilchard. The horror of the Pilchard …
Pilchard’s going to get me … Pilchard’s going to catch me … Pilchard’s going to feed me to his pet …
Mr Haddock is leering over me, but I’m not seeing Haddock anymore. All I’m seeing is Pilchard’s dirty bristly beard, getting closer and closer and closer and …
‘I’M THE WITCH!’ pipes up Wendy, leaping to her feet.
‘WHAAAAT?’ screeches Mr Haddock, spinning on his heel.
‘I’m the witch, you big bully,’ repeats Wendy, hands on her hips. ‘I’ve got a wand and a broom and everything. And if you don’t stop being mean to my brother, I’ll turn you into a frog!’
Mr Haddock gapes at her, face twitching. He looks like he’s been slapped with a frozen fish. Everyone holds their breath, waiting to see what he’ll do.
‘ARRESTETH THAT WITCH!’ he shrieks. ‘CATCH HER! SHACKLE H
ER! BURN HER AT THE STAKE!’
Spotty, Snotty and Grotty leap from their seats. They barge towards us, eyes bulging above their crusty ruffs.
‘I believe,’ breathes the Mighty Professor Skeletron, ‘it might be time to run away again.’
I couldn’t agree more. I grab Wendy by the arm, kick Spotty in the shins and sprint towards the door.
‘But we can’t just leave him,’ gasps Yesterday Sid, as we race through the dusty streets. The sun is peeking over the horizon.
‘We have to,’ wheezes the Mighty Professor Skeletron, spectacles jiggling. ‘There’s nothing we can do.’
‘But Haddock’ll punish him. He’ll put him in the stocks!’ insists Yesterday Sid.
‘Then nothing’s changed,’ replies the Mighty Professor Skeletron. ‘Shakespeare gets humiliated. History goes back to normal. And we all get fried in a Zapulet blast.’
‘What was the point of coming back here then?’ demands Yesterday Sid. ‘We’re all still going to die.’
‘Yes,’ agrees the Mighty Professor Skeletron, dodging an overburdened donkey, ‘but at least it’ll be quick. I don’t fancy dying of the Black Death in a 16th-century prison cell.’
‘And I don’t fancy being burnt like a steak,’ adds Wendy.
We’re running as fast as we can, but the bullies aren’t far behind. Mr Haddock is bellowing in the distance, waving his pointy stick and urging them on. His other hand is clamped around Shakespeare’s shoulder. Poor Shakespeare. Oh well. At least he’s got a life of fame and wealth to look forward to. The only thing I’ve got to look forward to is death by space laser.
‘There!’ exclaims the Mighty Professor Skeletron. ‘Over by the trees. We’ve still got time.’
I look to where he’s pointing. The wormhole is wobbling away. It seems a lot smaller, but we’ll be able to squeeze through.
We leap over a fence and leg it across the fields. The man in the yellow tights is still there. He’s piling up more dung with his rake.
‘There thou art, thou vagabonds!’ he slurs as we run past. ‘This time I’ll teach thee tykes some m–’
‘Oh, shutteth up,’ I mutter, pushing him into the poo.
We reach the edge of the woods, catch our breaths and turn back. Snotty, Spotty and Grotty still haven’t reached the fence.
We’ve made it. I look around for the last time. Well, it’s certainly been an adventure. Can’t say I’ll be coming back here for my holidays. Not that I’ll be having any holidays, of course. I’ll be too busy disintegrating into a billion little pieces.
‘Catch ya later, Eliza-beef-an England,’ says Wendy, diving into the wormhole.
SHOOP! She disappears.
‘It’s been elucidating!’ announces the Mighty Professor Skeletron, stepping into the void.
I turn to my other self. ‘Well, you may as well go first.’
But Yesterday Sid doesn’t move. ‘Sid,’ he says, ‘I think I might have thought of something.’
‘HEATHENS! HERETICS!’ shout the bully gang, clambering over the fence.
‘Thought of what?’ I ask. I’m quite keen to get a move on.
‘That cat,’ continues Yesterday Sid, ‘the one you got off the tramp. He prognosticated space, didn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ I confirm, ‘but he prognosticated wrong. The story didn’t work.’
I take a step towards the wormhole.
‘But what if he didn’t prognosticate wrong?’ asks Yesterday Sid. ‘What if we just didn’t understand what he was telling us?’
The bullies are lumbering across the field. We really have to hurry.
‘Get in the wormhole, Sid!’ I say. ‘We’ll talk about this at home.’
Yesterday Sid thinks for a moment. Then he steps back and shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says, ‘I’m not doing it.’
‘What?’
‘I’m not doing it,’ he repeats. ‘I’m fed up with being a coward. I’m always running away. But not anymore. This time I’m going to stand my ground. Shakespeare needs my help.’
‘What are you talking about?’ I say. ‘You can’t help Shakespeare. He’s going to be a world-famous writer. You’re going to be … well, you’re just going to carry on being me.’
Yesterday Sid sets his jaw. ‘You’re wrong,’ he says. ‘I can be more than that. We can be more than that. We’ve got to learn to stand up to the bullies. We’re Sidney Bice, you and me. And you know what? We’re not as bad as we think.’
The bullies are metres away now. We’ve only got seconds left.
‘Sid, we have to move. We can’t delay any longer …’
Yesterday Sid turns around. Then he pushes out his chest and stands between me and Snotty, Spotty and Grotty. ‘Go,’ he says, ‘get out of here. I’ll keep those idiots at bay.’
I hesitate. What’s he doing? How did I suddenly become so brave?
‘But, Sid,’ I say, ‘you’re going to get –’
‘Trust me,’ interrupts Yesterday Sid, ‘I’ve got an idea in my head. A good one. One that’s really going to work.’
‘GOT THOU!’ hollers Snotty, grabbing Yesterday Sid by the shoulder. Spotty tries to reach past him to get me, but Yesterday Sid tackles them both to the ground.
‘GO, SID, GO!’ he shouts.
I’m still hesitating. What do I do? I can’t just leave myself behind.
‘I’ll get t’other one,’ gurns Grotty, stepping around his struggling friends.
Yesterday Sid grabs him by the foot. ‘Get out of here, you wally,’ he shouts. ‘And make sure you look after Wendy for me!’
Grotty stretches out and grips my arm. I take one last look at my better half.
‘Good luck, Sid,’ I say.
Then I twist out of Grotty’s grip and jump backwards.
WHOOSH!
I get sucked into the blackness of space and time.
WHUMP!
I land with a thump on the lawn. Grass gets up my nose, but it’s a lot better than a faceful of poo. I sit up and look around.
I’m in the Mighty Professor Skeletron’s back garden. The washing line is there, Mrs Brooks’ house hasn’t been exploded and there are no aliens in the sky. But it’s only a matter of time. We didn’t stop Shakespeare from writing Romeo and Juliet. Which means I’ll still have copied him. Which means I’m still responsible for the end of the world.
‘Get in here,’ whispers the Mighty Professor Skeletron from the back door.
I tiptoe down the passage and into his room. Wendy is on the carpet playing with his Lego. That in itself is extraordinary. The Mighty Professor Skeletron never lets anyone touch his Lego. But things have changed. You can’t go through an adventure like ours without things changing.
‘Where are the aliens?’ I ask.
‘That depends,’ replies the Mighty Professor Skeletron. ‘If we’ve returned to Timeline A, where we didn’t come back to try to stop Yesterday Sid from writing the story, then the Xontagues won’t turn up until tomorrow. BUT if this is Timeline B, where we DID come back to try to stop Yesterday Sid, then the Zapulets should be here in –’ he stops to look at his watch ‘– three minutes and 26 seconds, precisely.’
Well, that’s clear as mud.
‘Where is Yesterday Sid?’ asks Wendy.
I look down at my feet. It’s hard to say. I feel like I abandoned him. ‘He didn’t come back,’ I reply.
‘What?’ gasps the Mighty Professor Skeletron.
‘He didn’t come back,’ I repeat. ‘He said he had an idea and he was going to help Shakespeare. Something to do with that cat prognosticating space. He was really brave, actually. He stopped the bullies from getting me.’
The Mighty Professor Skeletron stares at me, unblinking. His eyes are getting bigger and bigger behind his glasses. One by one, the hairs on his head stand up straight. He’s thinking, I can tell. I can almost hear his brain whizzing around inside his skull.
‘EUREKA!’ he shrieks, leaping to his feet.
He races over to the laundry basket a
nd starts rummaging around in his dirty underwear. The book’s still in there. He pulls it out, looks at the cover and starts howling with laughter. He opens the book, flicks through the pages and laughs even harder. He laughs and laughs and laughs. He laughs so hard he falls over.
‘Are you all right?’ I ask.
‘Look,’ he cackles, hardly able to breathe. ‘Look!’ He pushes the book in my direction.
Wendy snatches it up off the floor. ‘The Complete Works of William Shakespeare,’ she reads. ‘Illustrated by Sidneyus Bice.’
‘What the …?’ I grab the book out of her hands.
She’s not lying. That’s what it says. Shakespeare’s still on the cover, but I’m on there too. I’m a grown-up, with a pointy beard, and I’m wearing a really fancy ruff. I’ve got a great big grin on my face.
‘Open it.’ The Mighty Professor Skeletron giggles. ‘Open it.’
I flip the cover. The book is even longer than it used to be. Over a thousand pages. It’s full of plays, just like before. But this time they’re illustrated.
‘Whoa. Cool drawings,’ says Wendy, peering over my shoulder.
They are cool. Really cool. They’re the best space drawings I’ve ever done. Aliens in stockings shooting space lasers. Martians in ruffs fighting with swords.
‘Look at the titles! Look at the titles!’ cackles the Mighty Professor Skeletron, tears streaming from his eyes.
Xomeo and Zuliet. That one’s in there. But it’s not the only one. There’s Zamlet, Zapbeth, Julius Xezar. All of Shakespeare’s plays, written about aliens and illustrated by me.
‘Yesterday Sid had the story with him the whole time,’ chuckles the Mighty Professor Skeletron. ‘And he was right! That cat was prognosticating space. But it didn’t want us to copy someone else’s space story. It wanted Shakespeare to copy ours! Congratulations, Sid! You’re the most famous illustrator in history!’
He’s right. I can’t believe it. I illustrated Shakespeare. I really am good at drawing.
‘It says here you spent two years imprisoned in the Tower of London for witchy craft,’ says Wendy, looking at the internet on the Mighty Professor Skeletron’s computer. ‘And then you went to London with Shakespeare and became an actor. Apparently you were really good.’
