A Clock of Stars

by Francesca Gibbons

  Another screech. Louder, closer.

  Imogen banged on the door of a house. Moths flew out from between the shutters, but no one came to help.

  Imogen kicked the door and cursed the shadow moth. She cursed her rotten luck too. She promised God, the moon, whoever was listening, that she wouldn’t run away again. She’d eat liver and broccoli. She’d share her stuff with Marie. Just let them be back home, tucked up in their beds.

  More screams. ‘They’re coming this way!’ cried Marie.

  ‘Follow me,’ said Imogen.

  She swung round the corner, half expecting a dead end, but instead the girls found themselves in a large square. There was a dark castle at the far side, crowned with towers and turrets. Light shone from the top of a tall tower. ‘That’s it,’ said Imogen. ‘That’s where the people must live.’

  Imogen and Marie sprinted across the square and pounded on the castle door.

  ‘Let us in! Let us in!’

  There was no response so they hammered harder. The shrieks were closing in – the monsters would be in the square any second – but the castle door remained locked.

  There was nowhere to go.

  ‘Oi! You two – over here!’ A boy’s face poked out from a little door that was cut into the larger entrance.

  Imogen and Marie didn’t hesitate. They ran over, the boy opened the door wider and the girls fell inside. He pulled the door closed, shutting out the starlight and monsters. Keys jangled in the dark.

  ‘They won’t get through that,’ he said, and a candle illuminated his face. He had far-apart eyes, dark olive skin and a mop of curly brown hair that couldn’t quite hide his sticky-out ears.

  He pressed an ear to the door and the girls did the same. Claws scratched on cobbles. The boy put his finger to his lips. The shrieking creatures, whatever they were, were very close. Imogen held her breath. The door rattled. The children jumped back and Marie let out a whimper.

  Outside, the monsters were screaming to be let in. ‘They won’t get past the door,’ whispered the boy. ‘They never do.’

  Sure enough, after a few minutes, the noise receded. The children stood still for one minute more, not daring to move until the shrieks had faded away.

  ‘Right,’ said the boy, putting down his candle. ‘First things first.’

  Imogen wiped her hand on her jeans in preparation for a handshake.

  ‘Face the wall and put your hands on your head.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me,’ said the boy. ‘Turn round and put your hands up.’

  Reluctantly, Imogen did as she was told. The boy searched inside the top of her socks. Then he turned her pockets inside out.

  ‘What are you doing?’ said Imogen.

  ‘Checking for weapons,’ said the boy.

  ‘Why don’t you just ask?’

  ‘Peasants can’t be trusted. Besides, if you’d come to kill me, you’d never hand over your knives willingly.’

  Imogen had never been called a peasant before. She looked down at her mud-streaked clothing. Perhaps he had a point, but still it was hardly polite.

  ‘You’re all clear,’ said the boy. ‘Stand aside.’ Next he searched Marie. He lifted up her ponytail with great suspicion, and gave it a shake as if expecting a dagger to fall out.

  Imogen watched him. She guessed he was about her age, perhaps a little older. He was dressed very strangely, in an embroidered jacket that looked like it was made out of fancy curtains. He wore rings on almost every finger.

  ‘We’re not peasants,’ she said, but the boy wasn’t listening. He was going through Marie’s pockets and he’d found something. He held it between his thumb and index finger, inspecting it in the candlelight.

  Imogen saw the shiny surface and she knew what it was. ‘That’s my stone,’ she said. Marie must have had it in her pocket since their fight.

  Marie lowered her hands and turned round, guilt written all over her face.

  The boy continued to study the fool’s gold so Imogen said it again. ‘That’s mine. That’s from my rock collection.’

  ‘What’s a peasant doing with a precious stone?’

  Imogen could feel that familiar quickening of her pulse, but she spoke each word slowly. ‘Give. It. Back. I am not a peasant.’

  Marie looked from her big sister to the boy and back to her big sister. ‘Sorry, Imogen … I was going to give the treasure back eventually, I promise. I just wanted to borrow it …’

  Imogen advanced on the boy. ‘Give me my gold, you thief.’

  ‘Who are you to call me a thief?’ he sneered. ‘This is my kingdom and so is everything in it – including you, your friend and your so-called treasure.’

  That was the last straw. Imogen pounced. She knocked the fool’s gold out of the boy’s hand and pushed him to the floor. Marie caught the stone. Imogen and the boy were a tumbling mess of arms and legs. His elbow clipped her chin, making her jaw bang shut. She retaliated with a knee to his stomach.

  ‘Ow! You filthy urchin! Get off me!’

  ‘Marie,’ cried Imogen, ‘grab his arms!’

  Marie shoved the stone back into her pocket and went for the boy’s wrists. She caught one. Imogen trapped the other hand with her foot, making the boy cry out. The rest of him thrashed wildly. ‘Help me!’ he shouted. ‘Somebody help! They’re trying to kill me!’

  Imogen kicked the shoe from her other foot, whipped off her sock and stuffed it into his mouth. She pulled the scrunchie from Marie’s hair and wrapped it round the boy’s wrists, handing control to Marie. That freed up Imogen to grab his ankles. The boy stopped wriggling.

  ‘Hah! So you know when you’re beaten, then?’ crowed Imogen.

  ‘He looks kind of angry,’ said Marie. ‘His face is going red.’

  ‘Well, that’s tough, isn’t it? He shouldn’t take other people’s things.’

  ‘Is someone squeezing your head?’ cooed Marie to the boy, enjoying her position of power a little too much.

  Imogen paused. ‘Wait. What do you mean his face is going red?’ She couldn’t see him properly from her position at his feet.

  ‘He looks like a beetroot …’ said Marie.

  ‘The sock!’ cried Imogen.

  ‘Ooh, look how his eyes are bulging! He’s really very cross.’

  ‘Marie, the sock! Take the sock out his mouth!’

  Marie obeyed. The boy inhaled and Imogen let go of his ankles. The sisters were silent for a moment while the boy rolled on to all fours, spluttering and gasping.

  ‘Why, I ought – I ought to set the Royal Guards on you!’ He struggled to his feet. ‘I ought to have you both beheaded! I ought to have you chopped up and fed to my fish. I—’

  ‘That’s enough,’ interrupted Imogen in as kind a voice as she could manage. ‘We didn’t mean to choke you.’ She pulled the scrunchie off his wrists and handed it back to Marie.

  ‘You must forgive my sister,’ said Imogen.

  ‘Hey! It wasn’t just me that tied him up!’

  Imogen shot Marie a meaningful look. ‘She was dropped on her head as a baby.’

  The boy looked at Marie with his far-apart eyes. ‘Is that what turned her hair orange?’

  ‘It’s not orange,’ said Marie. ‘It’s red.’

  ‘Looks orange to me,’ said the boy.

  Imogen stepped between them. ‘Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot.’

  The boy let out a long sigh. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I don’t normally do that to guests. To be honest, I don’t normally have guests at all.’

  ‘What a surprise,’ muttered Imogen.

  The boy didn’t seem to hear. ‘When my uncle has people to visit, the Royal Guards confiscate their weapons.’

  ‘Oh right,’ said Imogen, thinking that was probably the correct response.

  ‘So, when Petr’s not about, I have to take precautions.’

  ‘I see,’ said Imogen, who didn’t see at all.

  ‘How about we just start this whole thi
ng again?’ said the boy.

  ‘A rematch?’ cried Marie.

  ‘No! Let’s say you just came through the door. Pretend you did. Yes, that’s it. And I’ve just locked it and you say, Hello, Your Majesty, what a pleasure to meet you.’

  Imogen wasn’t sure about the script. She didn’t think the boy should cast himself as royalty. However, she was in a tricky situation. She needed his help.

  ‘Good evening, Your Majesty,’ she said, giving a wobbly curtsey. Marie did the same.

  ‘What a pleasure it is to meet you,’ said Marie.

  The boy bowed low. ‘The pleasure is all mine,’ he said. ‘Welcome to Castle Yaroslav.’

  ‘I am the prince of this castle,’ said the boy, ‘and you are my most honoured guests.’ He straightened his jacket, checking that the stiff collar was still pointing up.

  Throughout this performance, he kept a very serious face. Either he’s a good actor, thought Imogen, or he’s completely off his rocker.

  ‘Now!’ The boy picked up the candle. ‘Tell me … what were you doing out there? I thought the peasants rounded up their children at dusk. Not runaways, are you?’

  ‘To start with, we’re not peasants,’ said Imogen, puffing herself up to her full height. ‘As I said.’

  ‘What are you, then? Pickpockets?’

  ‘Of course not!’

  ‘Assassins?’ He took a step back.

  ‘We’re lost!’ said Imogen. ‘We’re not supposed to be here at all.’

  ‘Where are you supposed to be? Are you from the forests?’

  ‘I suppose you could say that …’

  The boy moved the candle closer to Imogen. ‘You don’t look like you’re from the forests,’ he said, inspecting her T-shirt and jeans. ‘You’re not wearing enough green to be a lesni. In fact, what are you wearing? Are those nightclothes?’

  Imogen clenched her fists and then released them, reminding herself that she needed all the help she could get.

  ‘You’ll have to stay here for the night,’ said the boy. ‘You’d be eaten alive out there.’ He seemed to take great delight in saying that last sentence. He glanced at the girls to see if his words had had any effect. Marie looked horrified.

  ‘That would be lovely,’ said Imogen. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Excellent. Follow me.’ The boy walked away, taking the small circle of candlelight with him.

  ‘Do you think we should go with him?’ whispered Marie.

  ‘I don’t see what choice we’ve got,’ said Imogen.

  ‘It’s just that Mum always says not to go with strangers. Do you think he’s a stranger?’

  ‘He’s strange all right, but I’m pretty sure Mum wouldn’t want us eaten by monsters either.’

  ‘No,’ said Marie. ‘Although she never talked about it pacifically.’

  ‘It’s specifically. Anyway, if someone loves you, they don’t have to say don’t get eaten by monsters. It’s obvious.’

  Imogen thought of Mum getting back from the theatre to find that the home-made pizzas were untouched. Mum always left them something special to eat if she was going to be late, and pizza was one of Imogen’s favourites.

  Then she thought of Grandma, with her walking stick, searching the gardens. It made Imogen feel sad so she brushed the thought aside. ‘Come on,’ she said to Marie. ‘His Royal Highness is getting away.’

  The girls followed the boy through tapestry-lined corridors and across rooms that were as big as the sports hall at school.

  He stopped at the foot of a spiral staircase. ‘This is the entrance to my quarters,’ he said. ‘No commoners have ever set foot beyond this point. Apart from the servants, that is. You’ll be the first.’

  Bonkers, thought Imogen as she nodded along.

  The further up the stairs they climbed, the narrower the staircase became. ‘Keep up!’ shouted the boy, who had disappeared ahead.

  The steps took them to a circular room. ‘I’ve never seen so many candles,’ said Imogen. ‘Is all this stuff yours?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the boy.

  ‘Where did you get this from?’ Marie’s enormous eye peered through a magnifying glass.

  ‘It was my father’s.’

  ‘And this?’ Marie lay down on a fur rug.

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘What about this?’ asked Imogen, and she blew dust from from the sleeping face of an old clock.

  ‘Don’t touch that,’ snapped the boy. ‘It’s the only one of its kind.’

  Imogen leaned in. She wanted a better look at the thing she mustn’t touch.

  The clock was made of wood. In front of its face, there were five motionless hands and an array of jewelled stars. Imogen couldn’t work out what was holding the stars in place. They seemed to hover, but she couldn’t see any wires. A silver moon peeped out from behind the biggest hand, as if too shy to reveal itself fully.

  ‘What’s inside that hatch?’ asked Imogen, stepping back and pointing to a tiny door at the top of the clock. It was about the right size for a hamster.

  ‘I don’t remember,’ said the boy. ‘It stopped working years ago.’

  ‘Why?’ said Marie.

  The boy fiddled with the rings on his fingers. ‘I think you’ve asked enough questions for one night.’

  Marie cast a longing glance at the room’s four-poster bed, with its plumptious pillows and downy quilt. She looked at Imogen, who nodded. The next second, Marie was kicking off her shoes and wriggling under the sheets.

  Imogen turned to the boy. ‘Just one more question …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Why are you helping us?’

  ‘I told you,’ he said. ‘You’d be eaten alive if you stayed outside.’

  ‘But where are all the other people?’

  ‘They’re here. In their houses. Around the castle. I’m just the only one who keeps candles burning.’

  Imogen walked to a window and looked out at the city shrouded in darkness. They had made it to the light that she’d seen from the forest. ‘We must be in the castle’s tallest tower,’ she said, half to herself.

  ‘Not quite,’ said the boy. ‘This is the second tallest tower.’

  Imogen removed her shoes and slipped into bed next to Marie. ‘We should blow out the candles,’ she said, yawning.

  ‘Why would I do that?’ asked the boy.

  ‘It’s a fire hazard.’ She was parroting her mum. Mum was always banging on about fire hazards.

  ‘A fire what?’

  But Imogen didn’t reply. She was already fast asleep.

  As Imogen slept, monsters flitted in and out of the darkness below. Like grotesque shadow puppets, their forms danced across shuttered windows. They reclaimed the streets, calling to each other across the empty squares.

  In the big houses near the cathedral, if you were to peep out at just the right moment, you’d see a silhouette squatting on top of the bell tower. It might look like a child. Or perhaps a very old man. But, if you dared to look closer, you’d see that its shoulders were too muscular, its arms were too long and its teeth were too sharp.

  The monsters travelled from roof to roof. They tiptoed along gutters. They hid in eaves. They hung down from bedroom windows by their claws.

  All night, the city belonged to them.

  There was sunlight behind Imogen’s eyelids. Bells tolled. That was odd. There were no churches near her house. A cockerel crowed. Definitely odd.

  And she couldn’t hear the familiar noises of home: her mum’s radio, the cat demanding breakfast. Where was the smell of fried eggs? She opened one eye. Where was her orange juice? She opened the other. Where was any of it?

  And then Imogen remembered. Propped up on her elbows, she looked around, detangling her dreams from last night’s reality. The forest was real. The city full of bones was real. The boy who rescued them was real. In fact, he was awake and observing her from a chair by the fire.

  Hmm, thought Imogen. What was the appropriate thing to say? Perhaps Good morning
or How did you sleep? Those were the things Mum normally said to guests. But Imogen was the guest so she cut straight to the chase: ‘You have to take us back to the tea rooms. We’re not supposed to be here.’

  The boy slouched in his chair. ‘Aren’t you supposed to say something like, Thanks for saving my life?’

  Imogen hopped out of bed. ‘What time is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Morning,’ he said.

  ‘I can see that, but what’s the time?’ She pulled on her shoes and went to wake Marie.

  ‘What does it matter?’ said the boy. ‘There’s no rush.’

  ‘Of course there is. Our mum will be worried. Or angry. Or both.’

  The boy’s feet didn’t quite touch the floor and he swung his legs as he spoke.

  ‘Don’t you remember?’ he said. ‘My clock’s broken. I don’t know the time. There are bells at dawn and bells at dusk. Everything in between is day. Why rush back to see a bunch of angry grown-ups anyway?’

  ‘I don’t want to go to school,’ murmured Marie, still half asleep.

  The boy slid down from his chair and added, a little petulantly, ‘I thought you’d at least stay for an evening meal.’

  ‘What planet are you living on?’ said Imogen. ‘We’ve been gone all night. Mum must have got home ages ago and I bet Grandma’s called the police. They’ll be out there in the gardens, searching for us with dogs.’

  ‘Oh, come now. Peasants go missing all the time. Nobody goes looking for them. Especially not dogs.’

  ‘This is the last time I’m going to tell you: we – are – not – peasants.’

  Marie was awake now and peering round the room with bleary eyes.

  ‘Come on, Marie,’ said Imogen. ‘We’re leaving.’

  The boy ran to the door. ‘No, you’re not!’ he cried, blocking the exit. ‘I won’t allow it!’

  Marie rubbed sleep from her eyes. ‘Imogen, I want to go home.’

  ‘I command you to stay!’ cried the boy.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Imogen, helping Marie out of bed. ‘We’re going. Put your shoes on.’

  ‘Is this how you repay your rescuer? Is this the way to treat a prince?’