The Timekeeper

by Emily Rodda

  “You wouldn’t have long to enjoy it, Max,” Estelle cut in. “You know you can’t live on the other side. The Trans Barrier Effect will get to you. After a few months you’ll feel your memory going. Then you start fading. Fading. You can feel it. I remember the feeling. It’s not pleasant.”

  “Oh, Estelle!” pleaded Boopie. “Don’t talk about it!”

  Estelle ignored her and went on looking at Max, staring him down. “He’s being all heroic. He’s being stupid. I’m just reminding him of the plain facts,” she said coldly.

  “I know the facts, Estelle!” Max glared at her. “I know them better than you do! I know what I’d be letting myself in for. It’s my business!”

  “No it’s not!” retorted Estelle. “It’s all our business! We love you. And we need you. You can’t go!”

  “Well, what am I supposed to do?” shouted Max. “Go on! What are we supposed to do? Let the clock run wild? Let Patrick’s world go crazy? Let the Barrier tear itself to bits, and us with it?”

  “No,” said Estelle coolly. “We find another way. That’s all. We just find another way.”

  “I’ll do it!” The words had left Patrick’s mouth before he had even thought about them properly. He watched as the others looked at him in silence. What did he mean? What could he do? He swallowed. “I mean,” he said carefully, “that I’m the Finder. I’ll find the clockmaker, and get the clock fixed.”

  “Patrick,” said Max, after a short silence, “I’ve never heard of a Sector Timekeeper clockmaker going missing before. They never stray far from their clocks. I think that whatever happened last Saturday at ten o’clock – the shock of it – must have affected the clockmaker as badly as it affected the clock. It’s possible that he or she might not be able to help us any more.”

  “You mean he might be dead?” Boopie breathed. Estelle covered her face with her hands.

  Max looked uncomfortable. “They’re odd beings, the clockmakers,” he said. “No one knows much about them. Except that the clocks are their lives. The clocks depend on them, and they depend on their clocks. If the shock to the clock was great enough …”

  Patrick thought about the Chestnut Tree Village clock as he’d last seen it. It was running fast, yes. It was a bit scratched and battered, yes. But it wasn’t finished yet. He shook his head. “I don’t believe the clockmaker’s dead,” he said firmly. “And I’ll find him. I will. Let me try, Max.” He saw Max and Estelle exchange serious glances, and appealed to Boopie. “Tell them, Boopie! I can do it, can’t I?”

  A shadow of doubt flickered across Boopie’s face, and then it was gone. She nodded fiercely. “Of course you can! You’re our champion Finder, aren’t you? Of course you can do it, sweetie-pie.” She turned to the others. “He has to try, you know,” she said seriously.

  “We don’t have much time, Boopie,” Max said. “And this isn’t a game. If Patrick can’t …” He looked at Patrick, and stopped.

  If Patrick can’t do it. That’s what he was going to say, Patrick thought. If Patrick fails. If he can’t find the clockmaker. If the clockmaker isn’t there to be found. If the clock doesn’t get fixed, then it’s the end. For the Barrier – and for all of us. He shivered.

  Suddenly Estelle stiffened in alarm. “Listen!” she said. Patrick looked at her in surprise, and then he heard it too. The sound of thudding feet, quite a few of them, outside in the corridor. Muffled now, but getting louder. Getting closer. Boopie gave a small shriek.

  “It’s them!” Estelle’s eyes were dark with fear. “The Agents! Max, we’ve got to get Patrick out of here! If they find out you’ve been using the computer after all this – if they find Patrick, they’ll –”

  Max looked quickly around the small room. There was nowhere to hide. He spun to face Patrick. “All right!” he rasped. “All right. Go for it, son. See what you can do for us.” He pulled Patrick into position, ran to the computer, and started punching keys. “Stand absolutely still,” he ordered.

  The tramping feet thundered to a halt outside. A fist beat on the pale green door. “Open up!” ordered a harsh voice.

  “How … how will I tell you if I can’t find the clockmaker?” Patrick could hardly get the words out. “How much time have I got?”

  “Open up in there!” The fist beat on the door again.

  “Max, hurry!” urged Estelle under her breath. “I don’t think the lock’s going to hold.” She jerked her head at Boopie Cupid and they ran on tiptoe to the shuddering door. They bent forward together, leaning against it with all their strength.

  “I’ll have to leave the channel open,” gabbled Max, intent on what he was doing. “Then you can call through the TV in the usual way, any time you like. Just don’t stand directly in front of it. We don’t want you over here again. As for time …” His brow wrinkled. “Nothing’s normal. The usual rules might well not apply. For one thing, I don’t think time will stand still any more while you’re across the Barrier. You’ve got – I don’t know, Patrick! Depends on how fast the clock’s running now. All I know is, if it gets to the big one – the twelve o’clock strike – without being corrected, we’re history. Eleven will be bad enough. If I haven’t heard from you by eleven o’clock our time, I’ll come through myself. Now! Get ready! I’ve got the fix!”

  “What’s going on in there?” the voice outside demanded. The door rattled and shook. Boopie and Estelle looked back over their shoulders at Patrick, their faces strained and pale.

  “Patrick, take care,” whispered Estelle. “Take care!”

  Patrick felt his eyes prickle. “Will you be all right?” he asked.

  “We’ll be OK. Don’t worry about us,” chirped Boopie, nodding encouragingly at him. “Good luck! Good finding!”

  “Go, boy, go!” grunted Max.

  Patrick plunged into darkness.

  9

  The Split

  Round about the time the Agents started beating on Max’s door, Claire was prowling along the paperback racks of the Chestnut Tree Village bookshop, tilting her head to one side to read the titles. Danny was tugging at the back of her T-shirt. “Claire, I’m thirsty,” he complained. She frowned and ignored him. “Claire?” he repeated. “I’m thirsty. I want a drink.”

  “Danny, go back outside the shop and watch for Patrick like I told you,” ordered Claire, moving on down the shelves. “Boy, will he get it when I tell Dad he went off like that. He was supposed to stay close and do what I said.”

  “But Claire –”

  Claire turned round, put her hands on her hips, and glared down at him. “Now look, Danny, I’ve got to get this book. That’s what I came to the shops for. We did what you wanted, and watched the clock.”

  “But it didn’t strike ten twice!” protested Danny.

  “Danny, I told you – oh, never mind!” sighed Claire. “Look, as soon as Patrick comes we’ll go and get a drink, OK? Then I’ve got to go to the lost property office. But that means I’ve got to get the book now. So you go and watch for Patrick. He’ll come back to the clock any minute and he won’t be able to find us. Then he’ll wander off and get lost. Then we’ll never get our drink, will we? Go on, be a good boy!”

  “OK, OK,” grumbled Danny. He wandered out of the shop and looked over at the clock, through crowds of bustling people. Patrick wasn’t there. He heaved a loud sigh and pushed his nose on to the cool glass of the shop window. Through it he could see Claire, again walking along the shelves, her head on one side, reading the book titles. He kicked his toe against the smooth tiles on the floor. He was bored and thirsty. This had all been pretty disappointing so far. He pulled his golf ball out of his pocket and wrapped his fingers around it. He liked the way it just fitted into the palm of his hand. He liked its smooth, round, hard feeling.

  He checked the clock again. Still no sign of Patrick. He looked back into the shop. Claire was reading the back of one of the books now. She didn’t look up.

  Danny came to a decision. It was time to take matters into his own hands.
At this rate it would be time to go home before he got his drink, or had a go at Finders Keepers and won his prize, or anything. For sure Patrick had gone into that big store near the clock, with all the radios and TVs and things in it. It was just across the plaza. All right. Danny would just go over to the door and look in. And if he saw Patrick, he could call him. Then they’d come back for Claire, and then they could have a drink.

  He pushed himself away from the shop window and looked back at Claire. She was still reading. Danny began trotting cautiously over the smooth floor of the plaza. He passed the clock. It was ticking very loudly today, he thought. He fingered his golf ball nervously, expecting any minute to hear Claire’s angry voice calling him back to the bookshop.

  But no voice came, and quite quickly he was at the department store door. He peered inside. The lights were bright, and there were lots of people walking around looking at things. Patrick wasn’t there – not near the door, anyway. Danny edged inside. He knew he shouldn’t go far. This was the sort of big shop where kids got lost. All the aisles looked the same.

  He craned his neck to look down to the end of a row of TV sets. Patrick liked TV. Maybe he was there. But the TV screens flickered silently in their line. No one was there to watch them. The aisle was empty.

  Danny sighed, and then he gasped. And blinked. Once, twice. The aisle was empty. Then – suddenly – it wasn’t. Someone had just … appeared from nowhere, in front of the last TV set in the row. And the someone was …

  “Patrick!” Danny squeaked, his eyes popping. “Patrick!”

  Outside the bookshop Claire was scanning the plaza with a worried frown. Where on earth was Danny? Where was he? She’d told him to stay right here. She’d seen him through the window only a few minutes ago. She stuffed the book she had bought into her shoulder bag. What if he’d been kidnapped by some loony? What if, right now, some stranger was hustling him away, out of the shopping centre, where they’d never find him? Her cheeks and forehead grew hot. Mum – what could she say to Mum?

  Back in the department store, Danny was darting forward. “Patrick!” he shrieked. “Where were you? Where did you come from?” He stared wide-eyed as his brother stumbled towards him past the flickering TV screens. Patrick was shaking his head as if he’d just woken up. He stared vaguely at Danny and didn’t answer.

  “Was it a magic trick, Patrick? Was it?” demanded Danny.

  Patrick licked his lips. “Finders Keepers,” he murmured. “I’ve got to …” His voice trailed off.

  “Wow!” squealed Danny in excitement. “Finders Keepers! Did you get any prizes, Patrick?”

  “Prizes?” Patrick shook his head again. Then he took a deep breath and rubbed roughly at his eyes. When he took his hands away he looked more awake. But then he frowned. “Danny, what are you doing here?” he said. “Where’s Claire?”

  “Over there.” Danny stabbed a chubby finger back over his shoulder.

  “Well, look, you tell her I’ve got to do something, and I’ll see her at the clock at eleven. OK?” Patrick brushed past Danny and made for the door of the store.

  “But Patrick –” Danny jiggled up and down in frustration. The golf ball fell from his hand and he crouched to pick it up.

  “Just tell her, Dan,” Patrick called. “It’s important. I’ll explain later. Promise!” He waved in Danny’s general direction, and was gone. Danny knelt where he was for a minute. Then he slowly stood up and, with a small, mischievous smile, began to edge down the aisle, towards the last TV set in the row.

  Claire pulled her arms across her chest and hugged herself tightly, her eyes darting around the plaza. Stupid! She was being stupid. Obviously Danny had gone off looking for Patrick, or found him, or something. Or maybe he was in front of the clock, where she couldn’t see him.

  She walked rapidly to the centre of the plaza and right around the clock. It ticked on, fast and loudly. As she moved towards the front again it struck the half hour. Half-past ten? It couldn’t be! She checked her own watch and shook her head. She must have been in the bookshop for much longer than she’d thought. Even her watch showed twenty-five minutes past ten. The time had flown. She looked curiously at the clock. The crack on the blacksmith’s arm was really obvious, as were the missing chips of paint on the tree. The clock had been damaged. You’d think someone would fix it. She remembered the little china bird in her shoulder bag. She’d been going to hand it in. After Patrick came back. After they’d had their drink. Danny had been thirsty. Danny …

  “Danny, where are you?” she whispered. Then she stiffened. Patrick had emerged from the department store across the plaza, and was running towards her.

  “Patrick!” she called, for once oblivious of the stares of passers-by. She ran to meet him and grabbed his arm. “Patrick, have you seen Danny?”

  Patrick tore himself free. “He’s back there,” he said quickly, jerking his head in the direction of the department store. “Near the TV sets. I’ve got to go! See you!”

  “What? Where?” shouted Claire as he darted off again. “Patrick, wait! Where’ll you be?”

  “Clock. Eleven. Danny – ask Danny!” Patrick shouted back. She saw him hurtle to the clock, come to a skidding stop against the little white fence, and then begin slowly pacing around it.

  Claire clicked her tongue in irritation. Little brothers were the pits! This was the last time she’d ever, ever take them anywhere. Look at that screwball Patrick! What did he think he was playing at? She flicked back her hair and started marching towards the department store door. Now that she knew Danny was safe, she was free to be furious with him. Disobedient little rat!

  She stormed in through the store doors. Near the TV sets, Patrick had said. Oh, yes, that’d be right! She peered down the aisle lined with sets. On the screens people and cartoon characters mouthed silently, talking to no one. And at the far end, small and intent, golf ball in hand as usual, stood Danny.

  Claire began to walk towards him. The little boy was so absorbed in what he was watching that he didn’t even notice her. Good! She’d give him a shock he’d never forget. She crept forward, half-smiling, imagining the shocked, guilty look on his face when she shouted. Soon she was only a few paces away from him, and he still hadn’t looked away from the set. What was he watching that was so interesting? It could be anything. You never could tell with Danny. She leaned forward until she could see the screen, and frowned in confusion. There was nothing on it but a very fuzzy, jumpy picture of a small room. Nothing going on. Nothing happening. How odd!

  She crept a little closer, then froze. Danny was moving. He was walking cautiously up to the TV screen. His lips were opening. What game was he playing?

  “Let me in,” she heard him say. A shiver ran up her spine. What …?

  “Let me in!” Danny repeated, more confidently. He stared straight at the TV screen, and stretched out a hand. “I want to play, too! Let me play!” His whole body went rigid. The golf ball fell from his fingers.

  And then he disappeared.

  Claire screamed, blinked, screamed again. She clapped her hand over her mouth and stared wildly at the TV screen. She stepped forward, and something rolled against her foot. Slowly she bent her head to look down. Danny’s golf ball lay where he had dropped it. She stared at it, her throat aching. She looked again at the screen.

  “Danny!” she whispered. “Come back!” But the screen flickered, unchanging. He was gone. Little Danny. Gone. He’d be so frightened. She couldn’t bear it. She had to do something. She had to help him. Her head felt as though it was going to burst. She took another step forward, till the screen was all she could see. “Danny!” she called. She heard her own voice as if it was echoing from very far away. “Wait! I’m coming!” She put out her hand as she had seen Danny do. “Let me in!” she pleaded. “I have to get in!” And shut her eyes as blackness closed in on her.

  10

  The Timekeeper

  Patrick bent double over the white fence behind the clock, squinting at a lit
tle brass plate fixed to the back of the wooden chestnut tree. The sharp tops of the fence pickets pressed uncomfortably into his chest as he made out the words. “Donated and maintained by the maker, A.V. Varga”, he read. His heart thudded.

  A.V. Varga. To his surprise, the unusual name was ringing a bell in his mind. He’d seen it before somewhere. He straightened up, absent-mindedly rubbing his chest and thinking hard. Then suddenly, like a flash of light, he remembered. The antique shop, just across the plaza. The words, painted in gold on the window: “A.V. Varga, Proprietor”. He hadn’t paid any real attention to them at the time, of course. He’d had other things on his mind. But his memory had recorded them anyway, and now out they popped, just when he needed them.

  So A.V. Varga, the maker of the Chestnut Tree Village clock, also owned the Chestnut Tree Village antique shop. What a stroke of luck! But then, of course, in another way it was just what you’d expect. Max had said the Sector Timekeeper clockmakers liked to keep close to their clocks. That would be hard to do in a shopping centre – unless you owned a shop nearby. “Yes!” Patrick whispered triumphantly. He’d made a flying start. He’d discovered the identity of the clockmaker in a bare few minutes. Now – he crossed his fingers – now to find the clockmaker himself – alive and in one piece.

  He marched confidently over to the antique shop feeling elated and full of energy. As he went in, he saw with relief that there were no other customers. Just the young shop assistant he had met once before, hovering like a pale, fluttering shadow amidst the richly glowing china, silver and glass, the fancy statues and old clocks ticking.

  “Can I help you?” the young man said, moving forward to meet him.

  “Could I speak to – um – the owner, please?” Patrick muttered. He looked nervously at the precious objects clustered around him, hunched his shoulders and wiped his damp hands against the sides of his jeans. Suddenly he felt grubby and clumsy and young instead of confident and heroic.