by Jan Siegel
He’s the greatest artist of his day, thought Pen. Perhaps of any day. And he’s drawing me... There was a bubble of excitement and happiness swelling inside her, that special bubble she had felt only once or twice before – a happiness that had to be suppressed, a feeling too wonderful to let it escape, but she knew the glitter of it was in her face and would shine out of the picture for all time. She couldn’t wait to tell her grandmother. Mijnheer Van Rijn is drawing me...
Gavin said something and she responded impatiently: ‘I mustn’t talk.’
The words came out in German and gibberish.
Gavin’s expression stiffened. He reached out, taking one step into the room but still clutching the door-frame. The man said: ‘Wacht,’ and went on drawing. Gavin waited. There was a quiet a little like the quiet in the house, a moment of time held in isolation – the softness of the light through the windows and Pen’s stillness and the tiny scratching of pen on paper. Then the man wrote something at the bottom and passed the sheet to Pen, smiling the same smile with which he had greeted them, a half-smile at once shy and strangely self-possessed.
Pen said: ‘Dankzegging,’ as if she meant it and Gavin seized her arm and yanked her abruptly back through the door – back into the twenty-first century – pulling it closed behind them. For an instant her mind blurred... Then she was herself again, or the self she ought to be, leaning on the wall and breathing deeply and trying to be normal.
London, twenty-first century
THE SKETCH WAS in her hand. A picture of a girl whose face was closed but whose eyes were open, open into the self she let no one see, the secret self that burned like a flame in a dark lantern... The signature was printed along the bottom. Rembrandt Van Rijn.
‘You did it again,’ Gavin said. ‘I was losing you.’
‘But you brought me back,’ Pen said. And: ‘Thanks.’
Gavin was looking at the picture. ‘It’s really good,’ he said. ‘Was that – the Rembrandt? The famous one? We had a talk about him at school.’
‘I think so.’
‘This would be worth millions,’ he said, ‘if anyone believed it was genuine.’
They both laughed, more from relief than anything else. Then they sat down on the stairs, unwilling to go back yet, talking things over.
‘It’s pretty amazing when you think about it,’ Gavin said, ‘meeting famous people from history and all that. I mean, no one else has ever done that – no one. If only we could control it better. Did you start imagining yourself a whole new life just now, like the other time?’
‘I don’t imagine it,’ Pen said. ‘It sort of... grows. I wasn’t quite there, but I was starting to feel it – I lived with my grandmother, only she wasn’t like my gran here, she was much older, and there was a house on the canal... No, it’s gone. I can’t remember any more. But each time, I grow a new self, and when I come back, something of it hangs on. It’s absorbed back into the everyday me, but it’s still there, like an extra layer inside my head. Do you believe in reincarnation?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, supposing you’d had lots of lives, and you could remember them all – they were all a part of who you are now...’
‘Don’t. My nan has a friend like that – Aisling – she’s always going on about former lives, and how beautiful she was, and the adventures she had, and all the sultans and caliphs and warriors who were in love with her.’
‘What does she do now?’ Pen asked.
‘Lives with an ageing hippy in an aromatherapy shop in Brixton.’
That disposed of reincarnation.
‘D’you think it fits with your pattern theory?’ Gavin said, picking up the sketch again.
‘It could do,’ said Pen. ‘The first time through that door, there was a monk illustrating one of those mediaeval books, and now an artist’s studio... There’s a theme, isn’t there? Art and study and so on.’
‘It’s a bit vague,’ Gavin responded. ‘Not like monsters. There’s nothing vague about a monster.’
‘Something you can get your teeth into,’ mused Pen. ‘Or vice-versa.’
Gavin tried to laugh but it didn’t quite come off. The memory of his close shave with the dragon – that moment of stomach-churning, bowel-melting terror when it had looked straight into his eyes – still haunted him. In those few seconds, he hadn’t liked himself. In the past, he’d never thought much about what sort of a person he was: it hadn’t been necessary. Like all children of the sun, he’d accepted love and luck and general popularity as the natural order of things, without the need for gratitude or analysis. But now he’d found he could be frightened – abjectly, gut-meltingly frightened – mind and body had let him down. He’d tried to put it behind him but he couldn’t: the recollection nagged at him, got between him and his chopping board, oozed into every sauce. He felt contaminated by himself.
When you have been truly afraid, there are two things you can do. You can run away from your fear, and pretend it hasn’t happened. Or you can go back to it, and attempt to face it down.
The realisation of what he must do had been sneaking up on Gavin all week. He wanted to ignore it – he wanted never to go near the broom cupboard again – but he couldn’t. He didn’t like himself, and he didn’t like not liking himself. It was that simple. If Pen had suggested a further reconnoitre, he would have accused her of wanting him dead, even though it wasn’t true – he would have been angry, indignant, resistant. But she didn’t. The suggestion came from him.
‘So,’ he said. ‘So... do you... do you want to check the broom cupboard once more, just to prove your theory?’
‘You’re kidding,’ Pen answered blankly. ‘You said – we said – we’d never go near it again. First there was the velociraptor, then the dragon and that giant bird thing. Have you got a death wish?’
Pen had no qualms about being afraid. For one thing, she was female, and therefore unencumbered with the trappings of machismo; for another, she thought fear was part of the body’s early warning system for staying alive, and as such should be treated with respect.
‘If we opened that door three times,’ Gavin said, ‘and we got three monsters, that would be something definite. Right? I’m not saying we should go through. Just open the door, look, close it again.’
‘We always say that,’ Pen pointed out, ‘and it never happens. Either we get dragged in, or something comes through, or– Look, a huge grizzly bear could come charging into the house, or something with tentacles could grab you and pull you into the past... We can’t risk it. Not again. You nearly got killed–’
Gavin thought wretchedly that he agreed with her. He really didn’t want to go through that door again. However...
‘I’ll be careful,’ he said, hoping that didn’t come under the heading of Famous Last Words.
There was no point in thinking about it any more. He went over to the door, Pen behind him. He thought turning the handle was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do...
Beyond the Doors
Somewhere in mythical Greece
THIS TIME, THERE were people. A large crowd of people, all absolutely silent. Standing. Staring. Waiting. A silent crowd is rare but despite little fidgets and shufflings from foot to foot this crowd was so quiet you could almost hear it breathing. There was something creepy about it, so many people making so little noise. Pen and Gavin were behind them, looking at the backs of countless heads, all facing the same way. Beyond the crowd was the sea, the azure blue sea of warmer climes, with sky to match. At the edge of the sea, a few yards out from the beach, a girl wearing very few clothes was chained to a rock.
‘Oh sh...’ said Pen, with restraint.
It was another cliché, thought Gavin. Only this time the familiarity of it didn’t encourage him to relax; instead, it pressed alarm buttons. Experience teaches. The girl was olive-skinned with a mop of hair all scribble-curls and a flimsy white dress falling off one shoulder. There were heavy manacles on her wrists and a long chain joined them
, running through a shank embedded in the rock. There was no label saying Sacrifice: the scenario was obvious without one. She turned for a minute, gazing back at the crowd, and Gavin was amazed to see there was no fear in her face; he couldn’t be sure of her expression at that distance but he thought there was a trace of disdain and perhaps determination, as if, having been chosen for this fate, she was resolved to go through it with some sort of dignity.
There’s nothing dignified about being eaten, Gavin said to himself. He knew.
The sea beyond the rock began to bubble ominously. Something dark was heaving itself towards the surface. Now seemed like a good time to shut the door.
‘There’s a monster coming for her,’ Pen said, ‘isn’t there?’
‘’Fraid so.’
‘We ought to do something...’
‘Such as?’
‘We can’t just leave her there!’
‘Why not?’ said Gavin. ‘Everyone else is!’
‘But we must... we must do something...’
‘Too right,’ said Gavin, who had had enough of facing his fears. He began to close the door.
Pen lunged instinctively, taking him by surprise, and in the brief tussle that ensued the door jerked out of his grip and they both tumbled across the threshold, though Pen managed to maintain contact with the frame. Gavin swore at her – she apologised – someone in the crowd looked round and went: ‘Sssh!’
When they had sorted themselves out it was too late to do anything except watch.
The sea-monster lifted its great head out of the water. It was far bigger than the dinosaur, bigger than roc or dragon: the skull alone must have been over fifteen feet long. Its enormous eyes bulged like those of a frog – accustomed to the glooms of the deep, the slotted pupils were narrowed to threads at the shock of full daylight. Its skin was fish-smooth and mottled in several shades of green; twisted fangs thrust upward from its protruding lower jaw. Strange growths crowned the head, some stiff and knobbly like horns, others more like spiny fronds or spiky fins, but whether they were part of the animal or parasitic corals and weeds it was impossible to tell. It reared up – and up – on an apparently endless length of neck, its gaze sweeping the crowd, then lowered itself towards its designated meal. The girl didn’t flinch or scream; she was standing up, rigid with pride or force of will, her snaky curls streaming in the blast from the monster’s breath. Gavin thought in passing that although her single garment was revealing she was so thin there wasn’t much to reveal, and wondered if a creature that size would be satisfied with such a dainty. Now the head was on a level with her – the fanged muzzle drew closer – a forked tongue emerged, vividly purple, tasting her scent. The girl raised one shackled wrist, reached out... and patted it on the nose.
A gasp ran through the crowd, like the shiver of a sudden chill. Now, she was lifting both arms – the jaws parted, snapped, crunching the chains like breadsticks. Then the head dropped further, resting against the rock, and the girl stepped delicately onto the snout, barefoot on the fish-skin, walked along it, and swung herself into a sitting position behind the crown, grasping the knobbly horns. The crowd, no longer silent, was beginning to fragment. There was a clamour of exclamation and horror – small groups bunching together or fraying apart – people glancing round to see if anyone had started to run. For the first time, Gavin could see the girl full-face. She might have been beautiful, or at least good-looking, but now the change in her expression made her more terrible than the thing she bestrode. Her eyes were narrowed, her mouth widened, not smiling but in a distortion of a smile, a splendour of hatred and triumph. She might be my age, Gavin thought. Not much older. And they made her a sacrifice...
The monster stooped. The crowd splintered, dividing into separate strands of running figures which streamed along the beach. Safety lay above; but there seemed to be only two paths leading up to the bluff, and rocky outcrops enclosed the cove at either end. A wriggling shape had already been plucked from the herd. Gavin didn’t look but he heard the shriek, abruptly cut off, and the indescribable sound as jaws met through flesh and bone. Pen couldn’t tear her gaze from the girl: her face seemed to shudder at every bite, not with revulsion but with glee.
The creature advanced, beginning to haul its body out of the sea, water cascading from its shoulders. Webbed foreclaws mounted the sand; out in the bay, a huge fin broke the surface as the tail swirled from side to side, lashing the waves into a tumult which no swimmer could pass. A severed arm thumped onto the ground as it chewed its first victim, then, moving with astonishing speed, it picked up boulders in its mouth, hurling them to block the escape routes, penning the rest of the crowd on the beach where it could feast on them at leisure. Flight became panic as people rushed to and fro, scrabbling at the sheer rock-face, beating off both help and hindrance in the blindness of their fear. But there was one who didn’t run any more. A young man, standing in the shallows, calling to the girl with anguish and passion in his voice. Her boyfriend, Pen guessed – her lover, thought Gavin – who had perhaps wept when she was chosen, and come to watch her die with a break in his heart. They couldn’t understand the language but it didn’t matter; his tone said more than any words. But when the girl answered her voice was cold as cold steel, with the throb in it of bitterness unsatisfied, and the monster halted only an instant, while the young man stared into its maw, not fearless but with a kind of futile defiance.
Then it took off his head.
The truncated body crumpled into the surf, staining it a dirty red. The girl howled like a Fury at the glory of her victory. The mob screeched and gibbered, already knowing none would get away. Pen felt the jolt of nausea in her stomach.
And then, at last, someone saw the door.
Why no one had seen it before the two watchers didn’t know and couldn’t imagine. One or two had noticed them, but maybe the door itself had some form of camouflage, some quirk of magic or freak science which had kept it not so much unseen as unremarked. But now somebody saw. A man, defeated by the cliff, tumbling onto the sand close by – lurching to his feet – blinking – pointing – calling. Other faces turned, turned towards them, arrested in mid-flight, faces ugly with desperation and terror, warped with sudden hope. There was a fraction of a second while they hesitated, unbelieving – then the whole mob came hurtling across the beach, trampling each other in their eagerness, fighting to reach the portal that was their only way of escape...
London, twenty-first century
PEN AND GAVIN didn’t stop to exchange a word. As one they dived back into the house, slamming the door behind them. The gibbering mob vanished into silence. The blood-stained beach, the sea-monster, the avenging rider – all were gone. The quiet closed around them, sealing them in. The only sound was their breathing, hoarse with the aftermath of fear. They stared at one another in the dawning horror of realisation.
‘Dear God,’ said Pen, ‘what have we done? Those people... all those people...’
After a while, Gavin said: ‘Even if we’d saved them, what would they do next? This is the twenty-first century. They didn’t speak our language – they wouldn’t be able to cope in our world. How would they live – here?’
Pen shook her head numbly. ‘Perhaps... they would have been absorbed. After all, we’re part of history too. Only we... killed them.’
‘No,’ said Gavin hollowly. ‘We didn’t save them. That’s all.’
‘Is that any better?’
‘No.’
After a further pause, he offered: ‘They condemned the girl. They must have.’
‘Yes, but... nobody deserves what was happening to them. Nobody deserves to be eaten.’
Gavin shuddered, possibly from a twinge of empathy.
He said: ‘There’s no point in getting the guilts. It was all a long time ago, in some half magical place. Our being there wasn’t even meant.’ So much for facing up to your fears. He had confronted one horror, only to saddle himself with a worse one. Another time, he would let sleeping tra
umas lie.
A little later Pen said: ‘I wonder how she did it. The girl, I mean – taming the sea-monster.’
‘Secretly feeding it monster-drops for the past few months?’ Gavin suggested.
Pen smiled wanly.
‘I expect she was a witch of some kind,’ Gavin said. ‘She looked like a witch.’
‘There aren’t any witches,’ said Pen, but she didn’t sound convinced.
Gavin said: ‘Let’s go home,’ meaning back to 7A. ‘We need more chocolate. Very hot and very chocolatey. With brandy and everything.’
‘It won’t change what we did,’ said Pen. Her cheeks felt clammy; she realised she must have been crying.
‘I know.’
They went out, leaving the Rembrandt sketch forgotten on the table. After they had gone, something stole softly down the stairs and picked it up, studying it intently for a long time.
QUORUM WAS STILL out. In the kitchen, Gavin found the chocolate, a big tin of Charbonell & Walker, and made the drinks, slightly soothed by the process of preparation. Chocolate and Armagnac had become their restorative of choice.
‘We aren’t doing too well, are we?’ Pen said. ‘It’s all my fault. I was the one who wanted to go back.’
‘I was just as bad,’ said Gavin. ‘That business with the dragon creeped me out so badly, I had to open the cupboard again, to... to prove something, I suppose. To prove I was brave, I could cope with... whatever. The trouble is, we’ve treated the past like reality TV. We keep forgetting it really is real.’
He passed Pen a mug of chocolate with a lavish addition of brandy.
‘Here, drink this. You look all pinched and shivery.’
