Out of Time

by John Marsden

  THE ROAD WAS dusty and rutted. James walked cautiously along it. He didn’t know very much about where he was. Bored and restless, fretting for some activity, he had punched a set of figures into the machine, noting anxiously as he did so that the needle on the battery indicator was starting to waver at around the halfway mark. He was sure only of the date – January 7, 1876 – but was also fairly sure that he was somewhere in southern New South Wales.

  As he rounded a long curve James heard the clatter of a horse’s hooves in the distance. Hastily he jogged to a tree and slid behind it, as the noise grew louder. He peeped out when the rider went by, travelling at a quick clip. James had a glimpse of a young man, hatless, with a sunburnt sweating face, mounted on a stringy tall mare. Heavy little clouds of dust followed him down the road.

  James emerged again and continued walking. The bush was monotonous with scrub. The leaves hung listlessly in the heat. Peering carefully into the trees James saw, however, that there was activity in the shade, more than he had realised. Kangaroos seemed to be everywhere and birds were more numerous than he could remember ever having seen. A goanna started up out of the grass by the side of the road and strutted at speed across in front of the boy, who leapt backwards, then ran back another twenty metres to be sure he was safe. When he continued on his way he did so even more warily.

  A kilometre or so down the track James came unexpectedly to a white triangular stone marker sunk into the ground. It looked fresh and new. Painted on it in black was the letter G, with the numeral 6 underneath the letter. It was clearly a milestone, but James could not be sure what town it indicated. Goulburn? Gundagai? Grenfell?

  But around the next bend was a scene that James recognised from television and old pictures. A prosperous looking creek cut across the track: fat and healthy, it rolled and rattled away. Close to it a small fire poked its white streamer of smoke into the air. A few items of human property was scattered around: a blanket, some clothing, a couple of billies. Seeing nobody, James walked a few steps towards the fire, checking that the machine was in his hand and his finger close to the Return button. He stood and gazed, until a sudden rattling noise sent him into a spinning turn. The noise came from a man dragging firewood through the scrub. He was already within about twenty metres of James. Lean and dirty, followed by an equally lean and dirty yellow-brown dog, he seemed to take the boy’s presence for granted. But the dog came sniffing around James, as though that were his right and his duty.

  ‘G’day,’ the man said.

  James gulped and nodded.

  ‘You’re young,’ the man said. ‘Where’s your swag?’

  James shrugged, then pointed down the track.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ the man asked. ‘Cat got your tongue?’

  James, deciding he would not talk, shrugged. The man grunted and pulled the branch he had carried closer to the fire. James noticed now how dirty everything was: the blanket, the billies, the fry-pan. The dog finished examining the boy and trotted away about ten metres, squatting on the ground, as if to indicate his opinion of the visitor.

  ‘Dressed kind of funny, aren’t you?’ the man asked, looking up from the fire. ‘Where’d you get that stuff? Where are you from?’ James’ grip tightened on the Return button but after waiting long moments for an answer the man seemed to give up. He turned away and picked up a billy.

  ‘Want a cuppa?’ he asked.

  James nodded, and the swaggie went to the creek and filled the billy with water. He returned and settled the billy on the revitalised fire.

  ‘Now,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘Time for a spot of lunch. Want a bite?’

  James nodded again and the man cast around on the ground.

  ‘Damn,’ he said. ‘Where’s me bloody tucker box? Where’d I put it? Oh no!’ he yelled suddenly, violently throwing his hat on the ground. Oh, Jesus Christ no!’ He picked up a biggish stick and held it, club-like. James panicked and pressed the ‘Return’ button. As he felt the disintegration begin he heard the swaggie’s final shout, ‘The bloody dog’s shat on me bloody tucker box.’

  ‘HAS ANYONE FED the dog?’ their mother called, as she passed the door of the television room.

  ‘I did it yesterday. It’s James’ turn,’ Ellie said, without taking her eyes from the screen.

  ‘Yeah, after I’d done it every night for a week,’ James said.

  ‘Oh! You liar!’

  ‘I did. You never do it.’

  James rolled slowly off the bean bag and eased out of the room. He was sick of arguing and sick of Ellie. He went to the end of the yard and sat against the fence. It had been a hot slow day. Holidays were all right, he thought, but sometimes they got boring. He looked to his right and saw the crisscross of tracks in the dirt where he and Ellie had made a town and carved out roads. One of the cars they had been playing with was still there: a blue Volkswagen, peeping out from a minor cave-in at the end of a road.

  A ladybird crawled past James. He picked it up and recited the traditional song:

  Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home.

  Your house is on fire and your children are gone,

  Except for the little one under the stone,

  Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home.

  He blew on the ladybird but there was no response.

  ‘Cruel mother,’ he muttered, repeating the verse and blowing harder. At last the insect spread its incongruous wings and flew from his hand: at first tentatively, then wheeling and soaring until it was gone. James was annoyed then that he had let it go.

  Ellie came out of the house with the dog’s bowl.

  The dog bounced and bounced around her. She put it on the ground and the dog buried his nose in it, with eager woofling noises. Ellie came over to where James was sitting. She stood in front of him.

  ‘You have to do it tomorrow night,’ she said.

  James changed the subject.

  ‘You know what the biggest difference is between animals and us?’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We know we’re going to die and they don’t.’

  ‘But we don’t really know we are. I mean, we pretend we’re not.’

  ‘OK, what do you think the difference is, then?’

  ‘I think the biggest difference is that we like beautiful things, just because they’re beautiful. Animals don’t understand beauty. Well, they don’t seem to.’

  ‘They might, and we just don’t realise it.’

  Ellie giggled.

  ‘Can you imagine a cow looking at a painting and thinking how beautiful it is?’

  He rolled over and picked up the toy Volkswagen.

  ‘I’d hate to die in a car accident,’ he said. ‘I’d like to know beforehand, so you could go to Disneyland and everything. And so people could get you presents.’

  Ellie shivered.

  ‘Gee, I don’t want to know. I’d like it sudden. But not in a car crash. I hate the way Dad drives sometimes. He goes so fast. And through orange lights.’

  ‘He’s a good driver. I like going fast.’

  ‘I feel safer with Mum.’

  The dog, having emptied his bowl, came snuffling around James’ feet, as though he might have food hidden in his socks.

  ‘Go away,’ James said, grabbing him fiercely around his muzzle. The dog see-sawed his head to get free, planting his feet firmly on the ground and using the strength of his neck to buck the boy’s hand off. James let his muzzle go, then got to his knees to wrestle in earnest as the dog obligingly returned to the fray. Ellie ran around them laughing. The dog bounded away then came circling back for more. Ellie grabbed his neck as James tried to roll him over, but he wriggled free and came leaping in on top of both of them. Ellie upended him and, as he lay on his back, they started roughing up his stomach. Then Ellie’s wheezing excitement burst into asthma and she lost her noise and laughter and breath.

  Later she said, ‘I hope I don’t die of asthma.’

  Her comment made James nervous and embarrassed.


  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ he said.

  ‘People do,’ she replied.

  James didn’t answer. He remembered the ladybird song.

  THE HOSPITAL WAS a temporary one: a field hospital housed in an old convent. Its supplies were short and the girl did not appear to be badly hurt anyway. Her leg was broken in several places but it would heal. She had scratches, abrasions, bruises. She was shocked, malnourished, dehydrated. All of these things would heal, though they might leave scars. There were other patients more badly hurt; in some of them the candle-flame of life was flickering, so that those watching over them hardly dared draw breath themselves, lest they take oxygen from the perilously light air flitting in and out of the tired lungs.

  The scarring on the girl’s face was old: it told nothing except that she had known pain before and had survived it.

  Yet the expected healing did not seem to be taking place. The girl lay dry-eyed in her bed, complaining of nothing, accepting what was offered, but speaking to no-one. She seemed to fade a little more every day, so that the early expectations of a quick discharge gave way to fears for her survival.

  ‘If only she had her family. . . or a friend,’ a doctor said.

  ‘Who knows we’re here?’ answered the nurse. ‘And we’ll never have the time to go looking for her relatives. Maybe someone will turn up.’

  ‘Do you know where your parents are?’ the doctor asked, leaning across the bed. There was no response. ‘I don’t know if she understands a word I am saying,’ the doctor sighed, standing up again.

  ‘I think she does,’ the nurse answered. ‘She seems to be listening to our conversation now.’

  The two women left the room, the nurse muttering to the doctor. ‘If she was with her family when the bomb went off I wouldn’t hold much hope of her seeing them again.’

  Though she had spoken so quietly, the girl heard her.

  WITH THE BATTERY indicator now clearly on the wrong side of halfway, James knew that it was now or never for the next great experiment. He keyed in the latitude and longitude with little hesitation: 41° 0’ 0” 75° 0’ 0”. But he trembled and sweated as he chose the date: 27. 09. 2099, 1000 hours. With a gulp, closing his eyes, he pressed ‘Enter’.

  His body seemed unaffected but something grew hot in his hands. With an effort he opened his heavy eyes and looked. Steam was coming out of the machine. It was heating up so quickly that already it was almost too hot to hold. James, desperate, stabbed at the Return button. He missed the first time, and now the machine felt like it was about to melt. James opened his hands to let it go. As it began to fall he stabbed at it a second time. Luckily he connected. The machine lay on the carpet and the steam began to clear.

  Presently he was able to pick it up again without damage to his hands. Thoughtfully, he put it on his desk.

  WAKING EARLY, IN the luxury of the huge four-poster bed, Luke yawned and stretched and grinned. The old-fashioned starched white linen sheets felt purer and cleaner than anything he had experienced before. He wondered if it would be ridiculous to have fresh ironed sheets on the bed every night at home but realised reluctantly that neither he nor Sara would ever have time to do it. Most days they didn’t even make the bed.

  He turned on one side and looked out the windows to the long, sloping ornamental garden and the lawns and fountains beyond. Ever since he had been told about these stately homes his trips to Europe had been transformed. The same cool business transactions during the day but romance and majesty at nights. The food and service often weren’t too good but the surroundings made up for everything. And in this particular one, Castle Dundas, the surroundings were of a mediaeval perfection. The slight early morning haze combined with the ageless beauty of the gardens, so that Luke wondered lazily if he had slipped back into the fifteenth century.

  He picked up his watch from the bedside table to look at the time, but the watch had stopped. He replaced it and yawned again. Then he turned on his side to face the door, as a gentle knock signalled a human arrival.

  ‘Yes?’ he called, before seeing that the door had already opened, and a young pageboy, quaintly dressed in an old-fashioned uniform, had come into the room.

  ‘You have not put your boots out, sir,’ he said politely. Luke raised his eyebrows. This was another pleasant surprise, another reminder of the way things had once been.

  ‘They’re on the floor,’ he said, ‘in front of the television.’ The boy looked around him, but in a rather puzzled way, Luke watched him, equally puzzled.

  ‘There,’ he said at last, pointing, ‘next to the red armchair.’ The boy, with a start, saw them and moved decorously to pick them up. Luke, in his lazily relaxed mood, decided to be friendly.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  ‘Alexander,’ the boy replied. He still looked puzzled, but now his confusion seemed centred on the uncleaned shoes.

  ‘How long have you been working here, Alexander?’

  ‘Oh. . .’ The boy’s forehead puckered in thought. Luke decided that perhaps he was mentally disabled.

  Finally Alexander answered, ‘Oh, a long time sir.’

  ‘And do you like it?’

  ‘Oh. . . yes, sir.’ He looked suddenly nervous and covered his eyes with a hand. ‘I don’t feel very well, sir.’ he mumbled.

  ‘Well, leave the shoes,’ Luke urged. ‘Do you want me to call the manager?’ But Alexander, ignoring him, was walking towards the door. Was it Luke’s imagination, or did the boy seem to be growing smaller, to be shrinking within his clothes? Startled, Luke shook his head to clear the illusion, but by the time he had his clear sight back Alexander had gone out the door.

  Luke lay and lazed for another hour or so. He had no early appointments and, though he did not know the time, he was sure it was still early. Finally, however, he got up, showered, dressed, and went downstairs for his breakfast. On the way to the dining room he passed the manager who gave him a smiling ‘good morning’.

  ‘Ah, good morning,’ Luke responded, stopping. ‘Look, I hope your bootboy’s all right, is he? He seemed a bit off-colour.’

  The manager suddenly looked remarkably alert.

  ‘Sir?’ he asked.

  ‘The bootboy,’ Luke said again. ‘. . . er. . . Alexander.’

  The manager’s face went white, then a slow grey.

  ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘we have no bootboy.’

  Luke gaped and struggled for words. ‘No bootboy?’ he said at last. ‘No bootboy?’

  ‘No-one sir,’ said the manager and paused. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘perhaps if you would eat now, I will try to explain to you after breakfast.’

  After the meal Luke eagerly sought out the manager, who, with a grave nod but no words, led Luke down a long corridor, and through a number of heavy doors. ‘We are in the private part of the castle,’ he explained to Luke. It was the first time he had spoken. Luke nodded a response.

  They came to a small room fitted out as an office: it had a desk and two chairs, but these were dwarfed by the books, thousands of them, that filled every shelf and were piled in stacks on the floor. The manager sat Luke at the desk and indicated a row of books that were on the desk itself.

  ‘These,’ he said, nodding, ‘are all about the castle.’ He picked out one, a thin, worn, green volume, and quickly found the page he wanted. ‘Sir,’ he said, placing it in front of the bemused man, ‘all of these books contain the story, if you wish to verify it. But this one tells it best, and it is in English.‘ He bowed and began to leave. ‘You can find your way back?’ he asked, from the doorway. ‘Yes,’ said Luke. The manager bowed again and left, shutting the door quietly behind him. Luke turned his attention to the book and began to read:

  ‘Perhaps the saddest story associated with Castle Dundas is that of the little servant boy who has been said to haunt the west wing since 1832. Alexander Karatzann began work as a bootboy at the age of eleven. He was by all accounts a bright child who quickly became a favourite of the domestic staff. This makes
his fate all the more tragic. On September 27, 1832 he was due to walk to his home, twelve miles away, for his weekly visit to his family. He did not return from this visit, and was presumed to be ill. Perhaps negligently, enquiries were not put into motion until September 29, when it was found that he had never reached his home. A search of the woods was instituted; several more days were wasted on this futile endeavour. It apparently did not occur to anyone that the boy might never have left the castle.

  ‘No trace of the child was found.

  ‘In 1864 an earth tremor caused the collapse of a large part of the derelict west wing. This event spurred the sixteenth Duke to take a step he had long contemplated: the rebuilding of the entire wing. The work commenced in 1865 with the hauling away of many tonnes of material from the sections affected by the earth tremor. As this rubble was being sorted – some for dumping in a nearby quarry, some for burning and some for reuse – workmen came across an oak beam that had once straddled a door. On it was carved, in a childish hand, ‘Alexander Karatzann, September 28, 1832.’

  ‘There is still no explanation for the mystery. It was ascertained that workmen had been remodelling the west wing – which was still then in use – around the time that Alexander disappeared. Yet records and the memories of witnesses, though not entirely reliable, suggest that this work did not start until mid-October, 1832. It is certain that the work included the sealing off of several apertures and sections of corridors, and two cellars that were considered unsafe. Though it was not possible to identify the room from which the oak beam had come, it was apparently not from a cellar.

  ‘Continued searching found no other clues.

  ‘The oak beam, with its pathetic inscription, has been kept by the family, along with an old leather purse with a crudely stitched ‘A’ on it. This, found jammed into a cracked flagstone that was replaced in 1925, is generally thought to have belonged to Alexander Karatzann.