Boy Who Stole Time

by Mark Bowsher

  Krish tried to think of his Mum. Of how happy he’d be to see her every day without fear that each could be her last. But he couldn’t think of any positive thoughts regarding her. All he knew was that he had to climb that tree and that mountain.

  ‘Yes. I’m sure,’ he said.

  As the sun left them for the night, Krish wondered how they were going to reach the top of the tree safely in the dark. Minutes later his question was answered. He saw black shapes, dashed with neon blues and oranges, emerging from holes burrowed into the wood. Balthrir began to chant softly, waving her staff gently in the air, and the creatures arranged themselves roughly into steps. Within minutes the creatures were still.

  ‘Takes a lotta practice to get these guys to do that,’ said Balthrir over her shoulder as she approached the tree. ‘Old Margary likes it though. Only way that doesn’t involve fighting off the woodsnipes, which puts most people off, so she gets a lot of peace and quiet.’

  The ‘stairs’ squelched under Krish’s feet and although they were clearly strong they still buckled a little under his weight. The whole way up he had a sinking feeling in his stomach. It was like stepping off a cliff and trusting your weight to a bridge made of jelly. All he could see was the neon marking the way and vague shapes of twisted branches to his right and the gloom of the night, hiding the ground far below, to his left.

  They climbed up the outside of the trunk, passing shadow-clad boughs as thick as skyscrapers and branches as big as aeroplanes, twisting through the night.

  The neon vanished as Krish found his feet touching solid ground again. Balthrir whispered a few more words and the creatures slithered back into their burrows. Balthrir began to rifle through loose sticks on the ground. There was a pause for a moment as she appeared to have found what she was looking for. She hurled something into the air and it ignited. Flames licked around a tumbleweed-like structure. She walked forward. After a few seconds of intermittent wobbling the tumbleweed hovered above the ground ahead of them, lighting their way as they walked.

  So they climbed on through the dawn. With the coming of light Krish could see where they were. A claw-like collection of branches held several stadiums’ worth of tightly packed earth, at the centre of which was Ugethrid. They were currently standing in the mighty mountain’s shadow. Krish shivered. At this height, the clouds were a short climb above them, and in the shade the day brought little warmth.

  They followed a rough path up the mountain until the sun swept across the landscape and Krish looked down at the tiny world below. Ilir looked like a model. He could see the curve of the globe, almost a whole side of the world, and not far below them he could make out a layer of light fading into a band of dark blue, which in turn became black with pinpricks of light. Krish was from a world where you could stand on the tallest mountain and see only the tiniest fraction of the land and seas. Here he could see almost all of it. Its small cluster of mountains to the south, the Black Palace to the west, the tents and hovels of small settlements to the north, and to the east a thick, dark covering, stretched across the land like a black clod of moss. Farther still was what Krish assumed was The Scar, a watery ring around the whole eastern hemisphere of this world.

  They took the path through Lal’Fryaill Col, a long, slow ascent along the east side of the mountain. As the path started twisting right and left, Krish’s leg muscles began aching as the climb gradually steepened. The sun had returned and although they were still in the shade, Krish was hot and sweaty from their non-stop ascent. After scrambling over a near-vertical ridge covered in loose rock, Balthrir allowed them a brief rest and something to eat.

  The wizard told him a little of the history of the mountain. Long ago, before Oobna was big enough to tear the mountain from the earth, some adventurous Undertons had journeyed across the Nahbrin Desert and settled on the Lal’Fryaill plateau, not far from where they were sat now. Used to living underground, the Undertons preferred cooler climes. They renamed many of the cols and passes in their own tongue and were very happy and safe there for centuries. But then Oobna grew strong, lifted the mountain into the air and conditions in the winter became too cold to endure. People believed that the tree would be crushed by the weight of the mountain and that they would feel nothing more than a bump as it fell a short distance, but the tree kept on growing. Some left but many stayed, believing their god Maiylyr would save them. Maiylyr did not materialise and one winter the snows fell like never before. The peoples of the mountain who had stayed all froze to death, it must be presumed. In the spring, morbid spectators gathered round Oobna as the ice melted and was washed down the mountain with the rains of the new year. But no corpses appeared. For a century or so some of Ilir’s climbers were obsessed with searching the mountain for signs of the lost people of Lal’Fryaill. They found nothing. A shadow fell over the mountain in the minds of the people of Ilir. Most avoided it. The name Ugethrid, Balthrir informed him, meant ‘she keeps her dead’.

  As they passed through a particularly deep crevasse, Balthrir’s story conjured up images of dead bodies hidden in the very rock surrounding them. Farther down the mountain they’d passed birds of prey in coarse nests of straw and goat-like creatures devouring any dried-up weeds they could locate, but here there was hardly any life at all. Just a stooped, single-eyed, black-feathered bird watching patiently, waiting for them to fall to the ground and move no more. Easier than chasing and attacking in the rarefied air at this altitude. Patches of snow dotted the landscape as they neared the summit. The sun shone strongly but the chill in the air was palpable. With every gust of wind the cold felt as if it were slicing through Krish’s body.

  From the ground, the peak had looked like a single point where all of the mountain ran out at once when you reached a narrow tip. In reality, you climbed one final ridge, a narrow gap between rock faces, scree dusted with snow, and emerged onto a crumpled white landscape the length of several lorries.

  Krish caught his breath. The air was so thin he felt sure they’d run out soon. The sun warmed him in the still air but his feet and knees were sodden thanks to the snow on the final ascent, which had been completed on all fours. The devil might have mentioned scrambling up snow-covered peaks when telling him what clothes to bring. He looked down to a thick layer of cloud crawling over a range of mountains like a sheet of cotton wool. The curvature of Ilir was more apparent than ever. A sky full of stars was sweeping from the west, Mother and a Son were poking over the far horizon, dim in the low, harsh, dying light of day and the sun was sinking in the east, relinquishing control of the heavens for the briefness of the night.

  Krish scanned the summit of Ugethrid and saw on the far side a large tree (well, a normal-sized large tree, a tiny tree in comparison to the one the mountain was on top of) with a badly nailed-together collection of wooden planks on top of it. Krish supposed it could be some sort of dwelling. A line of smoke rose from its chimney. As they got closer he realised that it was probably just as big as his own house but the mountain and the tree below it dwarfed everything in sight.

  ‘Oh, and don’t expect any kinda in-depth discussions with Old Margary,’ said Balthrir. ‘She’s the last of her kind and has lived waaay too long to have much time for conversation. You know they say ’ow time seems to go faster the older yer get? Well, time flies for this old bird. Heard she blinks and misses a couple o’ days sometimes. Didn’t speak at all for decades at some point. No one ever knew if she was right narked off or just considered it a natural gap in the conversation. And remember, she’s fiercely loyal to the King. Bound to ’elp magical folk but fiercely loyal to ’Is Maj. Don’t forget that! Just be honest and yer’ll be fine!’

  ‘Okay, okay! I get it!’

  They climbed a rickety ladder and Balthrir rapped on the hatch. To Krish’s surprise, Balthrir started to make her way back down the ladder again.

  ‘Probably be a few hours till she answers.’

  But within about ten minutes, the hatch swung open.

  CHAPTER 14<
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  OLD MARGARY

  Krish had a few minutes to take in the face looking down at them. It was as if Old Margary was composed entirely of filthy old starched rags. Her face was a swirl of rough canyons on dry and mottled skin that did not look like it had moved for years. Hidden in her ghostly features were two shallow dark craters which he presumed were her eyes. She looked through him for some time, stiff as a statue, and then slowly turned to Balthrir.

  ‘Baaaaal—’ came the elongated croak from the small crease which was Old Margary’s mouth.

  ‘Balthrir!’ interrupted Balthrir ‘Yep, that’s me! Been a long time, old girl. Might need a bit of assistance, if yer’ve got the time…’

  Old Margary considered this for roughly twenty minutes, then took five minutes to lower her head and another five for it rise up again to complete her nod. Then, with unexpected swiftness, she re-entered the house. Balthrir climbed the ladder and Krish followed, leaving the cold of the encroaching night behind them.

  The house was filled with pages. Books torn apart, the pages suspended from strings, positioned all about the ramshackle abode. Cauldrons, test tubes and mixing bowls were strewn about the worktops and a mattress-lined alcove encircled the whole of Old Margary’s home. In fact, much seemed to be replicated around the room, perhaps so the ancient witch – who clearly moved at a pace that would see her being lapped by snails if she were in a race – would always have food and somewhere to rest for night, wherever she was in the room. The bubbling cauldrons and a fire on the eastern side of the room brought warmth and the odour of strange potions and woodsmoke to the dwelling, banishing the chill of night. Stars shone through the gaps in the rafters.

  Old Margary stood by a hanging cauldron, flames flickering around the rim.

  ‘Teeeeeaaaaa?’

  ‘Let me help!’ butted in Balthrir.

  While Old Margary was caught in a bow of thanks for a few minutes, Balthrir leapt forward and picked up a large black sphere resembling a cannonball, filled it with water and placed it at the heart of the roaring fire. Krish was aware of Old Margary’s inquisitive gaze washing over him. The skin of her sack-like face was surely about to crack, Krish thought, as the corners of her mouth moved upwards for the first time that he had seen.

  ‘Reeeeelaaaaax.’

  Telling someone nervous to relax is about as effective as placing a large, scrumptious-looking cake in front of a hungry child and leaving them alone in a room with it, with the express order not to consider even the tiniest of morsels. Instead, Krish gave all his attention to the process of tea-making. The fire was so intense that steam billowed out of the holes in the top of the cannonball kettle. Balthrir had lowered glass tubes into these holes and all the steam was travelling up them at great speed. The tubes made a right-angled turn, all heading out from the central point at which they met, and the steam passed through porous sachets filled with tea leaves before the tubes dived another ninety degrees to bulbous flasks fastened to their ends. Once they were full, Balthrir removed the flasks and stoppered them tightly before placing them in a sink filled with cold water. Within minutes the steam had condensed into liquid and Balthrir was serving their contents in teacups with a little cold water.

  Krish was overjoyed that Old Margary sprang her question moments after sitting down rather than pondering for hours on end.

  ‘Viiiiisssiiiiit?’

  Balthrir launched immediately into an explanation (playing down the King’s hostile attitude towards her young companion) and Krish enjoyed his smoky-sweet tea, which had a warm, comforting aftertaste of baked apple. Then he turned his attention to something in the room he had not noticed before. On the wall in front of them was a large charcoal-coloured canvas covered in dashes of light grey, some straight, some curved. It was like fog or smoke or a cloud overburdened with rain. They were vague shapes on the canvas somewhere but he couldn’t quite make anything out. The painting (if that’s what it was – could be some enormous, filthy tea towel hung out to dry for all he knew) perplexed him a little but as Balthrir concluded her tale he lost all interest in the mess of grey on the wall.

  ‘So, Night Ocean for the pearl and the Pale Hunting Grounds for the feather we’re fine with, no probs… Well, lots of probs, potentially, but all possible, yer know? But this tyin’ a bit o’ string round the world malarkey is a bit of a puzzler. And I thought if there’s anyone ’oo can ’elp, Old Margary’s m’girl!’

  Old Margary contemplated this for a while – during which time Krish and Balthrir had a leisurely lunch break of mikan bread and spiced quanta – before she journeyed to the triangular gap in the planks of her home which formed a misshapen window. The light of a fresh, new day was now spreading from the west. The ancient witch produced a number of shoulder-height interconnected wooden stands, each with a small circular mirror the size of a coin at its pinnacle. She placed a large basket on the floor next to the contraption. After several minutes, the bright light of dawn hit the first mirror and bounced onto the next one and then the next and then the next and then the next. The beam of light was mesmerising to watch and after some time it began to change. Its brightness decreased and it appeared to be moving. The thin, dimming sunlight accelerated and became solid. It poured from the final mirror and filled the basket with a silvery twine. Old Margary moved the first of the mirrors away from the light and the stream of sunlight twine ceased. Then she wound the shining wire into a surprisingly compact ball and held it out for Krish.

  ‘Uuuuunnnnnbrrrrreeeeeaaaaak—’

  ‘Unbreakable…?’ offered Balthrir. Old Margary gave her a hasty thirty-second nod. ‘Great stuff! Except, ’ow we gonna cut the twine it we ’ave too much o’ the stuff? Yer know, so we can actually tie it around the world and all that?’

  The old sorceress then scanned one of the workbenches for several minutes before producing a long thin grand-looking box of dark wood. Balthrir helped her open the box to save them a half-hour interval. Lying in the blue velvet interior was a rather plain wooden handle, no bigger than a teaspoon, which was less than half the length of the box it sat within. The minutes drew on as Old Margary was busy holding up the handle until the outline of what looked like a short glass knitting needle appeared against the beam of sunlight emanating from the window. Krish swore he heard a crunch from Old Margary’s ancient wrist as with unexpected haste she tore through the streak of sunshine, which fell to the ground and fizzed to nothingness, its bright light extinguished in a haze of smoke on the scorched floorboards.

  ‘Blimey!’ exclaimed Balthrir. ‘A Salvean blade! ’Eard there’re only a couple o’ these left in existence. We are ’onoured! Only thing that can cut through sunlight. So the only blade that’ll cut through that—’ she indicated the twine ‘—I’ll bet! No mortal blade’ll get through it and…’

  Balthrir delicately took the knife from Old Margary’s hand – the lines on the old witch’s palm seemed as long and as deep as canyons and were probably just as old – and ran the almost invisible blade over her own palm. It left no mark.

  ‘There!’ proclaimed Balthrir. ‘Not a scratch!’

  Krish nodded his head in awe at the tiny knife. Then he noticed Old Margary staring at him, the ball of twine in her hand. He hesitated and then reached out to take the ball. Old Margary’s hand was not giving up the twine of sunlight so easily.

  ‘Whhhhhyyyyy?’

  Old Margary was a statue once more. Those eyes, darker than the dead of night, still as ice, bored into him.

  ‘Just tell her the truth,’ softly and cautiously came Balthrir’s plea.

  ‘My mother,’ said Krish. ‘I… want to give her more time. As much time as I can.’

  Old Margary still wouldn’t surrender the twine.

  ‘Kiiiiinnnnng?’

  ‘The truth,’ came Balthrir’s prompt.

  Krish thought. He feared this ancient woman with the face of rancid old cloth, her barely visible crease for a mouth and those eyes…

  He knew he should tell the truth b
ut Balthrir had said Old Margary was loyal to the King. If he said he wasn’t, surely she’d never give him the twine. But what if a lie would make things worse? Couldn’t he just politely say he wasn’t exactly a fan of the King? Krish couldn’t picture that going down well and if he stumbled here his quest would be over in a heartbeat.

  He looked into those eyes: old enough to have seen mountains rise up, towering above the land, before the ages weathered them down to gravel. Perhaps her pupils had swallowed the whites and the irises of her eyes in a desperate bid to allow in more light as her sight failed. He was lost and afraid in the chasm of her unseen eyes; darkness beyond darkness. He must find a way out.

  ‘I am loyal to His Majesty,’ said Krish.

  He could sense Balthrir stifling a sigh behind him.

  Old Margary did not move. Some time later she turned away, taking the ball with her.

  What had he done? Was this it? Would she throw the ball away? Destroy it? He looked to the window. If she tossed it out there he knew he could find it. What about the fire? Would that consume it? He kept his eye on the fire.

  But Old Margary had placed the ball of twine on the worktop. Now she was working at a furious pace (furious for her, at least). She picked up the skull of a small creature, tore it into four or five pieces and one by one crushed the fragments with a pestle and mortar. She hurled the powder into her cauldron and tossed in a number of potions.

  The day wore on. Eventually Old Margary completed her work and held out her hand to Krish. Krish didn’t know quite what she wanted until he saw that she was eyeing his forearm. He placed his arm in her coarse, dry palm. With astonishing speed she pricked his skin with a needle and then placed the drop of blood she had collected in the concoction. Then she added a drop of her own. He noticed that the bead of red which rose to cover the tiny piercing in the witch’s skin was meagre and slow to arrive at the surface; as if her blood itself was old and frail.