Boy Who Stole Time

by Mark Bowsher

  ‘AAAAAHHHHHH! VULREIN! VULREIN! VULREEEEEEIIIIIINNN!’

  The gurgling cries from the bloodied form dying on the ground made Krish and Halfa turn to look in the direction Molran had been pointing.

  Krish closed his eyes. There was nothing. Nothing at all. But Molran could see them! How could…?

  It struck him. He opened his eyes. There they were. Gnarled shapes stretched out on the flaming landscape in front of him. All lined up, each one slightly obscuring another on the sloping ground from the point where he was standing. Then it became clear from the way Halfa was looking high above them both as she stumbled away in fear. They were not overlapping. They were connected. He took a step back and saw they were a pack of terrible hounds no more, but instead a single, enormous creature towering over them. Several formed long, knobbly arms, four clasped together to form a bony torso, a few more the lean legs and a couple clung together to make the shape of a horrific face with a chilling expression. Their eyes had faded and now two black-red slits looked down on him. So dark in their redness that he couldn’t look away. He had to look. Had to see into the darkness, to know if in there there was any light, any shape, any hope.

  There was none.

  It moved towards him but it was as if it hadn’t moved at all. When he looked at where it stood the distance between him and the dark shape was just the same. But it was closer. Somehow it was closer and getting nearer and nearer and closer and closer without taking a single step, without even growing in size. It was just closer. So much closer. He could feel it. He could feel it so close and he knew he was going to die.

  He barely noticed Halfa fighting to pluck a feather from the FireHawk as the creature that had moments before been the Vulrein bore down on him. Krish had lived through so many days of terror and darkness, the only light that he ever encountered always extinguished moments later, that now, faced with this abominable creature, he no longer cared. He felt light. He could breathe again.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he whispered to himself. ‘I don’t care any more. I cannot even be bothered to be scared. I’m tired. I’m ready. I just don’t care. I’m tired. I’m ready.’

  Krish closed his eyes. He felt lighter still. He felt relieved. He waited to rest at last. He waited to die.

  A shrill cry so loud that it cut into his ears, his eyes, his flesh. A thousand shrieking pins biting into his skin.

  In a second it was a hollow, distant cry.

  In another it was nothing more than a whistle on the breeze.

  He opened his eyes and saw nothing. The diminishing circle of flame and the ashes of the tent… and nothing else. The Vulrein had gone.

  Krish was confused but relieved, and then he remembered the FireHawk. He turned and saw the FireHawk stripping the last of the flesh from Molran’s bones. Halfa, still holding her pole to defend herself, was making valiant attempts to pluck a feather from the bird.

  Krish rushed over but before he got there the bird pecked at Halfa and then flew past her, smothering her in flames. She grabbed at the bird as it flew off into the distance and plucked a flaming feather from its wing. Krish edged forward and then back again several times but there was nothing he could do. He stood back as the flames engulfed her as she whirled about.

  But she didn’t scream. Halfa kept turning and turning, going from one foot to the next in a line of circles. The fire travelled down her robe and went out, changing her dirty yellow rags to a robe of midnight blue. The pole turned into a staff. Halfa stopped circling and faced Krish. Her skin was darker and her eyes familiar. Balthrir held the feather, still just about alight, out in front of her face, and spoke slowly, simply:

  ‘Tell me you got this all by yourself…’

  It took the wide-eyed, open-mouthed Krish a few moments to answer.

  ‘B… Balthrir, I—’

  ‘Tell me you got this… all by yourself…’

  ‘Balthrir—’

  Her eyes were awash with emotion. ‘Tell me I wasn’t there, talkin’ that lot into bringin’ you along, tryin’ to get this poxy feather!’

  Krish was now looking at the feather as its flame grew smaller. ‘Balthrir, it’s—’

  ‘Tell me I didn’t have to persuade them not to do you in straight away! Or to do you in before the FireHawk hatched! That I didn’t rush over to you when the tent was collapsing, chuckin’ some gust o’ wind spell over you and tryin’ to grab a feather at the same time!’

  ‘Balthrir, you—’

  ‘Yer wanna know how I know Old Margary? Yer wanna know why I knew the path to Ugethrid so well? Krish! Look at me!’ Krish’s eyes left the feather and he looked into Balthrir’s. ‘When I was seven – and yes you are gonna to listen to this! – when I was seven my family was so poor but I was showin’ a lot of promise as a wizard and my Dad ’ad a plan that I could get some work at a circus. Kid-wizard or summink.’ Krish’s eyes flicked between her and the feather for a moment as she continued to speak. ‘So we journeyed to Ugethrid to get Old Margary’s ’elp, see if she would train me up…’ Her eyes were almost quivering but she would not let tears escape them. ‘We’d visited a few times. Just like lots of poorer families with wizard blood in them often do. Mum ’ad gone up there as a kid but ’ad flunked out of trainin’ to marry Dad. So we climbed there in the dead of winter… There was an avalanche. Mum got trapped under the snowfall. She was dyin’. We couldn’t get ’er out. I didn’t know the spell to ’elp. So I ran without a bloody scrap of food in my belly for a day and a night and a day and spoke to Old Margary. She taught me a spell to melt the snow. Dad ’ad just about kept Mum warm enough with a fire.’ The light surrounding the feather grew dimmer and dimmer. ‘I freed ’er with the spell Old Margary taught me but Dad banned me from practising magic from that moment onwards. Didn’t care that it was magic that ’ad saved Mum, just that it was magic that’d brought us there in the first place, and that hours… minutes later probably Mum would ’ave died… But I went back to Old Margary. On my own. Learned spells, curses, incantations, all sorts. Over and over again I did that bloody climb! I wanted to ’elp people. Save lives… Prove to somebody that I could do something… FOR WHAT?! For them not to care?!’ Krish could hardly make out the flame at all now. ‘For them just to get imprisoned and die?!… Tell me yer did this on yer own, Krish.’

  ‘No! Balthrir, you did! You did help! You did so much!’ Krish shouted out but Balthrir could see that his eyes were only on the feather, which had all but gone out.

  ‘No! Come on, Krishna!’ At this Krish looked up into her eyes. ‘Tell me I didn’t just risk my life for this bloody thing! For what? For yer Mum? So you could spend a bit more time with her? Boo-bloody-hoo! Wish I could spend time with mine! Tell me…’ Her eyes must have stung, for they never blinked and he swore they must be filled with tears but not a drop fell from them. ‘Tell me… that I mean something.’

  Her eyes were dark, a beautiful brown, and after looking into the Vulrein’s they were so bright and full of colour and so wonderfully familiar.

  ‘Balthrir… I don’t know anyone… I have no friends…’ He looked deep into her eyes. ‘I just have you and… and I don’t how I would have done any of this… any of this without you.’

  Krish and Balthrir looked into each other. For endless seconds they saw nothing else but each other’s eyes.

  And then Balthrir pulled a jar out of her robe and placed the feather inside. She waved her staff in a circle and a gentle breeze made its way into the jar and the flame grew a little stronger. She threw in a pinch of some red powder and then put on the lid.

  ‘There. Enough to keep it burning for some time.’ She looked up at Krish. ‘Were you scared?’

  ‘Not in the end. No.’

  Balthrir nodded. ‘Think that’s what it was. Said I didn’t know ’ow they was ’untin’ you. Fear. That’s what it was. I guess most people are pretty terrified right up till the end, but some, like you, kinda accept it.’

  ‘They had nothing more to hunt because… I wasn’t afr
aid any more?’

  Balthrir shrugged. ‘I guess.’

  ‘You saw it?’

  Balthrir nodded. ‘Yer must ’ave reached, like, the pinnacle of yer fear, and with so much to feed on it took some kinda physical form, summink everyone could see, got ready to chow down, and you… stopped being afraid. So it went. Nothin’ more for it to feed on.’

  ‘Balthrir… Thank you.’

  ‘Oh, shut up!’ She gave him a little smile. ‘Come on. We’d better get going.’

  The circle of fire had died down to practically nothing as they made their way warily into the dawn, but Krish couldn’t help feeling lighter and infinitely happier than ever before on his journey through Ilir.

  ⁂

  It’s worth noting that a thought arrived in Krish’s mind on this day. A thought that would sit neatly in his brain for some time. It was mainly ignored by all other thoughts floating around his psyche but it was there nonetheless. And it would be a long while before he chose to pay it any real attention. You won’t read any more about this particular thought in this book because the day he listened to that thought, which was hiding in clear sight, at the heart of his mind, would be the day that would define Krish for ever.

  CHAPTER 25

  MOONSTONE & GINGER

  The sun peeked over the horizon and the huge flat plain was filled with the lazy, pinkish-white sunlight of a hazy dawn. Two figures crossed the plain known as the Pale Hunting Grounds. But nobody was hunting today. Their pace was slow. They were weary but relaxed, contented. Without their even realising it the corners of their mouths remained slightly upturned throughout their conversations; as if simply being in each other’s company was reason enough to feel warm and happy inside.

  ‘When?’ asked the boy.

  ‘When that Goonmallinn disappeared behind that dune,’ answered the girl. ‘I told yer to keep yer eye on ’er, remember? I snuck round, conjured up another mask spell (better than the one I did on you for Nboosa, eh?) and was using a voice-thrower spell to make yer think I was still standing next to yer.’

  Krish suddenly remembered something else. ‘That’s why it looked like Halfa was talking to herself. But, I saw…’

  ‘Oh. Yeah. That was ’er. The other Goonmallinn. Tryin’ to find ’er way back to the others. Kept chuckin’ auds, kinda funny noise spells, ’er way, makin’ ’er think there was some beastie after ’er so she’d leg it.’

  Mersha and ullwihr (the spices Balthrir had used to keep the feather alight) had been Balthrir’s plan all along and she’d decided to keep it to herself and then make it sound like Halfa’s idea. They had wrapped the jar containing the feather in several layers of skins for protection, placing it in Krish’s pack, just on top of the pearl, so there was very little weight pressing down on it. All Krish wanted to do every time they stopped was to get out the jar and look at the still-flaming feather but Balthrir kept telling him off each time he reached for it.

  ‘You tried to have me killed!’ said Krish.

  ‘Nah, mate,’ said Balthrir. ‘They wanted yer dead there and then. That’s what they were whisperin’ about. Kill ’im, stew ’im. So I tried to get ’em to save yer till breakfast. For the Fire’awk. Set me own alarm to wake me in case I dropped off. Was gonna… oh I dunno. Knock ’em out while we dealt with the Fire’awk. Till someone decided summonin’ up the Vulrein was a better idea!’

  ‘I was terrified!’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I could have been killed, Balthrir!’

  ‘Nah. You were fine. Even cast a wind spell to get yer out from under that blinkin’ tent as it collapsed. I ’ad yer back.’

  ‘Even when you were asleep.’

  ‘Ah. Yeah, erm. I did actually drop off last night. That tea of theirs is stronger than yer think! And I was tryin’ not to ’ave that much of it! I mean, you were tied up! What was the worst that could ’appen? Well, yer certainly gave me a run for m’money on that one, didn’t yer? My alarm was set though. You would ’ave been fine.’

  ‘But all that talk of no one else helping! What if the King—’

  ‘Well, that’s your fault! There I was, planning to clear the way so yer could nab the feather—’

  ‘Well, if you hadn’t gone off in a huff and had actually told me what you were up to—’

  ‘All right, all right! We both got pretty narked off and did stupid things! Obsendei won’t know. At least I ’ope not.’

  Krish had noticed, now he thought about it, how often Halfa had looked over to him, just checking to see that he was still there. That he was still all right. Despite her tough exterior Balthrir clearly did care for him. And, he guessed, he cared for her. Yes. He supposed he really did care for her. Quite a bit actually.

  Krish retrieved the distress stone from his pocket. He’d found it in the ashes of the Goonmallinns’ tent. Fat lot of use it had been. Without wanting to prove Balthrir right about it being ‘rubbish’, he’d slipped it into his pocket.

  They had recovered the twine from the burnt-out tree and were now walking away from the Pale Hunting Grounds, the twine unravelling and disappearing from sight as they went. Balthrir still insisted no ‘mortal blade’ could cut through the twine but Krish was more worried about some donkey tripping over an invisible wire. Balthrir said it would serve it right for being a donkey, which didn’t make a lot of sense to Krish but he knew she just liked to say stupid things to amuse herself sometimes. He knew that she was really quite fond of donkeys and horses and mules and all kinds of animals.

  It seemed to Krish that they had almost completed their mission. They had a pearl from the Night Ocean, a still-flaming feather from a FireHawk, and now all they had to do was arrive back at the tree to which they’d tied the end of the ball of twine. Although Balthrir reminded him that they still had to walk almost halfway round the world before they could tie it in a pretty bow and lift the invisibility spell to show it to the King, this didn’t seem too daunting to Krish, who couldn’t imagine being able to walk around the whole of the Earth. Most of his world was ocean but Ilir had a single sea, which circled around the eastern hemisphere like an almighty wound cut into the landscape. Hence its name: The Scar.

  They were just a few days away from The Scar now and Krish could sense they were approaching water because the landscape became filled with patches of green and there was a cool sea breeze washing across the land. Dry cracked earth become softer and more soil-like. The road was lined with palmeries, ranks of palm trees running in parallel to each other, planted thousands of years ago by ancient farmers. The palms provided both shelter from the heat and a perfect environment to grow the small brown olive-like pehsa fruits. Children ran through the palmeries, playing while their parents laughed and encouraged them to return to picking the pehsas. They were all working but there was none of the backbreaking labour and starving expressions Krish had witnessed when he had first arrived in Ilir.

  The palmeries also made a cool shelter from the sun for them to rest in in the midday heat. They slept in the palmeries on more than one occasion. Krish loved being surrounded by people again. It was rather refreshing to be in the company of folk who were so down-to-earth and unthreatening after days in the company of the Goonmallinns.

  They reached The Scar after a week. Balthrir informed Krish that the western shores of The Scar were the start of the territories belonging to the city of Alvaris. This was the end of King Obsendei’s domain until they reached the farmlands of Melkur.

  The dock in the town of Marraghir was a flurry of activity. Market sellers bustled through the town, offering baskets of smoked fish or spiced insects. He could see children placing fish on the flat roofs of the houses, allowing them to dry out in the sun. He and Balthrir were hassled by people selling the best oars, the best rudders, the best hulls in town. Apparently nobody here sold boats that were already assembled. The population of Marraghir, without exception it appeared, were keen sailors, fishers and dredgers. Most houses had a boat outside or on the roof. A child ran out of h
er house wielding a cracked rudder and some coins, demanding to know who would replace it for twelve Shellas. She had an answer and a shiny new rudder within moments.

  The people wore simple robes with sandals or bare feet. A shop owner would often take your arm to try and drag you to their stall to sell you a net or a rowlock. This freaked Krish out a little at first as he was used to wandering around shops with Dawson and his mates, simply browsing, without anyone seizing your arm to show you what was on sale, but he began to get used to it and realised it was just how people worked in this town. They could be slightly pushy but on the whole they were friendly people who he guessed were just trying to make a living.

  The dock itself was little more than a long stretch of sand covered in beached dugouts and canoes with a single wooden wharf at one end on which was moored a raft the size of a football pitch. Attached to the raft was a length of rope leading to a winch about five times taller than any of the single-storey shacks that made up the small settlement. The winch was the centrepiece of the town and there were even statues of the workers who built the raft and winch protruding from the enormous supports holding up the drum. Krish could see that the rope, which was probably as thick as the neck of the red-faced man who worked at the meat counter at his local supermarket, stretched the whole way across The Scar, presumably to another winch on the other side.

  Although they’d spent the night in the palmery, they stopped off at a local inn and Balthrir paid to use their washrooms. For a little extra you could wash in hot water rather than cold. The innkeeper had three large cauldrons of water that were constantly full of water, which he heated and then poured into barrels in the washrooms. Krish and Balthrir had stopped off at a couple of inns on their long journey and bathed in the same way: a barrel of water in a simple stone-walled cubicle, usually with a handful of cracked tiles on the floor amongst the mud, undressing and using the small bucket floating in the barrel to bathe in chilly water from a river or that had been collected months ago when it last rained.