by Brett Lee
‘Dear Toby, so much to learn. I’ve tried to ensure that you know only what you need to with regard to our Wisden time travel. So much information for one so young is an unnecessary burden.’
‘The Cricket Lord, Jim…’ Ally leaned forward. ‘Is he the guy who’s going to help me?’
‘He most certainly is, Ally.’ Jim paused, leaning his head back. His eyes were closed. ‘Let me explain. On the morning of every Ashes Test match played at Lord’s and at the Melbourne Cricket Ground, a new Cricket Lord is appointed, voted in by the previous Lords. This happens every two years.’
Suddenly things clicked into place. ‘You were a Cricket Lord, weren’t you, Jim?’ I said.
He opened his eyes and looked at me. ‘Yes, Toby, I was a Cricket Lord.’
‘So that’s why you can stay away for longer than two hours?’ I asked.
Jim nodded.
‘Are you still a Cricket Lord?’ Ally asked.
‘No. Your tenure lasts two years. Although sometimes longer if there are no suitable candidates, or if for some reason a Test match isn’t scheduled at either of the venues.’
Someone coughed behind us. I spun round quickly.
An old man doddered forward and took Jim’s hand. ‘Jim Oldfield, it has been a while. And who have we here, eh?’
‘Marcus,’ Jim said. ‘It’s very good to see you. Marcus Fleming, this is Toby Jones and his friend Ally McCabe.’
‘Delighted to meet you, I’m sure,’ the old man said. ‘Shall I take up the story, Jim? Alas, it’s not all good news.’
‘I feared as much.’ Jim turned to face Ally and me. ‘Toby, you’re caught up in this as much as we are, I’m afraid. It’s time you knew everything.’
Jim’s voice was very serious and a shiver went through me. I wasn’t sure I liked the idea of being caught up in whatever he was talking about. I had a feeling this was way more important than Phillip Smale and the stolen scorecard.
‘You can be frank with them, Marcus,’ Jim said.
Marcus Fleming looked at us both carefully. He seemed almost sad.
‘As Jim was saying, a Cricket Lord was appointed every two years,’ he began.
‘Was?’ I interrupted.
Marcus nodded. ‘Was. After the fiasco of 1971 here in Melbourne, the practice was stopped. No more Cricket Lords were appointed.’ Marcus looked at Jim. ‘But I’m afraid Malchev has escaped and, even as I speak, is attempting to eliminate all the Cricket Lords.’
‘Malchev,’ I repeated, remembering the name. The pale figure who’d scared Smale into releasing me from his trap. Jim had wondered what Malchev’s motive was for helping me. Perhaps we were about to find out.
Ally stifled a yawn then looked embarrassed. Marcus clicked his tongue.
‘Poor girl. We should attend to her first, then I’ll explain everything fully.’ He led us to a wooden door at the back of the library. I hadn’t noticed it before. Jim saw my frown.
‘This is one room that not even David knows about,’ he said, and smiled. ‘There were shelves in front of it in our library.’
Marcus held up a Wisden in front of a small glass plate on the right side of the door. There was a click and the door opened slightly.
‘Any Wisden will work,’ Jim whispered to me. ‘Except the modern ones with the player pictures on the front covers.’
‘Does Phillip Smale know about this room?’ I asked, trying to get a glimpse inside.
‘I certainly hope not,’ Jim said.
Ally was in front of me, and gasped as she entered the room. I edged past her. My first thought was that we’d just travelled again—maybe not in time, but certainly to a different place.
‘The Sanctum,’ Marcus said, ushering us in.
I had only stepped a few paces inside but the door closing behind me sounded distant. I spun round, and to my amazement saw that the door was ten, maybe fifteen metres away.
‘A remarkable room isn’t it,’ Marcus said, his voice soft. ‘There was only one other like it. At Lord’s. But not any more.’
I stared around in wonder. The walls were lined with old, half-burnt cricket stumps, a gold plaque beneath each one. A dull glow from the far wall cast an eerie gloom and the lanterns around the room made our shadows flicker on the walls.
‘What do you mean?’ Jim said.
‘The Lord’s Sanctum has been destroyed by Malchev.’
Jim froze and I felt the heavy weight of his hand on my shoulder. ‘Lord’s?’ he whispered.
‘I am afraid so,’ Marcus said.
I barely heard Marcus’s words. We had reached the other end of the room and I was gaping at the wall lined with Wisden covers, each inside its own glass case. Some of them were glowing.
‘Travellers,’ Marcus said, pointing to one of the glowing covers. ‘See how brightly the 1967 Wisden shines? That’s because it’s being used by two parties at the moment: you and me.’
A faint humming noise came from above. As we watched, one of the glowing Wisdens dulled, like a spotlight slowly fading. In a moment its cover was back in shadow.
‘Does that mean someone’s just returned from a travel?’ I whispered, amazed at this incredible wall of Wisdens.
‘Indeed,’ Marcus said. ‘If any of these Wisdens glows, we know there is a traveller using that edition to travel back in time. The brighter it glows, the more travellers are using it.’
I gazed around the chamber. Apart from the stumps and plaques near where we’d entered, and the Wisdens in their glass tombs, there was nothing except a rough-looking bed with a small bedside table. On the table stood a large candle.
‘Is this place real?’ I gasped. It was almost like a cave.
‘Oh yes, real enough,’ muttered Marcus. ‘The Sanctum is the home of the Cricket Lord. He has special powers that enable him to be away from here for days on end, roaming the world, watching cricket matches in whatever time he pleases, and as often—’
‘Marcus!’ Jim called sharply. ‘1967. Look!’
The humming noise from above increased slightly as the book glowed brighter.
‘Three travellers to this Test match,’ Marcus muttered. ‘I don’t like it. Malchev might already be aware of us. Come.’
He walked back towards the entrance, but not before I’d seen the worried look he gave Jim. Something big was about to happen. Maybe something bad.
‘What are the stumps for?’ I asked.
‘You’re about to find out,’ said Jim.
We stopped in front of one of the stumps, which leaned out from the wall at a 45-degree angle. The top half looked normal enough—although the wood was a darker brown than the pale colour I was used to—but the bottom section was burnt black and charred. I looked at the gold plaque beneath it and read the inscription aloud:
‘Jim Oldfield. Cricket Lord, Melbourne—1950.’
‘What’s going on?’ Ally asked.
‘I will explain it all fully later,’ Jim said, looking at Ally and me, ‘For the moment all you need to know is that this stump represents me as a Cricket Lord. These stumps are crafted from the very wood that was used to make Father Time—the famous weather vane at Lord’s—and are the essence of what it means to be a Cricket Lord. The wood holds magical properties that none of us is fully aware of, but when part of the stump is burned and the smoke inhaled—’
Marcus coughed. ‘Jim, we may not have much time.’
It all sounded crazy to me.
Jim smiled. ‘It’s all in the ashes, Toby. The ashes from the stumps here.’
‘The Ashes?’ I said, staring wide-eyed at the stump Marcus was now holding.
‘Not the Ashes, no. But the concept is not dissimilar.’
I knew the story about how the burnt remains of a bail from a game between England and Australia—which Australia had won—had been deposited in an urn and then used as the trophy Australia and England played for. That was why Test matches between the two countries were called Ashes Tests. Holding the Ashes was the most important pri
ze in world cricket; except maybe the World Cup.
Ally and I watched as Marcus held the charred end of the stump over the flame in one of the lanterns. The smell of burning wood filled the air. It was sweet and rich.
‘Ally.’ Marcus motioned her closer. ‘I want you to shut your eyes and very gently breathe in the smoke that drifts over to you, is that clear?’
Ally nodded. Jim took my arm and we moved back a few paces. Marcus swung the lantern gently backwards and forwards, causing the smoke to drift towards Ally. I watched her carefully as the dark smoke wafted over her.
‘That’s very good,’ Marcus said in a soothing voice. ‘Keep your eyes closed.’ Then he glanced at Jim, a look of anguish on his face.
Jim lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. ‘Keep going, Marcus,’ he said. ‘We may not be able to return here again.’
As I watched, Jim’s face turned an ashy grey colour and his mouth began to twitch.
‘Jim, what’s happening?’ I cried, frightened by his sudden change. I saw Marcus look desperately from Jim to Ally. Why was he looking so frightened? Ally, her eyes still closed, seemed blissfully unaware of the events going on around her.
‘Jim…’ Marcus said tentatively.
‘Keep going.’ Jim was struggling to talk.
After one more swing Marcus slid a panel in the lantern closed and it stopped smoking. He smothered the burning end of the stump in a cloth he’d pulled out of his pocket, then rushed over to Jim.
‘Go to Ally,’ he told me. ‘Talk to her.’
Flecks of spit had formed around Jim’s mouth and his breathing was raspy. His chest rose in short, quick bursts. Whatever Marcus had done to Ally had in turn hurt Jim.
‘What’s wrong with him?’ I yelled.
‘Guys?’ Ally said.
I turned around. She looked browner, healthier all of a sudden.
‘Is that it?’ she asked. ‘Am I fixed?’
‘You’re on the road to recovery, certainly,’ Marcus said, then turned back to Jim.
‘Is that all it took?’ she said, staring at me. ‘Just a bit of smoke from some old stump, and now I’m okay?’
‘Shut up, Ally,’ I snapped. ‘What about Jim? Look what you’ve done to him.’
‘What do you mean what I’ve done to him? What’s wrong—’
‘Shhhh, both of you,’ Marcus ordered. ‘Listen to me. That was not “some old stump”; that was the stump that gave your friend Jim here the power to be a Cricket Lord. And it’s helped Ally like no medicine could.’ Marcus sounded angry now. ‘You have no idea—’
‘Marcus.’ Jim’s voice sounding tired. ‘Don’t.’
‘Don’t what?’ I said, looking at Marcus.
Marcus shook his head. ‘It’s time for you to take Ally home,’ he said.
‘But what’s happened to Jim? Will he be okay?’
Ally’s bounciness had quickly disappeared. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise what was going on.’
Jim’s mouth moved gently, as if he was trying to say something, but his eyes remained closed.
Instantly I realised why Jim had been working on his strength over the past months. He’d known all along what was going to happen, that the only way for Ally to get her strength back was for him to give it to her—from himself via the stump. As Ally got stronger, Jim got weaker. There was no risk or worry for me at all—it was Jim who was in danger with this trip. And he hadn’t told me.
‘I fear Jim should have taken more time to build up his power,’ Marcus said softly. He glanced at Ally. ‘How do you feel?’
‘Totally fine. Like I’ve just woken up from the longest sleep of my life and now I want to make up for a wasted half-year.’
Jim opened his eyes. He looked dazed; as though he wasn’t quite all there.
‘Well, in a sense that is exactly what’s happened,’ Marcus said. ‘But remember this. For the gain you have made, someone else has lost.’
‘Marcus, that will be enough,’ Jim said, his voice hoarse. He nodded to me and gently clasped my hand in his. He looked so old, his face lined and drawn. ‘Now, what of this Malchev fellow?’ he said slowly.
‘Ah, yes. Hugo Malchev.’ Marcus was trying to sound cheerful. ‘Surprisingly voted in as Cricket Lord for the period 1970 to 1972. But the Melbourne Test that year, the fourth of the series, was washed out. Not a ball was bowled. However, the toss was made and teams of twelve selected.’
I wasn’t sure where all this was heading. Marcus saw my confused look and explained.
‘After a new Cricket Lord is appointed on the morning of a Test, he must remain here in the Sanctum, powerless until the first ball of the game is delivered. Sometimes there are rain delays, but he can do nothing but wait. However, in this particular game that first ball was never delivered.’
‘So what happened?’ Ally asked, back to her usual alert self.
‘Poor Malchev was cocooned here as though in a tomb. He had nowhere to go, and no food or water. Most importantly, he had no power.’
‘But why didn’t you all come back and help him?’ I asked.
‘Because our powers had also ceased,’ Marcus said. ‘For that period of time, from the appointment to that first ball being bowled, we were all powerless.’
‘What’s it got to do with power?’ Ally said. ‘You just walk through the door there and grab the guy. Or bring him some water or something.’
Marcus shook his head. ‘What door?’ he said softly. He walked back to Jim’s plaque and returned the stump to its holder on the wall. Its burnt section was now bigger than those of the other stumps.
‘The door over there!’ Ally said, pointing.
‘And have you ever seen that door before?’ Marcus said, turning to me.
‘Well, no,’ I answered. ‘But that’s because there’s always been a bookshelf there.’
‘There is no door there, Toby,’ Jim said.
‘Then how did we get in here?’ Ally asked, frowning.
‘Marcus and I are Cricket Lords. We know where to show the image of a Wisden front cover in order to create the door. No one else does.’
We were all silent a moment. Jimbo and the MCG cricket camp seemed a million miles away, and yet here I was at the MCG.
‘But if you were all powerless because there wasn’t a ball bowled in the Test match, then how come you have your powers now?’ I asked.
Marcus grimaced. ‘That, my lad, is because Malchev did get out. He managed to escape and travel back in time for the sixth Test match, also played in Melbourne. He must have got himself some supplies and waited here in the Sanctum for the first ball of that Test match to be bowled.’
‘And it did get bowled?’ Ally asked.
Marcus nodded.
‘And no one except the Cricket Lords knows about that door over there,’ Ally said.
‘No one.’ Jim closed his eyes again. Even two words seemed an enormous strain for him.
‘So the person knocking on the door right now must be a Cricket Lord then,’ Ally said quietly.
We all froze. I hadn’t heard any knocking.
‘Knocking? Are you sure?’ Marcus asked, looking queerly at Ally.
‘Maybe it’s the power from the smoke,’ I said. ‘Maybe Ally’s hearing is better than ours now.’
A moment later, we all heard a loud thumping on the door.
‘Malchev!’ Marcus hissed.
‘I told you there’d be danger,’ Jim sighed, sitting up and reaching an arm out for me.
‘Ally and Toby—go, both of you. I’ll deal with this,’ Marcus cried.
There was a crashing sound and suddenly the door flew open.
‘Toby, c’mon!’ Ally screamed, shaking me. I couldn’t take my eyes from the white figure speeding towards us. ‘It’s him,’ I gasped. ‘It’s—’
‘Toby, now!’ Marcus roared. ‘The poem!’
‘But what about Jim?’ I wailed, barely noticing Ally’s hand squeezing mine, her fingernails digging into the palm of my hand.
Jim let go of my arm and, with one enormous effort, rolled away from me and off the other side of the bed.
‘Go,’ I heard him say. ‘Now!’
I closed my eyes and spoke the lines aloud:
Whisper clear date, place or score
While staring, smitten; then before…
There was a screaming sound as we left the Sanctum. For a moment I thought it was Ally, whose grip had slackened. But when I opened my eyes she was still with me.
‘Everything okay?’ a voice called from the door.
I looked up to see Jimbo munching on a chocolate doughnut and grinning. Georgie rushed past him.
‘Ally, are you okay? Did it work? What happened?’
Ally nodded. ‘I do feel better, definitely. Yeah, I think it’s worked.’
‘Well, that’s great,’ Georgie said, clapping her hands. ‘So everything’s okay?’
‘Couldn’t be better,’ I said, standing up. ‘We’ve just left Jim with a maniac who’s about to kill him.’
‘What?’ Georgie gasped.
I told them briefly what had happened. David entered just as I was finishing.
‘I have something for you, Toby,’ he said, passing me a note. ‘It’s from Jim.’
My dear boy,
Whatever you do, you must not follow me back to the Sanctum. On no account are you to attempt to rescue me. Trust in me, Toby, as I trusted in you to help mend Ally. All will be well, I promise.
Jim
When Chris Gayle scored 117 runs for West Indies out of a total of 6/205 he achieved an unusual record in international Twenty/20 cricket. His innings was the highest percentage of an innings total. In this game he scored 57.07% of his team’s total score.
9
Twenty/20
Wednesday—morning
‘You want the good news or the bad?’ Jimbo said as we walked into the Hugh Trumble Café for breakfast the following morning.
‘You’re going to give me both anyway, aren’t you?’ I said, yawning. I grabbed a bowl of fresh fruit, a packet of cereal and a couple of slices of toast and placed them on the tray.
Jimbo stared at my stacked tray, trying to stifle a yawn himself. We’d talked till way past midnight, and I don’t think I’d slept many of the remaining hours. ‘I guess time travel makes you hungry,’ he said, and grinned.
