Tempus Fugitive

by Nicola Rhodes

  ‘Tell me about it,’ she agreed. ‘I can sense when magic is being used, usually, but that means, we won’t know where it is, until after someone has used it. And we’ll still have to search.’

  ‘I think we should both be in disguise,’ he said.

  *

  Tamar decided to leave a note. The next morning, William was to read, in some bemusement, the following copperplate production:-

  Dear Mr. Tracey.

  I must apologise for taking my leave of you in so abrupt a manner. No doubt you will think it strange, but I am as you will now realise, an educated woman and not a kitchen maid and I have, moreover friends and family who await me. I am sorry for not revealing this to you, there are reasons but it is not my secret to reveal. Many thanks for your service to me and for looking after my cat also, a small thing you may think, but you may believe me when I say, it meant a great deal to me.

  If there shall ever come a time when my debt can be repaid, you can look to me to honour it, and in this I pledge my word.

  Think not too hardly of me

  Your Servant

  Sally Evans.

  * * *

  Tamar and Denny returned to the town under cover of darkness, and began their search. But they found no sign, anywhere, that anyone had been using magic of any kind.

  ‘Doesn’t mean anything,’ said Tamar. ‘I mean, how long was it before you learned to use it?’

  ‘Not long,’ he replied. ‘But then, I was in the middle of nowhere with no food, no water, no way home, and being chased by vampires. If I’d been safe and sound at home, I might never have worked it out. Whoever’s got it, probably just stuck it in a drawer somewhere.’

  ‘They’ll probably try to sell it, in that case. Its solid silver, it’d probably fetch enough to feed a family for a year in these parts.’

  ‘They’d have to be careful, though, it might look to some people like stolen goods – which I suppose it is.’

  ‘Good point. So, some kind of Black Market?’

  ‘Did they have those, in those – I mean these – days?’ asked Denny, surprised.

  ‘Of course, smuggling, especially round here, was – is, the main criminal activity. How do you think they got rid of all that stuff, waved a magic wand?’

  ‘So, are you saying that my Athame could end up in the hands of some pirate?’

  ‘Good idea, let’s go down to the cove.’

  ‘What idea? What cove?’ But Tamar was off.

  * * *

  Denny caught up with her in a rocky inlet. ‘What are we doing here?’

  ‘Smugglers,’ she told him, enigmatically as far as he was concerned. But he was used to her clipped explanations. Usually, though, they were backed up with a certain amount of access to her thoughts, but for some reason she was shutting him out.

  ‘What do you mean – smugglers? Don’t be so cryptic.’

  ‘These are smugglers caves. See over there? That’s where they light the signal fires.’ She pointed to a jut in the cliff face, which was still smouldering. ‘What you said, about pirates – I just think whoever’s got the Athame, will probably try to sell it here, where the smugglers trade. Who else would want a fine silver knife with a dodgy provenance? Well, who else who could afford it? Smugglers and pirates, that’s who. So I thought, maybe whoever’s got it might bring it here, to trade.’

  Denny was doubtful. ‘Hmm, bit of a long shot.’

  ‘Makes sense, trust me, Besides – look, if they don’t come tonight, they probably won’t come at all. Anyway, this is our only chance to find out. If nobody comes with it, then we’ll have to try something else.’

  ‘But there’s nobody here.’

  ‘Wait.’

  * * *

  It was almost dawn before anything happened. Tamar shook Denny awake; she had let him sleep for a while. Since he had lost the Athame, his human weaknesses, such as needing to sleep and eat, had returned – the sleepiness might also have been a residual trait of his “cattiness”.

  He resented this thraldom to his body, missed the freedom of not needing sleep and food to survive. How had he ever survived 25 whole years like that?

  In the half-light, he could just make out around five shadowy figures stealthily approaching the cave.

  ‘Pirates?’ he whispered.

  ‘Or smugglers, what’s the difference?’ She glanced at his excited face. ‘You know, you should forget whatever you read about smugglers in story books, these men are brutal thugs, killers, the gangland criminals of their day. Don’t think that drug-dealers are a modern invention, these guys were up to it a long time before this.’

  Denny gulped. ‘That’s encouraging,’ he said. ‘So, if one of these guys should get hold of the Athame …?’

  ‘Badness would ensure, on a massive scale.’

  ‘Gulp.’

  ‘Shhh now, I want to listen.’

  Another man had appeared from over a rise, hobbling with a staff and bowed down, he gave the impression of being an elderly man. He had the Athame; Denny could sense it. He nudged Tamar and nodded, she nodded back.

  They could not hear what the old man replied when one ruffian demanded in a loud voice. ‘What do you want old man?’ But they both saw the glint of the blade, and the ensuing conversation, which took place sotto voce, was not hard to imagine.

  After only a few minutes, the big ruffian took his own knife from his belt, stabbed the old man, and took the Athame out of his hand. Three of them carried the old man’s body to the sea and threw him in.

  ‘Damn!’ said Tamar. ‘I didn’t see that coming, I should have prevented it. He must have insulted them.’

  ‘What could you have done, without, you know, giving away the fact that you’re you know – special?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Can’t you just, freeze time again, and get it back?’ Denny was frantic by now, he wanted his prize. It was so close.

  ‘Um, well, no I can’t. You see, time is already frozen where we left it, I can’t do it again in another time; it won’t work.’

  ‘Oh hell, I forgot. So what are we going to do?’

  ‘Get captured.’

  ‘What kind of a plan is that?’

  ‘It’s not.’

  The smugglers or pirates or whatever they were, were advancing on them. They had been seen – again.

  ‘We’re really bad at this covert stuff,’ observed Denny.

  * * *

  They were hustled aboard a tiny boat and rowed out to sea, where the ship was waiting.

  The pirates were uproariously delighted with their capture; laughing and drinking and making sinister remarks about the fate that awaited their captives once they were handed over to the Captain.

  ‘Can’t you just grab it and we’ll get out of here? We could jump overboard.’

  Tamar ignored this, no more risks, he would just have to wait, ‘Who is your Captain?’ she asked them.

  ‘Aha,’ smirked one, ‘Have you ever heard of the Dread Pirate Hogarth?’

  Tamar choked.

  Denny looked curiously at her. ‘Dread Pirate Hogarth?’ he said, ‘Sounds like something you’d come up with.’

  ‘You know me too well,’ she managed through gritted teeth.

  ‘What’s the matter? Do you know this guy? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’ She was silent for a moment, thoughtful. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘there’s a chance that you’ll recognise this Captain, just promise me something – don’t react.’

  ‘That I’ll recognise him? How’s that? Oh is it – him? Have we found him? Do you know something?’

  ‘Something,’ she said, cagily. ‘Shhh, now.’ The pirates were giving them funny looks.’

  * * *

  They were hustled on board and prodded forward with the ends of the pirates’ swords; the other pirates crowded forward to get a look at them, most were drunk, and all were leering and spitting on the deck.

  ‘Tremble before the
Dread Pirate Hogarth!’ They were told as they were forced to their knees. ‘Scourge of the seven seas, terror of the Barbary Coast, on your knees dogs!’

  The Dread Pirate Hogarth was indeed an imposing figure, tall and dashing, flamboyantly dressed, and, strangely enough, masked. He stood, hands on hips like a pantomime villain

  ‘Any minute now,’ thought Denny, ‘he’ll slap his thigh and break into a song about the high seas.’

  Naturally, this did not happen. Captain Hogarth looked the prisoners over; he took a long, intense look at Denny, and then said. ‘Take them to my cabin.’ As he spoke, Denny felt a strange quiver, a feeling of familiarity. They were manhandled into the cabin; Tamar was strangely silent and restless. The cabin was lavish, in the way that only magic can create, as Denny realised.

  ‘Who is this guy?’ he asked. ‘Why should I know him? What …?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘It was a long time ago. I just have this feeling. Now shut up.’

  Denny recognised that tone; he shut up, just as the Captain entered the cabin. He held up the Athame. ‘Now, do I take it that this fine dagger belongs to one of you?’

  ‘It’s mine,’ said Denny, before Tamar could stop him.

  ‘Yours is it? How peculiar, you are not a Demon. You’re much too sweet.’ He laughed at Denny’s stunned face. ‘Yes I know what this is.’ He took Denny’s chin in a silk gloved hand. ‘But who are you?’ he said, stroking Denny’s face and hair, almost seductively. ‘You’re pretty! I think I might keep you.’

  Not again! Denny was silent.

  ‘You think that an impertinent question from a man in a mask?’ He said. ‘Very well, you shall see my face.’ He took the mask off, in a dramatic gesture. Denny’s reaction was all that the Captain could have hoped for; he gasped in amazement. Then he looked at Tamar. ‘You devil,’ he said.

  * * *

  ‘We aren’t keeping him here,’ said Stiles, referring to the preist. ‘Won’t that just make things worse anyway?’

  Hecaté shrugged helplessly. ‘What else is there to do?’ she asked. ‘If we can work out how to …’

  ‘How to what?’

  ‘How to insert this man back into history without affecting the timeline,’ she said firmly.

  Stiles groaned. It’s always something, isn’t it?’

  ‘How are we supposed to keep him here anyway?’ he added. ‘Won’t he just vanish like the other one?’

  ‘Ah, of course,’ said Hecaté as a light dawned on her. ‘When Tamar and Denny exit the file’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘This is obviously where he has come from,’ she said. ‘The file our friends are currently searching – he has been moved out of the way to make room for them. Temporal displacement.’

  ‘Okay, so … how were you planning on keeping him here then?’

  ‘By the strength of my will of course,’ she said as if this should have been obvious. ‘I am a goddess you know.’

  Stiles did not like this plan for reasons he could not quite put his finger on. But surely messing about with the files any more than necessary was a bad idea – things were bad enough as they were. However, she was right; she was a goddess and ought to know better than he did about these matters.

  Hecaté saw his face. ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘we also have a job to do here.’

  ‘And what about him?’

  ‘He seems happy enough,’ she said. ‘We must not neglect Tamar and Denny because of this interruption.’

  ‘Interruption?’ Stiles sighed. ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘In trouble,’ said Hecaté shortly.

  ‘Par for the course,’ said Stiles dryly. ‘Do they need help?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Hecaté. ‘In fact, I am not at all sure what they are doing, I just know that they have been in this region of history for far too long now if they have not found the monster.’

  ‘Maybe they have.’

  ‘No, he is not here, I see no signs’

  Stiles sighed. ‘You know this could take months – so to speak.’

  ‘Years,’ she corrected him.

  ‘Cripes, have we got enough food?’

  Hecaté smiled.

  ‘You know, there’s something funny about all this,’ said Stiles – the perennially suspicious. ‘I mean, why would Askphrit miss? Miss Denny’s granddad I mean. It’s almost as if …’ he trailed off.

  ‘As if what?’

  ‘Nothing, it doesn’t matter. There’s nothing we can do about it now anyway.’

  * * *

  ‘It was during one of my periods of freedom,’ explained Tamar, ‘I was bored; I just wanted to know what it would be like.’

  ‘So, you took up piracy for a lark?’

  ‘What are you two talking about?’ asked the “other” Tamar, the one dressed up as Captain Hook.

  Tamar (our Tamar) and Denny looked at each other and shrugged. Tamar put on her usual face. The other Tamar gasped. ‘By Allah that’s my face! – Take it off at once, you don’t know who you’re dealing with.’

  Tamar said. ‘I think I do,’ and the other peered at her, then stepped back in shock. She had seen it.

  She sat down, as if she was winded. ‘How is this possible?’ she managed, eventually.

  ‘You know better than that,’ said Tamar. ‘You know we can’t tell you, you of all people understand, and especially since it deals with your own future.’

  Yes, I understand,’ she glanced at Denny. ‘Who’s he?’ she whispered. ‘He’s – well he’s very um –.’

  ‘He is, isn’t he?’ Tamar smiled. ‘He’s – no I can’t tell you, just try to forget you ever saw him.’

  ‘I don’t think I can.’

  ‘Try, it’s important.’

  ‘You could wish for it.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  There was a loud banging on the cabin door. ‘Go away!’ snapped Captain Tamar, angrily.

  ‘But Captain …’

  ‘Oh for god’s sake!’ she rose and wrenched open the door. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Spaniards Captain.’

  ‘Oh hell!’ She turned to her guests; at least I know I’ll survive it.’

  ‘Of course you will,’ said Tamar. ‘You are immortal.’

  ‘Oh yes of course I am. Well here’s your Athame, you’d better get going.’ As she handed it over, she took hold of Denny’s hand and would not let go.

  ‘Um,’

  ‘Oh let him go,’ said Tamar. ‘You can’t keep him, not yet.’

  Captain Tamar let go of him reluctantly. ‘I suppose so,’ she let her gaze linger on him, longingly. ‘See you soon?’ she asked hopefully.

  ‘Stop fishing,’ said Tamar. ‘Close file.’

  The cabin vanished and they were back in the file room, the last thing they heard was ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘I just didn’t have the heart to tell her that she’s about to be captured by the Spaniards and end up back in the bottle again,’ said Tamar.

  ~ Chapter Five ~

  It was a bright, sunny day, which made a pleasant change. They were quite obviously in a small town or suburb in the mid to late twentieth century. The streets were quiet, and there were few cars about. The street they stood on was mostly taken up by a large comprehensive school. And it was evidently late afternoon, probably midweek.

  With few people or vehicles as clues, it was surprising how difficult it was to judge the decade. Houses and streets changed so little in reality. Not at all how science fiction writers once foresaw the march of progress. There was a red telephone box on the corner. This only meant that it could be any time between the fifties and the eighties. Denny narrowed it down further when he spotted a turquoise mini parked in a driveway. It had to be the sixties or later he said. Even the few people they could see afforded little in the way of data. Fashions in the twentieth century changed far less than those same science fiction writers could ever have conceived. As Denny pointed out. ‘Have you ever seen anybody wearing a tinfoil jumpsuit, in real life?’ />
  And Tamar, doyenne of style, agreed that the girl in the miniskirt could be from either the late sixties, early seventies or any time after the early eighties. Or she could just be from the mid-seventies and be behind the fashion; it was impossible to tell. An elderly lady in a headscarf could as easily be from the forties or last week.

  If they could only see into the inside of the houses, they might have a better idea, technology being a far better guide than the people themselves.

  I do not undertake to explain their fascination with this conundrum, except to say that it is possible that it would strike anyone else in the same way, were they to find themselves in this position. In every other file they had entered they had found it relatively easy to identify the time period within a few years. Only the modern world, it seemed, was so uniform and unchanging. Denny and Tamar felt quite determined to find out when they were before they left. It was strange when you think about it. Here, they had no reason to hang around, nobody had seen them (and it would probably not have mattered much if they had) Tamar could not sense Askphrit, and nothing peculiar was going on, and yet they did not want to leave.

  ‘I reckon it’s the ’eighties,’ said Denny.

  ‘’Sixties,’ countered Tamar. ‘It’s so quiet; that’s because, all the men are at work and the women are at home. They didn’t have two car families in the sixties; that’s why most of the driveways are empty.’

  ‘In the ’eighties the women would be at work too,’ argued Denny. ‘That’s why they aren’t out in the street talking or gardening or whatever.’

  ‘Could even be the nineties then,’ mused Tamar, ‘by that reckoning.’

  ‘No,’ said Denny, positively. ‘They didn’t have those red telephone boxes by that time, they’d all gone.’

  ‘You do notice some funny things,’ observed Tamar. ‘Let’s look at the sign on outside the school, see what year it was built; that might narrow it down a bit.’

  They wandered over. The sign read Mill Lane Comprehensive. Built 1968. This then was inconclusive.

  ‘Well, we can’t ask anyone,’ said Tamar. ‘Not unless we want to be taken for wandering lunatics.’