Thorvald stood up straight, taking his knuckles off her desk. “I hardly think the school is the problem, Headmistress,” he said haughtily. “If you want to blame the instructors for the students’ bad behavior, you’ll have a significant morale problem. And I don’t need to tell you how difficult it is to find qualified instructors to teach here.”
Alamina frowned. He was right, of course. In her twenty years as headmistress, she had found recruiting instructors one of her most challenging tasks. Time Wielders, Dream Striders, Memory Masters and Shape Changers didn’t exactly grow on trees; Pathfinders even less so. And it wasn’t exactly practical to take out ads in a newspaper when you wanted to keep the true nature of your school a secret. As far as anyone on the “outside” knew, the Academy of the Lost Labyrinth was just an ordinary parochial school with the ordinary name “Ridley Institute.” That name was even inscribed on a sign at the front gate and over the academy entrance to keep up appearances. When it came to filling positions, she had to rely on word of mouth, and because almost all gifted individuals preferred to keep their talents hidden, networking wasn’t exactly a top priority.
She didn’t need a faculty morale problem, but she didn’t need a faculty revolt led by Mr. Thorvald, either.
She leaned forward, and Thorvald took an involuntary step back.
“I am most definitely not blaming the instructors,” she said. “But need I remind you that the first headmaster founded this academy precisely because he believed conventional forms of instruction were inadequate for students with exceptional gifts? I am not implying any shortcoming by the instructors, Mr. Thorvald, but I am also aware that we must continue to innovate, moving forward. And I need not remind you that I, myself, am a member of this faculty. As such, I have not only the right, but the responsibility, to pursue such innovations.” She paused. “I do hope you approve.” Her tone was more a dare than a declaration.
Thorvald frowned but nodded.
“Very well, then,” she said. “I think, perhaps, a field trip is in order. Since the three students in question are in my class on Practical Time Shifting, I will deal with them from here. In the meantime, they are excused from all other classes and will report to my office for detention after school today.”
“But...”
“Have I made myself clear?”
Thorvald contained a sigh. “You have, Headmistress.”
“Very well then. Go and carry out my instructions. And if you breathe a word of complaint about them to anyone else on the faculty, I will hear about it and will arrange for your termination. Is that clear?”
“It is.”
“Very well, then. Dismissed.”
Mr. Thorvald turned on one heel and exited the room even more swiftly, but with far less confidence, than he had when he had entered.
...
What Alamina hadn’t told Mr. Thorvald was that she had a connection to the three Romani boys that none of the newer teachers knew about: Their mother, Ethelinda, had been an instructor at the Academy when she’d first arrived, and they had formed a friendship as close as sisters. In fact, it had been Ethelinda who had bestowed the name Alamina on the headmistress.
Both of them were new at the time, and both had been separated from their families.
Like Alamina, Ethelinda was a Time Wielder. She had come to the Academy from the Black Forest in Germany, where her family had lived for generations, moving in a caravan from one place to another until they were driven out in the Nazi purges of the Second World War.
Unfortunately, her husband was captured before they could make their escape, and she never learned what had become of him.
Fortunately, she and her two sons avoided capture by the SS, the Nazi squadron charged with rounding up Jews, Romani, Slavs and others. She used her gift to jump forward in time half a century, landing in Yorkshire with her two very young sons. There, she came to the attention of the headmaster, who brought her to work at the school shortly before he disappeared. She was expecting her third child at the time, and gave birth to a son, Django, seven months after her arrival.
But she never forgot her beloved husband, searching every day for him with the help of a crystal ball that enabled her to see across great distances.
Alamina thought she would, in time, come to terms with their separation, but Ethelinda told her that theirs had been a deep and enduring love, and each day brought her no closer to reconciling herself to his fate. Eventually, she resolved to use her gift to jump back in time and go in search of him, so she could warn him against his impending capture. She seemed confident she would ultimately return to the present day, and asked Alamina to take care of her young boys until she could do so. Each of them, like her, was gifted, and would require a proper education—the kind that only the Academy could provide.
Alamina agreed, reluctantly, not wishing to see her go but reassuring herself that Ethelinda would certainly return to reunite with her children.
Except she never did.
She had left behind the crystal ball, along with a magical talisman called the Compass of the Seventh Kingdom, which had been in her family for as long as anyone could remember. According to Ethelinda, it could point the way toward any destination the holder held constant in her mind.
“Why not take the compass with you?” Alamina had asked her. “It could help you find your husband.”
But Ethelinda seemed sure that there was some greater purpose for the compass. Her father, she said, had entrusted it to her, saying it was meant for “the one who would put directions aright and weave the strands of time together as they ought to be.” Her father had known of Ethelinda’s gift, and had believed she was that person. But Ethelinda had never thought it so. She believed it was meant for Alamina—or that Alamina knew who that person might be. She wasn’t sure which, but she insisted that Alamina keep it safe and not part with it for any reason, until such time as its purpose became known.
Now, that time was close at hand.
Alamina opened the third drawer of the desk in her office and reached into a hidden compartment at the back, where the compass lay hidden. She removed it from the box in which it had been since Ethelinda gave it to her: a square red-and-gold container covered with intricate designs and adorned with precious gems. A few rays of bright sunlight streamed through her office window and glinted off the compass’ golden surface as she held it in her hands, running her fingers along its edges. The needle spun in circles, uncertain of which way it should direct her, just as she was uncertain about which way to go. She hoped the days ahead would provide clarity, because those days were dwindling in number. The time was nearly upon her to act—to correct the mistake she had made twenty years ago.
...
The three boys entered detention hall one after the other: Joey, followed by Vano, followed by Django. They went directly to three desks in the front row, which Alamina knew they had occupied on several occasions when she had monitored detention before. They were no strangers to detention hall. The only thing that seemed to surprise them on this particular day was the fact that they were the only ones there.
“What have we done now, Mama?” said Django. “None of our teachers said we were in trouble—this time.”
Alamina scowled at them from behind the teacher’s desk in front of the room. “You’ve been in enough trouble to sit in detention every day from now until you graduate,” she said. “And don’t call me ‘Mama.’”
“Sorry, Mama,” said Django.
Vano flashed a grin, which vanished when Alamina turned her gaze on him. She was, in fact, something of a surrogate mother to the three—even if she had kept this fact confidential among them—and she regretted that she hadn’t been able to instill in them the same kind of discipline that most other pupils developed voluntarily. It seemed ironic that she was so well liked by most of the Academy students, but that these three, who were most directly in her charge, were most likely to defy her.
She paused, thinking.
&nbs
p; “On second thought,” she said finally, “you can call me that. Or you will be able to start calling me that when we go on our field trip.”
Joey threw up both hands and let out a WHOOP! It was echoed by Vano.
“Field trip! Yay!” Django shouted.
Alamina frowned at them and slapped the palm of her hand on the desk in front of her, silencing the three.
“Field trips, as you know, are exercises in learning,” she said. “They are not an excuse to shirk your studies. You will be responsible for completing all your regular assignments, on time, even though you will have less time to do so. Do you understand?”
They all nodded.
“Now,” she continued, “this will be something more than a typical field trip. We will be entering the labyrinth.”
They all just sat there, looking at her.
“But, Mama,” Vano said finally, “the labyrinth hasn’t been seen in years. We’ve never even seen it at all.”
The others nodded in agreement. Alamina had to admit this could be a problem. She was relying on the legend that said the labyrinth appeared to a Pathfinder in times of great need. She was a Pathfinder, and she couldn’t imagine a much greater need than the one she faced now.
“Let me worry about that,” she said.
“Are we going to do a time jump?” Joey asked.
“No.”
“Then, what...?”
“I’ve decided you should have a lesson in your heritage. You were both very young when your mother left the Black Forest,” Alamina said, looking in turn at Vano and Joey. “And you,” she nodded toward Django, “weren’t even born yet. So, I thought it might be a good idea to take you back there for a visit.”
Joey shook his head. “Why not just buy us plane tickets?”
“Because that wouldn’t give you any idea of your culture,” Alamina said. “Besides,” she said, “I need your help with a special task.”
If she had gotten their attention by mentioning the labyrinth, this new piece of information really got them to sit up and take notice.
“We’re going to enter the labyrinth as a full Romani caravan,” she continued. “We’ll build our own wagons once we’re inside. And we’ll have to take a few of the other students and faculty with us, but you three will be key to the success of our task.” She turned her gaze on Django. “How are you doing in your theater class?”
“All A’s, Mama,” he beamed.
“Good.” Any other time, she would have taken him to task for the C’s and D’s he was getting in his other mundane courses; under the circumstances, though, his acting ability was all that mattered. Her eyes darted from Django to Vano to Joey and back again. “You will all have to play your roles perfectly,” she admonished them. “No one can know who we really are, or why we’re there.”
Joey looked back at her, an unspoken question in his eyes.
Vano gave it voice: “Why?”
Alamina glared at them, letting her disapproving eyes fall on each in turn. “This is why you need to study, gentlemen,” she said. “I know each of you has taken Advanced Temporal Management...”
They nodded.
“...and read the textbook of the same title.”
“Kind of,” Vano said.
“That’s the problem,” she said. Reaching into a desk drawer and producing a copy of the text in question, she stood, moved around to the front of the desk and deposited it directly in front of Vano. “The kind of task we are about to undertake requires a thorough and detailed knowledge of temporal management.”
“But you said we weren’t going to time jump,” Django protested.
“If you’d read even the introduction to this book, you would know that the principles of temporal management apply to the present day,” she said. “Our present is someone else’s future, and another person’s past.”
In this case, she said to herself, mine.
“Can anyone tell me the sixth principle of temporal management?”
Vano raised his hand. “Time does not exist, except as a measurement of reality.”
Alamina rolled her eyes. “No, Vano. That is the first principle. I can see how far you got in our textbook.”
The other two laughed.
“I take it you know, then, Joey,” she said, turning suddenly to him.
“The River of Time flows in two directions at once?” he tried, hopefully.
“That’s true,” she mused, “but it’s not even covered in this text!”
This was taking far too long. If she insisted that they keep on guessing, they might be here all afternoon. “The sixth principle of time management is the principle of discretion,” she said, answering her own question. She picked up the book, opened it to the third chapter, and read: “Discretion is necessary whenever one attempts to manipulate time. If you are discovered seeking to alter the course of human or natural events, you will not only fail, you will put yourself and any accomplices at risk.”
Django smiled a devilish smile. “So, we are to be your accomplices, Mama?”
Alamina slammed the book shut and dropped it with a loud THWACK! on the desk in front of Django.
Then she stared in dismay as the book flickered and faded, turning briefly translucent before regaining its fully solid form. It was the same thing that had happened to the headmaster before he disappeared those many years ago, and it had happened again, every so often, since then. Mostly, it had been affected little things: a pencil, a notebook, things nobody would notice unless they were looking for them. Once, a desk had gone missing, but everyone just assumed one of the custodians had misplaced it. Everyone, that is, except Alamina.
Recently, more and more items had been “misplaced,” and even one of the students turned up missing. She was discovered, safe and sound, back at home with her parents. But she had no memory of ever having been at the Academy at all. When two instructors visited her parents’ home and asked her why she had left campus, she called them crazy. She said she’d never even heard of the place, and her parents said she’d been going to the local public school all along.
This was getting serious. If Alamina did not act, she realized, everything about the Academy might disappear and revert to what it had been before. It would no longer be the Academy of the Lost Labyrinth; it would, once more, be merely Ridley Manor.
“Whoa!” said Django.
He and his brothers had seen it, too, but she didn’t have time to explain it to them. The time was too short and the stakes were too high.
“This is not a game, gentlemen. It is not a written exam. We are going into the labyrinth! If we fail in our purpose, the chances are high—overwhelmingly so—that we might become lost inside it. I’ve been there. I nearly got lost inside myself. I do not want that to happen to you.”
Then, under her breath to herself, she said, “I promised your mother I would care for you.”
It was time, she knew, to show them the Compass of the Seventh Kingdom. She pulled it out of a pouch that had been hanging at her belt and held it in front of her for them to see. “This belonged to your mother,” she said, as they leaned in for a closer look. “It will help us find the person we’re looking for. He’s a little boy named Alexander, and he holds the key to saving our school. And the world.”
She would need the crystal ball, as well. She made a mental note to pack it for the journey ahead—and hoped the journey would be possible. She turned away from the three boys and strode over to the window, trying to appear confident. In fact, however, she was terrified. She was scared it wouldn’t be there, and if it wasn’t, she didn’t know what she would do.
She closed her eyes as she pulled back the shades that blocked the window, then opened them, apprehensive.
She didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath when she exhaled a sigh of deep relief.
There, below, she saw something she hadn’t seen in twenty years.
The labyrinth was back.
...
Chapter Three
> Corn and Ivy
The scarecrow seemed to cast a shadow against the sky. There was a full moon, but the rest of the cloudless veil was blacker than it should have been.
Halloween was almost over.
The scruffy old man in the rickety ticket booth called out half-heartedly, “Fifteen minutes till closing.”
The boy with the tousled dark brown hair was the only one there to hear him.
His given name (the boy’s, that is) was Alex, which was short for Alexander, after the great conqueror, the long-ago king of Macedonia.
The boy was there by himself at the entrance to the corn maze on the outskirts of Moravia, Iowa, the entrance to which was guarded by the silent scarecrow. It didn’t seem to bother the scruffy old man in the rickety ticket booth didn’t that Alex was there by himself. An orphan, who had lived with half a dozen foster families, he was only in his current home because his guardians needed the government stipend that came with him. They didn’t much care about where he spent his time, as long as they got their check. So he had come here, to the maze, alone.
But he had paid to be there, using most of his allowance, and that was what mattered to the man in the ticket booth.
The corn maze had been open for a month, and it wouldn’t be open past tonight. Unfortunately, the old man—who owned the place—had yet earn back the money he’d put into it, because the weekend rain had kept too many customers away. He was on his hands and knees now, like a bloodhound with a saggy, weepy belly, hunting for spare coins that might have fallen through the booth’s wooden slats onto the muddy-puddly ground underneath.
He muttered something: “Last time. No more.”
Then he glanced at the boy again. He was not going to look for the child if he got lost. It was none of his concern. “Better get started,” he called out. “Fourteen minutes.”
The boy stared up at the nameless scarecrow, which seemed to stare back at him, though this was, of course, impossible. The paint that had been used to create its mouth ran down its chin, where the earlier rains had carried it. One of its eyes, which had previously been potatoes, had sprouted roots that clawed blindly at the night. The other had gone missing altogether, as someone had removed it.
The Talismans of Time (Academy of the Lost Labyrinth Book 1) Page 2