Gideon 02 -The Time Thief

by Linda Buckley-Archer

  “Let’s get under cover!” shouted Mr. Schock.

  “No!” screamed Kate. “Isn’t that the last thing you should do in a thunderstorm?”

  But her cries were drowned in the wind and the rain and the thunder and the clatter of hooves and the groaning of the old coach. Little by little, Peter managed to get the horses under control and they ground to a halt at the entrance to a long avenue of chestnut trees, easily a hundred years old. They scrambled out of the carriage.

  “Further in Master Pe—Mr. Joshua!” said Hannah. “Look, the ground is scarcely wet beneath the trees. Mistress Kate is soaked as it is—I don’t want her to catch a chill on top of everything else….”

  “You were going to say Peter!” cried Kate in astonishment. “Weren’t you!”

  Peter glared at Hannah as she stared back at Kate, round-eyed, and began to mouth a reply. But before she could utter a word, there was a deafening explosion, not fifty yards from them, as lightning struck one of the chestnut trees. The ground shuddered beneath their feet and hundreds of terrified birds flew up into the teeming rain, squawking and cawing. For a moment the party clung on to each other and a bitter smell of scorched bark met their nostrils. They had to raise their hands protectively over their heads as they were pelted by a shower of twigs and leaves falling down from the sky. Then, in quick succession, they heard a terrible creaking and saw the crown of the tree slide sickeningly sideways.

  “Oh no!” cried Kate.

  The rest of the party looked where Kate was pointing: A man and a woman, dwarfed by the giant tree, were darting out from under its broad boughs toward them. There had been people sheltering under that very tree! There was nothing they could do to help them. Kate watched, aghast, as the ancient horse chestnut started to fall. The two small figures ran the race of their lives.

  “Faster! Faster!” shouted Kate, quite beside herself.

  Steam was now rising from the boiling sap and a plume of dirty white smoke rose into the air. They could discern a few bright orange flames where the lightning had struck the trunk, but these were rapidly being extinguished. There were small hissing sounds as raindrops instantly evaporated in the intense heat. The woman slowed down momentarily in order to look behind her, but when she saw the towering structure about to crush her she froze like a rabbit in front of headlights.

  “Don’t stop!” cried Kate and then, “Joshua! No!”

  With a burst of adrenalin Peter had sprinted forward toward the woman. He reached out for her nearest hand and pulled with all his might but almost immediately lost his grip on account of the rain. They both rolled over and over, and as half the tree hit the ground with a shuddering crash, the two of them were covered with a tangle of foliage and gnarled branches the size of a small ship. All around them hand-shaped leaves were fluttering down and there was the soft pitter-pattering of prickly, semiripe chestnuts landing on the gravel avenue. The man had managed to reach safety and now stood, along with Kate, Hannah, and Mr. Schock, in front of the settling debris. In that fraction of a second, Kate felt a flash of recognition; she had seen the man somewhere before…. Immediately everyone sprang into action and dived into the foliage, shouting and pulling frantically at branches where they had last seen Joshua and the woman.

  “Marie!”

  “Joshua! Make a sound if you can hear us!”

  The rescuers were making so much noise themselves they were drowning out any potential replies. Mr. Schock suddenly stood up and put a finger to his lips.

  “Sssh! I heard something.”

  Everyone followed suit and stood up, ears straining to focus in on anything that could indicate movement. There was a faint rustling sound and a tanned, work-worn hand emerged from the canopy of leaves.

  “Au secours!” came a faint, high-pitched voice, pleading for help.

  “Marie!” shouted her companion in response.

  He dived in and reappeared with the woman, supporting her under her shoulders. The woman’s hair and dress were strewn with leaves and small twigs and her face was scratched and smeared with mud. She also had a black eye. Clutching on to the man’s arm, the woman staggered out of the foliage. Kate saw her feel around her neck for a silver crucifix which she held for a moment in her hand, then she sank to her knees in thanks, making the sign of the cross as she did so.

  “Joshua!” called Mr. Schock. “Can you hear me?”

  There was no reply.

  Kate dropped to the floor and started to crawl under the branches, constantly hindered by her skirts that snagged and tore as she pushed her way through to where she had seen him vanish.

  “He’s here!” she called. “Help me!”

  Mr. Schock dived in behind Kate and pulled away armfuls of foliage until Peter was partly visible. He was pinned down by a branch the width of a man’s arm which straddled his waist. Had he been a hand’s breath further to his left he would have been crushed by the main trunk. As it was, he did not appear to be moving. He was lying on his stomach, spread-eagled on the ground as if he had been hit with a gigantic flyswatter.

  “Joshua!” cried Kate. Oh, he mustn’t be dead! He had still been angry with her! What if he were Peter?

  So slow as to be almost imperceptible, Peter raised his head. His eyes met Kate’s.

  “Ouch!” he said with a flicker of a smile, and let his head sink back to the floor.

  “Can you move your legs?” cried Mr. Schock.

  “I do not know…. Yes.”

  “And your arms?”

  They could see both his hands forming into a fist.

  “I am winded, that is all, as far as I can tell….”

  “Thank the Lord for that!” exclaimed Mr. Schock.

  “But something is stabbing into me….”

  Another deafening thunderclap boomed overhead as Mr. Schock struggled, vainly, to break off the branch that covered Peter. He suddenly found himself being pulled away by the Frenchman, who pushed in front of him brandishing a wood axe that glinted in the greenish gloom. He chopped away at the branch, pulling it upward as he did so in order to cause Peter the least amount of pain. He had soon cut it through. Mr. Schock tugged at the severed branch and then, with the Frenchman’s help, slid it off Peter, pulling it out from under other branches. They needed to walk backward for several yards before the tip of the branch was clear of him. Peter struggled to his feet unaided, his face contorted in pain. Kate immediately saw the problem and rushed forward to help him. He had landed on a cluster of chestnuts in their prickly green cases and they had pierced through his cotton shirt and were sticking into the flesh of his waist like so many baby hedgehogs.

  “Argh!” He winced as Kate plucked them off one by one.

  “You seem to be making a habit of saving damsels in distress!” Mr. Schock said to Joshua as he brushed leaves off the back of his jacket. “That’s two in as many days!”

  “You showed great courage, sir,” said Hannah. “Mr. Gideon would have been proud.”

  Kate nodded in agreement and smiled broadly at him, hoping that he would understand that she wanted to put yesterday behind her.

  While Hannah examined Peter and the woman, as best she could, and pronounced them both to have got away with nothing worse than cuts and bruises, Kate observed the two strangers. It was then that Kate realized where she had seen the man before. It was on account of him that Louis-Philippe had hidden in the doorway! She remembered his name, too: Sorel. Hannah heard Kate’s sharp intake of breath and glanced up at her. Kate shook her head discreetly as if to say “not now.”

  Sorel’s wife had kind eyes and a somewhat fearful, doelike demeanor. She was still young but, like everyone they had met in the countryside that day, painfully thin and hollow-cheeked. It transpired that her black eye was not, in fact, a result of her encounter with the chestnut tree, though she would not say how the injury came about. Despite the fact that the storm was still raging and that his wife was visibly shaken, the man was anxious to set off again. He took his leave of them in a hal
fhearted, unfriendly manner, but judging from the suspicious sideways glance he gave her, Kate was convinced that he recognized her from the previous day. Sorel stood looking into the distance, his chin jutting in the air, while Marie thanked the English ladies and gentlemen. When she made a curtsy of sorts, the gesture appeared to provoke his disapproval. Husband and wife marched swiftly away through the torrential rain, the husband walking three yards in front of his wife. The damp and disheveled party watched them from under the cover of the trees on the assumption that lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same place. The storm was beginning to abate, but it was far from over.

  “Mr. Schock, sir, might it be an idea to ask for directions?” suggested Hannah.

  “It’s a good job someone’s got their wits about them! Thank you, Hannah!”

  Mr. Schock hurried after the couple. “Monsieur! Madame! S’il vous plaît! Nous cherchons le Château de l’Humiaire!”

  The pair turned around, raindrops streaming down their faces, and Marie looked puzzled for a moment, then gave a short reply and pointed at something through a gap in the trees.

  “She says we’re already there!” said Mr. Schock, and they all rushed forward to see what she was pointing at.

  It became clear that the avenue of chestnut trees was nothing other than the château’s long and sweeping front drive.

  “Oh, it’s beautiful!” Kate exclaimed.

  The Château de l’Humiaire resembled a compact medieval castle, built of a mellow-colored stone, complete with two circular towers with pointed roofs and a moat. Formal gardens radiated out from it and a flock of sheep grazed on the lawns. The château had a benign and welcoming air, even in this weather.

  “ ’Tis no wonder the Marquis is reluctant to leave,” commented Peter. “Rarely have I seen a happier prospect than this view of his property.”

  As the group stood admiring the château, a fiery spear of forked lightning burst through the dark, dense clouds and struck the roof of the nearest tower like a guided missile. It was accompanied by a curious electric sound, somewhere between a prolonged hiss and a crackle. The crack of thunder which it engendered resounded, like a detonation, for miles around. Kate gasped and waited for flames to appear or for the roof of the tower to cave in—but nothing happened. By some miracle the château appeared to have sustained no damage whatsoever. Suddenly Marie started to laugh delightedly. Kate looked at Marie’s face, all aglow. She gabbled something to Mr. Schock, but in the middle of a sentence Sorel interrupted her and pulled her away. With a curt good-bye they set off again.

  “What is his problem?” asked Kate as the couple strode away. “I’d better tell you that Louis-Philippe knows that man. I saw him yesterday. He’s a Revolutionary.”

  “Him and millions of others!” exclaimed Mr. Schock. “We are in the middle of the French Revolution! And, speaking personally, I’d be hard pressed to say whether I was for or against it.”

  “And he did try and help me …,” said Peter.

  “But it was him who was following the maid!” said Kate. “Oh … Never mind—but I don’t trust him.”

  “What did his wife say?” asked Hannah.

  “She said that the Marquis has been out in every storm for the last three years, waiting to test out his lightning conductor, and now he has the proof that it works! Her husband warned us that the Marquis is stark, staring mad. And if you look over there, you’ll see the alleged lunatic himself, or, as Sorel referred to him, Citizen Montfaron, formerly le Marquis de Montfaron. Can you see? There, on the front lawn.”

  Mr. Schock pointed. There, in the distance, only just visible and surrounded by sheep, a tall, thin man in a white shirt appeared to be dancing a jig in front of the château in the pouring rain.

  “The time has come, my friends,” said Peter, “for us to introduce ourselves to the man we hope will find a solution to all our problems.”

  TWENTY

  LE MARQUIS DE MONTFARON

  In which the party finds itself on the receiving end of the Marquis de Montfaron’s hospitality, Kate’s grip on time is diminished, and Mr. Schock predicts the future

  The storm departed as quickly as it had arrived. The wind dropped and the heavy rain became a fine drizzle. Tiny cracks of blue appeared in the sky and the birds started to sing again. Then a chink of sunshine appeared just long enough for a rainbow to form over the Château de l’Humiaire.

  “Bless me, there’s a good omen and no mistake,” said Hannah, whose sodden clothes, heavy with water, were, like everyone else’s, beginning to steam gently.

  The party left the horses to graze beneath the dripping trees and they walked down the gravel road that curved around in a graceful sweep. Soon the avenue broadened out into a forecourt which was scattered with lead sculptures of wood nymphs and satyrs set onto square limestone plinths. They walked slowly for Peter’s sake, as he had not yet recovered from his encounter with the tree. As they approached the gardens, which had appeared so pristine from afar, they began to notice signs of neglect.

  “I doubt that Mrs. Montfaron would be too impressed if she could see this,” said Mr. Schock.

  “I wonder if Louis-Philippe has arrived yet,” said Kate.

  While the sheep kept down the grass on the vast lawns, weeds were growing up through the gravel paths and the forecourt was peppered with ruts and deep, muddy puddles. Many of the statues were frost-damaged, and ferns grew out of cracks in the masonry. Specimens of box, which once upon a time had been meticulously pruned into pyramids and spheres and positioned to highlight the geometrical design of the gardens, were now growing out of control. Bright new foliage escaped, chaotically, from the form that had imprisoned it. Ornamental fruit trees lined the paths, and many crab apple, plum, and pear trees had shed their harvests on the ground. As a consequence there were circles of rotting fruit everywhere they trod. Mr. Schock stepped on a moldy, liquefying pear and skidded onto the grass where he landed in a pile of sheep droppings.

  “Don’t say a word,” he said when he saw Kate’s face. He wiped himself down. “What wouldn’t I give for a nice, hot shower….”

  The idea of a hot shower puzzled Hannah, who found it difficult to imagine such a thing, but she thought it best not to comment as Mr. Schock was apt to be a little abrupt.

  They stopped of one accord when they arrived at the drawbridge, uneasy about crossing it. It spanned a small moat, bright emerald in color on account of all the algae. Small white ducks swam in it, tracing black patterns through the solid surface. Everyone’s instincts told them to beware breaching the château’s defence without prior permission from its owner.

  Kate looked up and saw a mass of rampant ivy. It scrambled up the walls and penetrated the interior of the château through broken windows.

  “It’s like the castle in Sleeping Beauty,” said Kate in a whisper.

  It was then that she heard it.

  “Oh, listen!” she cried. “Come on!”

  Kate led the way over the slimy ancient planks of the drawbridge into an inner quadrangle. A bedraggled peacock strutted around, and half a dozen speckled hens, alarmed by the strangers’ appearance, darted about po-o-o-ck-pock-pock-pocking indignantly. In front of them, heavy carved doors were thrown wide open, and exquisite music drifted out into the quadrangle.

  They stole up to the threshold and peeped in. Kate looked around her in wonder. She saw a great galleried hall with a flagstone floor. Light streamed in through windows high above them. The room was so large it appeared misty as the eye traveled to its furthest edges. A mountain of furniture, silver and porcelain, partially covered in dust sheets, dominated the hall. All the furniture and valuables in the château had obviously been stacked up, here in this one place, guarded by the lone figure who sat at a harpsichord in the center of the room, his back arched over the instrument, his hands moving with precision over the black and white keys.

  A modest wood fire smoked in the center of the giant hearth, and in front of it Kate saw a table and chair, bo
th piled high with books and papers. Dirty plates and goblets and jugs were balanced precariously on heaps of letters tied with ribbon. Above the Marquis de Montfaron’s head hung a beautiful crystal chandelier which was, without any doubt, the twin of the one the party had seen in Golden Square.

  Streams of tinkling notes cascaded from the Marquis de Montfaron’s nimble fingers. The music sent shivers down Kate’s spine and put tears in Hannah’s eyes. It was sad and uplifting at the same time.

  “It’s beautiful!” said Kate.

  But the sound of her voice broke the spell and the elegant figure at the harpsichord wheeled around, white shirt glowing in the gloom. His startled dark eyes beheld an uninvited audience. Before the party could understand what was happening, his arm shot up and he tugged at a cord dangling from the ceiling.

  All at once, their vision was filled with yellow. A soft, buttercup yellow. Floating down on top of their heads came yards and yards of silk. It enveloped them. It was as if a tent had collapsed on them, and they all thrashed around, flaying their arms about in an effort to get to the edge of the material.

  “Heaven preserve us!” shouted Hannah.

  “Run! It’s a trap!” cried Peter, but the end of the word was transformed into a cry as what felt like red-hot wires landed on their heads and shoulders. Everyone shook violently and fell to the ground….

  Kate was walking through an alien landscape. Past, present, and future were one. She must always have been here. Walking, walking. The only human soul left alive. Not a blade of grass. The carcasses of trees reached up their bony arms to a desolate sky. The stench of corpses. Great muddy pits gashed into once-fertile earth. She could scarcely breathe; the acrid air burned her throat. She was searching for something or someone but she could no longer remember what or who….