by Mark Bowsher
*
Outside, the gentle warmth of spring in the sun, still winter in the shade. The shadows, Krish swore, were gathering round.
As he climbed into his Dad’s car with Joshi – cold, tired and sadder than he’d ever felt – he had an odd sensation that he was being watched. There was something. Something near. A dark, terrible something that was nowhere to be seen and everywhere to be felt. Cold. Not on the outside. Cold under his skin. Like ice spreading slowly, soundlessly through his veins. As if his heart would stop dead; every artery, every capillary clogged with frosted blood. Silent terror infecting every corner of his body and—
There!
His head darted to one side. The large blue wheelie bin, overflowing with burger wrappers and carrier bags. There had been a cruel smile. Somewhere in the darkness a small patch of yellowy light had appeared. A crescent shape. Like mean, rancid teeth framed by unseen lips, cracking into a mocking grin. But that smile, that malevolent expression was not attached to any body he could see. It just hung there in the…
… shadow…
No. There was no shadow. He couldn’t have seen the shadow the smile hid within. Because it wasn’t there. He must have imagined it. There was no shadow.
CHAPTER 3
THE SHADOW TALKS
There was no house. No shop. No pub, no block of flats, no lamppost, no chimneys. Not a plane, not a bird, not a wisp of cloud in the sky. So what was it between the sun and the corner by the big, blue bin that had cast that shadow?
A blink and it had gone. The sky was clear, the sun was low. There was nowhere to hide. Where had it gone? That crouched patch of darkness. Crouched? Yes, it had been crouching. The thing that could not have been there.
Nobody said a word in the car on the way back from the hospital. He could see it in both his father’s and his sister’s expressions – they too had that image of his Mum looking so ill, so out of place in a hospital bed, burned into their minds. She just didn’t look right and they were all praying that they would get to see her anywhere else soon. Krish stared out of the window at the blur of the streets as they whizzed by, counting shadows.
*
Krish was experiencing guilt for feeling it but he was just so irritated that he’d missed hockey. He lived for hockey. He’d waited all week and now he’d missed it. He’d have to wait a whole week until he could play again! Was he a terrible person for becoming cross with his Mum for being ill and making him miss playing his favourite sport?
The irritation he felt at missing hockey managed to keep the other things floating around his mind at bay. For a time at least. He couldn’t have imagined it. The shadow. He couldn’t have. He had no imagination. Or at least that’s what his friends always said.
Most of his friends at school were geeks. He wasn’t the most confident of boys so he’d ended up hanging around with the quiet, nerdy kids like Jess, who was always found with her nose in a book. She didn’t understand the excitement, the rush you got from playing sports. And the people he knew who did understand the thrill of hockey were the players on his team, who only ever talked about TV shows (usually soaps he didn’t watch, with some ‘well fit’ girl in them). No wonder Krish was described by most teachers, aunts, uncles and everybody who knew him as ‘quiet’ and ‘shy’. He just didn’t know what to say to anybody and rarely had much to say anyway.
Krish was at that awkward age when he didn’t know what interested him in life outside of sports, and all his geeky mates cared about were stories. Stories of adventure, mainly. Stories of jungles and stories of deserts and oceans and of submarines and knights and dragons and spies and pirates and all sorts. Stories in films, on TV and in books. None of it was real; what was the point?
‘You just have no imagination!’ Jess would say, after going on about the latest chapter of the book she had been reading for the whole of morning break.
‘I do have an imagination!’ he’d reply, trying to imagine what an imagination actually was. ‘I just don’t care about some stupid wizard or something!’
‘She’s not a wizard! She’s-an-orphan-in-Vienna-living-in-the library-because-she-accidentally-burned-down-the-orphanage-when-she-tried-to-steal-a-candle-to-read-her-favourite-book-and-all-the-other-orphans-hate-her-for-burning-down-their-home-so-now-she-pretends-to-be-an-adult-because-also-they-always-bullied-her-for-looking-older-than-she-was-and-she’s-found-a-book-full-of-pictures-of-master-criminals-and-she’s-trying-to-stop-a-witch-from-stealing-it-because-they’re-the-only-pictures-of-these-particular-master-criminals-which-the-witch-is-going-to-use-to-bring-them-back-to-life-because-there’s-a-plot—’
‘God! Do your sentences ever end?’ said Krish at last.
‘No. But this book does. Which is a shame. Because I love it! You should read it.’
‘But you’re not an orphan! And you don’t live, like, whenever they had candles. And you don’t live in a library! You don’t even live in Venice.’
‘Vienna! Wouldn’t it be great to live in a library in Vienna?’
Krish sighed. Stories. Why should he care? Exciting things only ever happened to exciting people.
*
‘Well now!’ his Dad said that evening, clapping his hands together and forcing a big smile onto his face. ‘How about we just get takeaway, eh? Chinese! Better than my cooking, eh?’
‘Dad,’ chipped in Joshi, laughing along with their Dad, ‘you’d burn breakfast cereal! Aaah! Can I get lemon chicken?’
‘You know Mum’s still in the hospital?’ His Dad and Joshi turned to him.
‘There’s not much we can do right now, Krishna.’ His Dad’s tone was grave again.
‘Dad’s just trying to cheer us up, Krish!’ added Joshi.
Krish knew she was right but he just couldn’t stand it. He hated them acting as if nothing was going on and he hated thinking about what was happening to his Mum even more. He stormed out of the house. Unfortunately all the sad thoughts that had been infesting his brain for the last few hours came with him. And there was something else that accompanied him. Something he saw but did not want to see. A patch of dark. Nothing but a space where light should be.
⁂
Time.
That’s what his Mum had said in the hospital: You just never have enough time. Krish had always thought he did have plenty of time. Long Christmas and Easter breaks. Half-terms. Long summer afternoons playing football with his friends on the green by Dawson’s house after school, using their jumpers for goalposts. And the summer holidays themselves, which stretched on for six whole, glorious weeks.
Now all of a sudden he’d lost an hour, missed hockey and he had no idea whether his Mum had months, weeks or days left to live. He’d never thought she’d live for ever, but he hadn’t thought about her dying either. Not anytime soon, anyway. And he could just see the next week being full of school, trips to the hospital, Uncle Ravi and Aunt Nisha popping round every other day to see if they were all okay, Joshi telling him to concentrate on his homework to distract him and trying to talk to him about his subject choices for next year, and suddenly he saw his week getting swallowed up with no time to see his friends or play hockey, and what if he did make the wrong choices for his subjects and then he’d study the wrong thing at university as well and end up as an accountant in a flannel shirt with a Daffy Duck tie and his mind was going at a hundred miles an hour and why was he wasting time trying to match three fruit on some stupid game on his phone when he should be doing something, anything?
Krish threw his phone down. He was sitting on the ground in the alley between the old swimming pool and the long wall that led to the park full of rusty old swings and slides. He’d been sitting there for the best part of an hour, thinking over the events of the day, ignoring texts from his Dad and his sister saying that he’d better be back soon or the takeaway would beat him home. He wished so much that he could give his Mum more time somehow. He didn’t know what she’d do with it (go to lots of National Trust houses and read more books, he supposed), but s
he wasn’t an old woman; surely she was too young to run out of time right now. He needed more time so badly.
‘Oh, how happy those delicious words of yers makes I feel, little ’un!’
The words slithered out of nowhere. A croaky, oily voice that came from no lips he could see anywhere around him.
‘I… didn’t say anything…’ said Krish.
‘Time…time…Wish I had more time! Tha’s what yer said, didn’t yer, boy?’ That foul voice again. ‘Yer don’t need to open up those pretty lips of yers for what yer thinkin’ to be clear f’rall to hear, do yer?’
It was coming from the grubby grey-blue wall opposite. The bricks were covered in scratches, flecks of paint and scribbles upon scribbles of graffiti. There was a large patch of black. Like damp. Like… a shadow. Like the shadow. A huge, hunched creature staring over at him from the expanse of darkness on the wall. Its yellowy smile… those teeth. Ice began to spread through his veins once more.
Splodges of yellow spray paint were its cruel eyes, the scratches on the wall were marks on its bent-over body. The creature looked like it was entirely composed of jagged, burnt wood. Lumps of charcoal all glued together. It wore a long, tattered robe the same colour as its skin, slashed and stained, great tears all over it. Round its neck was a long chain of faded gold; a heavy-looking gold vessel encrusted with rubies hung from it, only just visible between the rips in its robe. The gold vessel was the only thing anywhere near clean on the creature’s person.
Those eyes chilled him to the bone, not least because this enormous creature seemed to know his every thought.
‘Yer want to know how yer can get more time?’ A feast of grim, rancid teeth, almost all of them broken or misshapen. They were either murky green, dirty yellow or black in colour. ‘I’ll tell yer a tale if yer wanna listen?’
Krish looked away from the hideous thing. It wasn’t there. It couldn’t be real.
‘I’s still here…’ came that oily voice after a moment or two, and suddenly Krish was aware that the creature was not a huge beast over by the wall but a much smaller being, crouching very close to him indeed. He shuddered and felt himself shift away from the disgusting thing before him. He could see all the grooves in its charcoal-like skin.
‘Don’t wanna talk to I?’ it said.
Krish stood and turned away from the creature.
‘No,’ he said, remaining calm because why shouldn’t he. He was in an alley, all alone apart from his tired mind.
‘Why don’t yer wanna talk to I?’ said the thing that was not there.
Krish stood there for a moment, unmoving, wondering how mad he must look talking out loud to himself.
‘Because I don’t talk to figments of my imagination,’ he said, accidentally glancing over his shoulder and catching a glimpse of the creature he didn’t believe was there.
‘If I’s a figment of yer imagination what’s the harm in talking to I?’
Krish watched his feet not moving. He had thought about time all day and he couldn’t deny that the idea of having more of it was tempting. But still… what was this thing? What business was it of this creature? He’d done it again. He’d glanced at it over his shoulder.
‘Maybe you’re a part of my imagination I don’t wanna talk to!’ Krish spat out.
‘Well if you’re talkin’ to yerself then I’s gonna talk to I-self too!’ It dragged towards itself an empty fruit box that had been left next to the bins and sat on top of it. ‘Hello, imagination! How is you today? I is fine, thank you very much for askin’, m’dear!’
How did it move that box? If it didn’t exist, how did that box… he had turned. He wasn’t glancing over his shoulder any more. He’d physically turned round to look at it, hardly able to hide his interest in this strange being. Why was he so fascinated by it? It was barely human; how could it exist? It wasn’t real, but there it was and he couldn’t take his eyes off it.
‘Yer wants to know, don’t yer…?’ it said, looking up at him with fierce old eyes and hungry lips.
‘No,’ Krish said. ‘I… I really don’t—’
It put a knobbly finger to its cracked, swollen lips. ‘Hush yer silly mouth! I hears yer mind doin’ the talkin’!’
It was in his mind. Crawling around, seeing, hearing, feeling his thoughts. He had never felt more trapped than in that moment, knowing that even if he left that horrid creature would still be there; prowling amongst his deepest, darkest thoughts. It knew he wanted to listen to every word it said. Besides, he knew you mustn’t judge anybody (or anything, for that matter) by their appearance.
‘Yer know that there’s a thing, a real thing that is time?’
‘What?!’
‘Time! Is a real thing!’
‘Well of course it’s real!’ Krish let out a little chuckle infused with sarcasm. ‘I mean, I get that time’s a thing! In clocks and stuff and—’
The creature shook his head. ‘No, no, no! Not just a thing yer knows. A thing yer can touch! Yer can feel! Yer can hold in yer hand!’
Krish couldn’t picture what this repulsive being was talking about.
‘A thing yer can own!’ it continued. ‘A thing out there to be found… Yer wants more time? Time for you? Time for yer precious mumma? It’s out there!’
Krish was struggling to hide his intrigue. He said nothing. He tried to maintain his stubborn expression and not allow the creature to detect just how interested he was becoming.
‘Yes… yeeesss! Time is real! Yer feels yer don’t have enough time? Well now yer knows it – there’s plenty more out there to be had!’
Krish shook his head. ‘This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever—’
‘Yer mind says somethin’ different to yer words, boy! Yer wants to know more! Time! It’s real and it has a name…’
Krish was listening.
‘Myrthali! The Sands of Time! The dust the ages leave in their wake!’
‘Oh, really!’ Krish gave sarcasm another go. ‘So it’s what? Like some kind of time energy bar thing?’
The creature laughed slowly, a true menace in its cackles.
‘Not bad, boy! Not bad! Myrthali truly is a substance. Believe I! Is a powder yer take. Boil a little up on a teaspoon with milk and liquorice and yer’ll be livin’ for another four years! And some’s got a lot more than a teaspoonful, I can tell yer…’
Krish shook his head. ‘That’s not true. Time isn’t some powder, some medicine! They would have mentioned it in science at school or something!’ He knew it was a stupid thing to say before he’d even finished saying it.
With a brief growl the creature stuck out its tongue and made a small gesture as if it was swatting a fly in front of its face. ‘Them teachers don’t know nuffin!’
‘They know that “I don’t know nothing” really means “I do know something”.’
‘Yes! And I knows somethin’! It is true time is not a medicine but it is a real thing. A real thing in short supply. Let me tell yer…’
Krish couldn’t lie, there was no point. He couldn’t say he didn’t want to hear because he did. So badly. So he listened to the creature’s tale.
CHAPTER 4
THE HARVEST OF TIME
This is the story the creature told and soon Krish, even with his distinct lack of imagination, would have good reason to believe that every word of it was true:
Somewhere out there, there were other worlds. Worlds full of people and animals and skies and rivers and mountains; full of hopes and fears, hates and desires, cities and streams and queens and kings and beasts and all sorts. Worlds just like ours but at the same time altogether different.
In one world was the city of Bahrtakrit. Bahrtakrit was at the edge of a mighty desert, halfway down a canyon, suspended by ropes and canvases tied to the opposing rock faces. The people lived simple contented lives in the warm sunshine until the reign of the Empress Benhu’in.
The Empress Benhu’in was a beautiful woman of silky smooth olive skin, with long cascading curls of
pitch-black hair reaching all the way down to her hips. But she was a cruel woman. She treated her children harshly, was unforgiving of any mistakes committed by her handmaids and was spiteful towards the pretty young noblewomen milling about her court.
The Empress feared nothing more than growing old and grey, so she forced all of the most skilled physicians and magicians of Bahrtakrit to come up with a solution to keep her looking youthful forevermore. And so they did. They coated a fragment of helmstone, a jewel of deepest purple, in crushed leaves from an evergreen tree that grew in the eastern valleys mixed together with the blood of a newborn child, and hung it above the Empress’s bed.
The helmstone channelled the youth of the people into the Empress. For 999 years babies were born old and shrivelled, their first hairs grey, and they stayed old and decrepit throughout their miserable lives while the Empress remained young and beautiful, the helmstone glowing over her bed of silken sheets. She saw all the gorgeous noblewomen she had once envied grow old and withered and die. Even her own children were now no more than dust. She cared not. She would outlive the stars themselves and be twice as beautiful.
But as the light of the sun ebbed over the land on the dawn of the first day of the thousandth year, the people of Bahrtakrit awoke to find themselves restored to their proper ages. No more children were born old and wrinkled. No one alive at that time had ever seen young skin before, except on the Empress Benhu’in, who now found she had a single grey hair among the black and one wrinkle on her soft olive skin.
With a furious scream she smashed her mirror and demanded that all others in the palace be destroyed as well. The physicians and magicians were locked in a room for nineteen days with nothing more than a hunk of stale bread and a goblet of sour wine (which the Empress had spat out in disgust at a banquet three nights before) until they found another solution.