The 1,000 year old Boy

by Ross Welford

  Without waiting for a response, he pushed open the hall door and went out. I followed him as Mr Springham said to me, ‘Go and check he’s all right.’

  He wasn’t all right. Nowhere near all right.

  Nothing could have prepared me for what I learnt in the school hall that day.

  I had been struggling to hear the archaeologist over the constant fidgeting and murmuring. I understand why people might not be interested, really I do. But the poor woman was being ignored.

  I suppose I did not help with my interjection about the Battle of Towton. I wanted to tell her, ‘I saw it with my own eyes! Field after field of unburied corpses and bloodstained snow, memories that come back to me in dreams even now …’

  But of course I could not, and I stopped myself.

  Then she showed the picture of Cockett Island (now called Coquet, rhyming with ‘poke-it’, though I have no idea why) and I felt a lurch deep inside me, a quickening of my heart.

  In the twenty-first century, nowhere is secret. Coquet Island is a bird sanctuary, Dr Heinz had said, and people cannot normally go there in case they disturb the puffins and other seabirds.

  But now more people will be visiting, and digging and excavating.

  Somebody may find the skeleton of Old Paul, and they will say things like ‘… believed to be a man in his seventies … bone samples sent for DNA testing … possibly a farmer …’

  And I will be shouting, ‘No! It is Old Paul, the prior! He was like a father to me! He was eighty-two, which then was like a hundred and twenty now!’

  It was not, however, the skeleton that concerned me most.

  Buried deep in the dry cave was the only possibility that I might ever escape from the prison of my deathless life.

  I can imagine the reports on the wireless: ‘A mysterious artefact of glass … appears to have been buried on purpose … radiocarbon dating … expert analysts …’

  By the time Aidan came out to check I was all right, I was shaking and sweating, but I knew what I must do. I pushed my way through the crowd of students as they came out.

  ‘Alfie! What the heck?’ called Aidan but he did not follow me.

  The archaeologist was still there at the front, packing up her trowel and things, and her little computer.

  ‘Dr Heinz! I must ask you something!’

  She looked up, surprised, and smiled. ‘Ach, hallo, young man. Our Battle of Towton expert, I see.’ She was being friendly, which I was glad about.

  ‘Yes, but your excavation of Cockett Island. When does it start?’ I sounded too eager, too desperate, but I could not help it.

  ‘Vell, let me see,’ she said, taking out a mobile telephone and tapping it a couple of times. ‘Ze main dig is not due to start for anozzer month or so, although I have been on site already, setting up some initial—’

  ‘Yes, yes, what about the cave?’

  ‘Goodness me, young man! Aren’t you ensusiastic? It is so nice to meet someone vith a keen interest in archaeological pursuits. I remember—’

  ‘What about the cave?’ I was being rude, I could tell, but I was panicking. ‘I mean, that is … what are you looking for?’

  Dr Heinz stopped her packing and came round to sit on the edge of the table. She pushed her glasses up her nose and leant in close. She looked at me so intensely that I felt myself shrinking back.

  ‘Zere is a legend. Zere are references to it all over Europe, although it is werry little explored. A legend of a race of people who were immortal. Zey were known by different names. Over-death is one: they had “overcome death”, do you see?’

  I nodded. My mouth was dry, my heart hammering.

  ‘Some say zis legend gave rise to ze stories of vampires: nocturnal beings who never died. Zere are at least two references to a place called Karparty, meaning the Carpathian Mountains in Romania; zat, of course, is where the story of Count Dracula arose. Oh, I’m sorry: you look scared!’

  ‘No, no – go on!’

  ‘Anyhow there is a mention in an ancient document by a medieval Northumbrian Bishop, Walter. It is in ze British Museum now, but my interpretation is zat zere may be artefacts associated with ze legend buried or hidden on Coquet. Perhaps it was a semi-religious cult. Bishop Walter was unclear. Or perhaps …’ And here she paused and winked at me, ‘Perhaps it vas all true! What do you sink, young man?’

  I was speechless. Literally speechless. I managed to stammer, ‘Th-thank you,’ and walked in a dreamlike state out of the hall into the sunshine, where I shaded my eyes until my glasses had adjusted their darkness.

  A month, she had said. That was long enough to work something out, I told myself.

  How wrong could I have been?

  I saw him that night.

  In front of Earl Grey House, across the seafront road, are benches overlooking the bay, and he was there: Jasper.

  It was late, about 10pm, and quite dark. The street lamp cast a little pool of light that nearly reached the benches, and he sat, hunched over, occasionally casting a glance at my window.

  Well, it seemed like that, but he cannot have known which was my room, and my blinds were closed so he could not see me. I was scared, though, and there was nothing I could do about it.

  I could, I suppose, tell Aidan. ‘Aidan, your Uncle Jasper is stalking me.’ I did not think that would be well received.

  I could tell Aunty Reet, or Sangeeta. ‘There is a man on a bench outside.’

  It is hardly a crime, is it, sitting on a bench in the evening?

  I kept looking, keeping my light off, carefully opening my blinds. Once I saw him get up and cross the road and I thought he was coming to knock on the door, but he did not. Instead he walked down the street and got into his car and drove away.

  I felt sick. I hardly slept. But at least it answered one question. I knew now that I was not imagining it. Jasper was watching me, following me.

  Sometimes knowing the worst can be a relief.

  Alfie was acting weird. All that stuff during the archaeology talk? If he was trying to keep a low profile, he was going about it the wrong way. I would have to tell him.

  As for me, when I got home, my heart did this little dance when I saw Aunty Alice and Jasper’s car parked outside our house.

  I’m always happy to see Aunty Alice, quite apart from the fact that she nearly always brings her home-made flapjacks. I’m less happy to see Jasper, especially after the strange boat trip.

  As soon as I walked in the door, though, I could sense something was wrong. Aunty Alice was sitting in the kitchen, and gave me a hug as usual and, as usual, she smelt of laundry and Juicy Fruit chewing gum, but her eyes were red and she tried to turn her head so that I wouldn’t see.

  I hate thinking about grown-up people crying. It doesn’t seem right.

  Mum ushered me out of the kitchen before I’d even got my jacket off. In the hallway, she said: ‘You need to go next door for your tea.’

  ‘To Roxy’s? But her mum …’

  ‘Her mum’s OK. Libby’s already there. It’s your Aunty Alice, she’s …’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I was really worried.

  ‘It’s Jasper. He’s kicked her out.’

  ‘Kicked her out? You mean, like … she’s moved out of their house?’

  ‘Well, yes … but not by choice. He changed the locks on the doors and told her he no longer wanted to live with her.’

  I was stunned by this. ‘But … but they’re married.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. For the time being, your Aunty Alice is going to be with us. Right now, though, we need a little time alone so you have to go next door. Mrs Minto’s expecting you.’

  When I came in, Precious Minto was standing at the cooker, frying fish fingers and singing a hymn under her breath in her wobbly falsetto. We ate more or less in silence, our conversation not stretching far beyond, ‘Pass the ketchup, please.’

  Roxy, Libby and I did the washing-up while her mum went for a rest. Roxy explained that her mum was ‘in remis
sion’ which is when an illness goes away temporarily, but it isn’t a cure.

  ‘It does mean she sings more, though,’ she added with a comic eye-roll.

  We hadn’t talked about Aunty Alice and Jasper but now we did.

  ‘I hate him,’ said Libby. For once, I didn’t feel like reminding her what Mum says whenever we say the word hate: ‘It’s a strong word that can scar your heart.’

  She said, ‘He swore at me. He told me to something off, you little something.’ (Libby can be quite prudish at times. She would never repeat a swear word, even in front of me. Especially in front of me, come to think of it.)

  Jasper had said that to Libby? Roxy and I exchanged glances. ‘When? When did that happen?’ I asked her. She was doing her annoying thing of restacking the dishwasher, that I had already loaded, into an arrangement more to her liking. You wouldn’t think she was only seven.

  She looked up, apparently surprised at the question.

  ‘That day when I came back from Brownie camp. The day I found the boy …’

  ‘Alfie.’

  ‘Yeah, well, everyone was in the kitchen, all those people, and Jasper wasn’t.’

  I had forgotten that, probably because I hadn’t thought it was important, but, now that she mentioned it, I suppose it was unusual not to want to know what was going on.

  ‘Aunty Alice was looking a bit lost, so I went looking for him. He was in your room.’

  ‘My room? Well, that’s where Aunty Alice and him were staying.’

  ‘I know but listen to this. He didn’t hear me come in. He was sitting at the window, looking at the police car driving away, muttering to himself and moaning.’

  Roxy and I had stopped clearing up. Roxy said, ‘Moaning?’

  ‘Well, moaning, tuneless singing and mumbling; I couldn’t understand what he was saying. It sounded like Latin. Ackoom Tay-am, he was saying, Ackoom Tayam. Then he saw me in the reflection of the window and he was really shocked. That’s when he told me to … go away.’

  Roxy murmured, ‘Say that again. The thing he was saying.’

  ‘What, ackoom tayam? I’ve no idea what it means.’

  ‘I do, though,’ said Roxy with a little shrug. ‘Acum te am. It’s a Romanian folk song: we learnt it in drama last year.’ She said it so casually, as if everyone should have at least some knowledge of East European traditional music.

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘It means “Now I’ve got you”.’

  I looked carefully at Libby to judge her expression. I was incredulous. ‘You didn’t tell this to anyone?’ She shook her head and I saw her chin make the very beginnings of a tremble.

  ‘I was scared, Aidan.’

  The last thing we needed was a sobbing seven-year-old. It was Roxy who stepped in and – to my astonishment – put her tiny arm round Libby (who was taller than her) and said, ‘It’s OK. I’d have been scared as well.’

  Roxy’s little squeeze had opened up something in Libby and she carried on: ‘He gave me a hug afterwards and he did this.’ Libby demonstrated with Roxy, stooping a little to hug her, then whispering in her ear:

  ‘Not a word. Not a single word, do you understand?’

  ‘He said that?’ I asked, amazed. Libby nodded, and her chin started to go again.

  We stayed at Roxy’s and watched TV, although I didn’t pay attention to any of it. Nor did Roxy, I don’t think; every time I looked over at her, she wasn’t even looking at the screen. When Libby and I got back, Aunty Alice had gone to bed.

  Acum te am.

  Now I’ve got you.

  What on earth did Jasper mean by that?

  The next day was the day of the School History Exhibition, apparently one of the highlights of Local History Week. I was distracted, thinking about Jasper and the upcoming archaeological dig – how was I going to get to the pearl before they found it?

  But something soon happened that took my mind off all that.

  The idea was that small ‘teams’ had been tasked with finding an old object at home and researching where it came from, and what its significance was to local history.

  Each team was allocated a table in the playground where they would display their object and a poster. The whole school would then be invited to the exhibition. People had brought in old photograph albums; one girl had her great-grandmother’s christening shawl – that sort of thing.

  By this stage, the heatwave had persuaded the school to allow the boys to go tieless. One or two had taken the chance to unbutton their shirts to the waist.

  ‘Oh my days,’ said Roxy, who had already done a quick tour of the playground exhibition. ‘Wait till you see Inigo Delombra!’

  We did not have to wait long. His exhibition, which he was manning with two of his friends, was close to us and I saw him from a distance. He had taken the opportunity of not wearing a tie even further than others, with the addition of a large, shiny cross on a thick chain to decorate his bare chest. Dark glasses completed the impression of small-time con man.

  He seemed in a cheery mood as we pushed through the throng to make our way over to his exhibition.

  ‘Ah – look who it isn’t!’ he said, grinning wolfishly. ‘Verily and forsooth, ’tis thou, the fancy-talking fop of Class Five!’

  ‘That is not the right meaning of “fop”, Inigo,’ I retorted. ‘Indeed it means someone given to fancy, showy dressing. Such as the sporting of ostentatious jewellery.’ I indicated his cross and chain.

  His two friends thought this was hilarious. ‘Owww! Delombra: you is burned!’ said the one called Jonesy, in an American accent, and clicked his fingers. Inigo curled his lip in response.

  (I think this was what everybody calls ‘banter’ and, by the way people smiled, I was good at it, on that occasion, at least.)

  Until then, I had not even seen what his display was, but I looked down and immediately felt sick and breathless at the same time.

  It is as well that his friends were distracting him or someone might have heard me gasp. As it was, Aidan said, ‘Oh wow! Look at this, Alfie,’ and moved to pick up a book from the desk.

  ‘Oi! No touchin’! ’S valuable tharriz!’ said Inigo Delombra.

  I stared, dry-mouthed, at a copy of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens and I knew – I do not know how but I just knew – that Inigo Delombra would say what he said next.

  ‘It’s autographed, you know! Look!’ He opened the front cover of the book, and there it was, in extravagant, curly handwriting.

  Roxy pointed at the inscription and said, ‘Hey – it says ‘Alve’. Just like—’

  ‘Yes,’ I cut in. ‘It is a very unusual name.’

  ‘Never read it meself, mind,’ said Inigo. ‘Borin’ as owt, if y’ask me. But he wrote loads, did Charles Dickens. An’ I love the title. If you say it the wrong way round, you get A Sale of—’

  I interrupted him. ‘H-how did you get this?’ I tried to sound relaxed and interested, but I do not think I succeeded, because Roxy and Aidan’s heads both snapped round to look at me. Inigo had been distracted by a friend chortling at some joke he had made, which I had missed in my astonishment, so I said it again, a little too loudly.

  ‘How DID you get THIS?’

  ‘All right, all right – keep your hair on. It’s been in me family for years. I got a lend of it off me Great Uncle John.’

  ‘And what is his name?’

  ‘I’ve just told you, man. It’s John. First name – Great Uncle. Jeez. He got it off his dad, an’ I haven’t gorra clue where he got it. It was years ago. You all right?’

  I pulled myself together. ‘Yes, fine, splendid, actually. Thank you,’ and I wandered off in a daze, with Aidan and Roxy following me, and the sound of Inigo Delombra imitating me in my ears: ‘Splendid. Who the heck says “splendid”?’

  I turned to Roxy. ‘Do you trust me?’

  She narrowed her eyes. ‘Where is this going?’

  There were people all around us. ‘Do not ask. Just answer my question. D
o you trust me?’

  ‘Yes, Alfie. I trust you.’

  Aidan added, ‘Me too. What is all this?’

  ‘Faint,’ I said to Roxy. ‘Right now. Just faint on the ground and stay fainted for as long as you can. I promise you it is important. Just do it.’

  ‘Faint?’

  ‘Yes. Imagine you are the lead actress in a play and the script requires you to faint in the heat of a … a jungle or something.’

  That got her. ‘Right here, right now?’

  ‘Yes. You will be brilliant, I promise.’

  ‘Why, though?’

  ‘I asked you if you trusted me …?’

  She needed no further coaxing. With a little moan, she fell back into Aidan’s arms in the middle of the crowd. Aidan was good as well.

  ‘She fainted!’ he yelled. ‘Everybody clear a space – Roxy Minto has fainted!’

  Everyone stopped to look, and formed a little circle round her. As I slipped away, I heard someone say, ‘It’s the heat – she’s fainted!’ and then – inevitably – Mr Springham’s booming voice:

  ‘CLEAR A SPACE! GIVE HER SOME AIR!’

  Inigo Delombra’s table was deserted as they gawped at the fainting victim, leaving the book unattended.

  My book. Ten seconds later, I had it in my school bag, and thirty seconds after that I was out of the school’s back gate, trying to walk fast but naturally, and breathing as if I had just run a mile.

  It was just getting worse. The amount of trouble we were building up for ourselves was pretty terrifying.

  I mean, when it was me and Roxy keeping the secret of the weird kid who claimed to be a thousand years old, it was OK. Fun, really, in a way: you know, us against the world?

  I was even cool with being the friend of the new weird kid at school and the tiny girl with the squeaky voice. Not that I had much choice, what with Spatch and Mo being pretty much inseparable these days.

  But now we were thieves. Except we weren’t really, because I hadn’t stolen anything, nor had Roxy. And nor, for that matter, had Alfie.