���No offense,��� Timothy said, taking steps again further into the alleyway, ���but we’re not exactly friends. And I thought it would be safer, to have someone along.���
However, the boy seemed to be irritated by Timothy’s comments, and he took in a deep breath through his nose, as he pushed strands of dark hair off his brow.
���If I’m not your enemy, I’m your friend,��� he said.
���Not necessarily,��� Timothy replied.
Yet, this only irritated the boy all the more. ���Well, in this case I am, alright?��� he said. And then continued, saying, ���And either way… I can’t take both of you with me, so you’ll just have to trust me.���
Timothy did not like how this situation had gone, but this now seemed to be his only way to find out anything about the people who were after him.
He glanced at his father for confirmation.
In most instances, Thomas Hayfield would have done anything to keep his son from danger, but this was apparently a danger Timothy had needed to face on his own.
���Go on,��� Thomas said, nodding his head back up the alley, toward the direction of the vanishing boy. ���After all, I should get back to the flat, and look after your mother.���
Timothy nodded in agreement, and took several deliberate, however reluctant, steps toward his new necessary ally. And when he was standing in front of him, looking eye to eye (for they were roughly the same height), he crossed his arms, shrugging his shoulders as he spoke. ���So then… I’m ready. Where are we off to?��� he said.
���You’ll have to hold onto my pant legs,��� the boy said, reaching into his back pocket, though not responding to Timothy’s initial question.
���Beg your pardon,��� Timothy answered him.
And the boy repeated himself, while keeping his eyes fixed upon and fiddling with the metal bands on a mechanical ball, about the girth and dimensions of a cricket ball. ���You’ll have to grab onto my pant legs, with both arms, and keep ahold of them like your life depended on it,��� he said again.
Timothy’s eyebrows and nose wrinkled on his face. ���Seriously?��� he asked.
���Absolutely,��� the boy answered, giving a final twist to the metal sphere in his hands, his charcoal-colored eyes fully wide open in the midnight alley light.
The ball separated slightly around its center, showing its inner workings as a mesh of electrified wires glowing a blue energized color.
And even though it was effectively embarrassing to do so, especially in front of his father, Timothy knelt down in the darkened alley, behind this unfamiliar boy, and gripped his pant legs, like his life had depended upon it. And without a proper warning, the boy threw the electrified metal ball high into the air, and tapped his golden forearm bracelets together. A rush of wind and force, and they were vanished.
Chapter Five
The Professor
Well, not vanished exactly. I say vanished here because that’s what Timothy’s father saw, in the pale moonlit Turkish night. But what Timothy saw, once he got the nerve to open his eyes, were the city lights, and the boy, and the dome of the Hagia Sophia below them.
They were flying. (Or else you could say that the boy had been flying, of sorts, and Timothy was merely along for the ride.) And when Timothy had finally opened his eyes, he saw that they were moving like a wave through the night sky, or like a dolphin, or some kind of sea creature through the air: Sometimes falling, sometimes surging upward, toward the direction of the electrified mechanical ball.
And it was then that he could see the process. Noticing that it was rather like a game of catch, but only with oneself, and while falling and raising through the air. The boy would hurl the sphere as hard and as far upward as he was able to while falling, and then he would tap his forearm bands together and the two would be pulled at an enormous velocity, upward into the night sky, exactly to where the ball had been thrown, and the process would repeat itself again.
Such a dangerous means of transportation, and Timothy knew quickly that if he were to fall, he would fall for good, and so he held onto the boy’s legs more tightly than he had ever held anything.
The coolness of the night air rushed by their skin as they were pulled through the sky above the city, and as they flew, the boy would adjust for tall buildings by throwing his sphere out of the way around obstacles. It was something that would have been unbelievably beautiful and peaceful, if it had not been so terrifying.
Soon, however, Timothy noticed that they were falling more rapidly, in a stair stepped manner, dipping suddenly then rising to help lessen the crashing speed of their descent. They were falling into an atrium, which is an open courtyard in the center of a house. Only feet from the pavement, they nearly hit the ground, but with a flick of the wrist the boy gingerly tossed the sphere in the air, and caught it as they landed, safely inside an elegant courtyard. The boy on his feet and Timothy knelt down behind him, still gripping feverishly to his companion’s pant legs.
But once Timothy saw that they had come down safely, he scuttled backward away from the flying boy, and settled on the courtyard floor desperately trying to regain his breath.
���Let’s never do that again,��� Timothy muttered.
���How else do you think you’re getting home?��� the boy answered him, although Timothy hadn’t exactly wanted a response.
There were high glass windows on all sides of the atrium, and light from the house passed through and fell upon them.
The call of a man’s voice rang from within the house, and something about the gentleness of it reminded Timothy of his own grandfather.
���Ata? Is that you?��� the man’s voice called.
���Yes, papa,��� Ata, the vanishing boy, replied.����
���And did you bring the traveler with you?��� he asked.
���He’s here. We made it alright,��� Ata answered.
To this, the man’s voice almost squealed with excitement, ���Oh, good! Oh, I can’t wait. Bring him back with you.���
And with that, Ata (which was apparently the boy’s name), he led Timothy back into the house, through a narrow hallway, and into a room, which was most like a workshop, with contraptions of all various sizes lining the walls. The man who had called for them had been working rather purposefully and intently. He was placing the finishing touches on a frequency transmitter of some sort with a long chrome antenna (that looked, in a way, much like an old-fashioned two-way radio), until his visitors had arrived. And seeing them, he left his work, setting down the most bizarre tool Timothy had ever before seen, like a ray gun made out of metallic cylinders, placing it onto a long wood table in the center of the room.
The man wore thick bottle-lensed glasses, and was presented with a slightly unkept black and white peppered beard, and tousled hair.
���So… Did you like it?��� the older man said to Timothy, staring expectantly through heavy glasses that magnified the appearance of his eyes several times over.
���Like… Like what?��� Timothy asked, not knowing how to best answer the man.
Though this seemed to amuse the old man, who smiled as he spoke, ���What? What indeed. My electromagnetic hyper spacial sphere, of course.���
And the man was grinning, ear to ear, with his giant pupils shining out of his circled black-rimmed eyewear. ���Well, go on. What did you think of it?��� he asked, and then continued, ���Such fun, I should guess.���
Howbeit, Timothy was quick to think back to his feelings of absolute terror, as he remembered diving across the night sky. And how he, even still, had not thoroughly shaken his fear of heights, and tonight’s events did not seem to help matters much.
���Yes, one of a kind,��� Timothy answered. ���Perhaps too much fun,��� he said, a little under his breath,
but the old man heard it, and took it for a compliment.
���Splendid.��� And he clapped his hands together, saying, ���Absolutely, splendid.���
���And to think,��� the old man said, adjusting his glasses to get a better look at his welcomed guest, ���a real-life, flesh and blood, traveler, here among us.���
���I tell you,��� he said, holding up his pointer finger, ���these are the things of which legends are made. So glorious. Isn’t it, Ata?��� the old man said, turning quickly back to his son.
���Yes, papa,��� Ata replied, as if he had often answered his father’s questions like that, and the words had become rote to him.
After this, the man ceased his investigation of their new guest ���traveler,��� and took a step backward, inviting them further into the room.
���Oh, come on. Look at me wasting time. The sun will be up before we know it,��� he said, taking his place at the head of that long wood table in the center of the room.
���And we have much to discuss,��� he said, as the most endearing sort of grin swept onto the old man’s face.
And Timothy thought, if he were not so sure of his new younger ally, that at least this old man had shown himself to be friendly. And hardly as unsafe as his mother had feared, he felt sure of it.
*
���� I will assume that you are as unfamiliar with Turkish pronunciations as I am: Therefore, the name ���Ata��� is pronounced A-tah.
Chapter Six
A Deadly Story
In the early morning hours, before the sun rose loftily above the ancient city. The three sat at a wood table, in the center of a room of half-made inventions, helping themselves to spiced tea, and a plateful of halva sweets��: Timothy, Ata, and the old man, who was introduced as Professor Asim. And here is what was said:
[In response to Timothy’s very direct question, ���Who are they, and why are they after me?���]
To this the Professor answered, ���They are the Illutu-��mu, my friend. Which is an ancient Assyrian word that does not have an equivalent English translation, I’m afraid. But it should mean something like, a clan of tigers.
They have been in the shadows for centuries, or millennium I would guess, a group of men who can, if they choose, govern the world without laws, or political parties, and without armies.���
���But how can they do that?��� Timothy asked, taking an extra slice of halva from the plate in the center of the table, for he was famished, having not eaten much dinner.
The old man sat back further in his chair, grimacing as he spoke. ���By fear, or coercion, or money, power…��� Professor Asim said, counting the ways on his fingers as he listed them. ���If you control the leaders of the world then you in turn control the world. No need for guns, although they certainly have them, or ammunition. They’re remarkably efficient.���
And with that, the professor began to tell a story he’d heard a while ago, regarding the former liaison to the United Nations, but Timothy could already tell that that was going to turn out to be an awfully gruesome tale, and so he halted the professor in mid-sentence, by asking another important question. Which was more so a repeat of his previous question, that the old man had yet to answer.
���And what do they want me for?��� Timothy asked.
���Ah, my friend, now that is a good question.��� The old man grinned behind his dusted black and white beard. ���Because you control the one power they can never have,��� he said, smiling greatly.
���And what would that be?��� Timothy asked, already knowing clearly what that ���one power��� was, that the professor had alluded to. But he had all of a sudden remembered his grandmother’s sensible warning, ‘that they should trust no one with their secret.’ And he thought, it would be best to play coy, from here on.
But that he should have started from the beginning, and the professor saw through his masquerade in an instant.
���As if you didn’t know,��� he said, wiping his glasses clean using the edge of his shirt. ���It’s a simple thing that they want, and you control it.��� And he set his glasses back upon his plump nose, showing more clearly his slightly buggy eyes.
���More. That’s all, pure and simple. What’s the one thing that people who own the whole world would want for themselves?��� the Professor asked. But he did not give Timothy time to answer. ���More. More worlds. The infinite potential for ultimate power… and it’s burning them up that a boy should possess that ability, and not themselves.���
Timothy pulled back from the table, and tried to make a play as if he had not understood. ���Sir, I really don’t know what you’re talking about-���
���Oh, I think that you do,��� Professor Asim said in a hurry. ���I think you know exactly what I mean, but someone has warned you not to trust me, good for them.���
After this, the chorus of an early morning songbird could be heard through the open doorway that led out to the atrium.
Ata began to yawn, heartily, but his father interrupted him. ���You two should be gone before sunrise. The Illutu-��mu have eyes all over this city, [then returning his attention to Timothy] as they have in all cities,��� he said.
���Yes, papa. We’ll go now,��� Ata answered, still yawning.
And the boys took the last remaining halva sweets from the table, as an early morning snack, and Timothy thanked Professor Asim for his help, but the professor stopped him as they were leaving, calling out in a fluster, ���Wait, wait. I almost forgot… You came to a mad scientist’s house and you didn’t think you’d get a parting gift?��� And he was saying this, while pulling open every drawer in his workshop, and flinging open every cupboard.
���Ah! Here it is,��� he exclaimed, adjusting the glasses that had tilted on his face. ���A prototype. The first of its kind,��� he said.
He did a quick and final examination of his work, and after a few more seconds of looking over a pair of long metal forearm bracelets, like Ata had (only these ones were silver or platinum colored, instead of golden), the professor seemed to be satisfied with their condition.
���Am I to get a flying ball too?��� Timothy asked, blissfully excited at the thought that he might not have to hitch a ride onto Ata’s legs for the return trip home.
���What?��� the professor said, still mostly ingrained in a final test of his device, so that it took him a few moments to process Timothy’s words.
���Oh, no, no. This is something different,��� he said, and he smiled, seeming pleased with himself. ���Something new.���
And with that, he tapped the metal bracelets together, once, and a translucent sapphire-colored electrified dome expanded around him. And he tapped the bracelets together once more, and the dome disintegrated into nothing.
���It’s an electro-frequency barrier device,��� the professor said proudly, handing the bracelets to Timothy.
���A what?��� Timothy replied.
The professor’s mouth made a side-smirk. ���In plain English,��� he said, ���it’s a force field… where the force of that force field is electrified energy, tuned to exact frequencies.���
And Timothy smiled to himself, as well, as he clasped his brand new barrier bracelets onto his forearms, thinking that even in plain English this device sounded overwhelmingly complicated, however you say it. Still, he was happy to have a force field available to him, especially now that he knew the manner enemies that were after him.
And right before they flew off, before the morning sunrise. The professor gave a quick demonstration, on how to divert the field’s maximum power to your front half, by holding your forearms and the bracelets together, crossed in front of you. And when that was do
ne, a wall of translucent energy materialized in front of Timothy, like a giant blue shield.
*
�� This type of halva is a sweet dessert made from flour and sugar, and formed into blocks like fudge might be.
Chapter Seven
Alone
���Lock all the doors and windows, and don’t go out for any reason.���
That was the warning Timothy’s father had given before they’d left that evening, and that is exactly what Agatha had done, following every instruction to the T.
Doors bolted with every lock available, windows tightly fastened, and she sat alone in the mostly unlit apartment, not wanting to draw attention to herself. The television clicked off, and she sat upright, alone on the couch facing the door, and with the telephone resting on her lap, hand waiting on the receiver, ready to dial at any moment.
Yet after a long period of vigilance, her mind grew wearied, eyelids drooped, and she let her head rest more upon the couch, and would go in and out of consciousness.
The first time she re-awoke, after only a minute of sleep, she was furious with herself for drifting off, promising that she would not sleep until both her husband and son had returned safely for the night. But then she eased to sleep again, and this gradual process was broken up by longer and longer periods of unconscious rest.
However, the last time she was reawakened was very different. That time she’d been shaken from her sleep for good, by a noise, such a regular mundane noise that the average person will likely have trained themselves not to hear it. Unless, it is the one sound they had least wished to awaken to.
Blinking open her eyes, she was startled by the sight and sound of her door being opened, but not broken into with force, for that would have been awful enough as it is. No, she heard the almost imperceptible clicking as her door was being gently unlocked and opened. But not that there was anyone else there in her apartment suite, for there wasn’t. Agatha Hayfield was alone, and whomever was unbolting and unlatching her door was doing so from the outside.
The Histories of Earth, Books 1-4: In the Window Room, A Prince of Earth, All the Worlds of Men, and Worlds Unending Page 26