by Julia Hughes
Later that day, together with the First Mate, Jimmy began to take Carina’s garbled warnings a little more seriously. Just as she predicted, the look-out’s binoculars were discovered, but only after breaking into a locked cabinet. With a face like thunder, the First Mate strode off with the binoculars clutched tightly in his hand, ready to tear strips from the unfortunate duty look-out. Jimmy’s legs went weak with relief, and he slumped against the rail, trying not to look down. Even without the gift of prophecy, from now until the Titanic steamed into New York Harbour, her entire crew would be on high alert for icebergs.
Chapter Three
Wren entered the lane leading to the isolated farmhouse as dawn broke. His steps faltered as he walked with his head tilted upwards, before pausing completely to lean against a five bar gate to watch the sun rising. The orange striped horizon broadened, already beginning to tear into gossamer ribbons and fade against navy blue skies turning pearly grey; bird chittering increased madly, emphasising the absence of city hubbub.
An early morning mist rose from dew soaked grass, to swirl knee height causing the old farmhouse and outbuildings to appear to hover above ground. Wren watched fascinated as cows floating in a nearby field materialised and disappeared into mist as if by magic. A deep contentment soaked through to his very bones, he could live in this moment forever.
Without warning a heart-stopping crack ripped through the air, the heavens split and the ground beneath his feet shook. Too panic stricken even to cry out, Wren clutched at the wooden gate, uncertain if an earthquake or nuclear explosion had taken place. It felt as though a giant finger had flicked at the world as though it were a marble, bringing the planet stuttering to a halt, before spinning on its axis again. With a mind numbing flash of intuition Wren realised what was happening and ran for his life, hurtling across the field known locally as the lonely sister.
With seconds to spare and his lungs on fire Wren slammed up against the standing stone. Safety! But there was still something he needed to do. Concentrating fiercely, with trembling hands he texted Rhyllann. Praying he wasn’t too late; knowing he probably was. Planet Earth shuddered again, Wren's vision swum and in the dying moments of this world he reached out to embrace the ancient stone. A cataclysmic transformation was taking place, history scurried to rewrite itself and re-arrange this world. A primitive, almost Neanderthal part of his brain trusted that the monolith would be unaffected, and somehow offer some protection against the maelstrom to come. A wind so strong it cut into his skin like sandpaper buffeted around him, tearing his arms from the stone.
Like Dorothy, Wren was swept heavenwards, all thought and emotions vanishing from his mind as he was cast into nothingness. Around the remnants of Wren’s soul, the dimension known as time seethed with confusion, forced to create an alternative world history in order to accommodate an event which occurred one hundred years ago. An event that was never supposed to be:
RMS Titanic steamed safely into New York harbour.
Chapter Four
Market day in Wadebridge, Cornwall brought farmers from miles around, all dressed in their Sunday best suits, all seeming determined to plant themselves squarely in Carrie’s way. She hurried past huddles of ruddy faced men who spoke just like their fathers, and their fathers before them of "Hoof Rot" and "St John’s Virus." Carrie grimaced inwardly, thinking she could have been back in medieval times and not in the brave new twenty-first century.
Carrie skipped over a pile of horse droppings on the cobbled stoned road, aware of calculating eyes on her; weighing her up as either potential wife or daughter in law material. Not because she was particularly pretty, simply that she was of marriageable age and known to be a hard worker with a sensible head on her shoulders. The best compliment Carrie received was a muttered “You got nice eyes and curly hair” from the miller, along with a half hearted proposal, provided “You do sommink about that mad old biddy.”
“That mad old biddy” referred to Carrie’s Gran, who’d managed to escape her granddaughter’s watchful eye, as she did every market day. Gran was crazy like a fox.
Squelching through the undercover cattle pens, packed with cows and calves herded so closely together steam rose from their hides, skirting a lone bull with a baleful look in its tiny eye, not liking the way it kept lowering its broad head, Carrie finally admitted defeat. She tracked over to the beer tent, hoping to find Gran before she reached the drunken singing stage. Carrie straightened suddenly, spinning round with outrage as a hand caressed her backside. Without hesitation she slapped Simon Cooper, gratified when his face flushed the same colour as his red hair.
‘Simon!’
‘Ah c’mon Carrie! Frankie reckons you kissed him in the barn. With tongues.’
Carrie felt her own cheeks flush. ‘Frankie Cooke wants to keep his big mouth shut! And you keep your hands to yourself!’
She’d only kissed Frankie because he was due to be shipped out with his regiment to the Eastern Front, where according to rumour, a big ‘push’ would be taking place, and yet another attempt would be made to regain the Imperial Russian throne. Carrie wondered what the exiled Tsar thought about this. His grandmother, Anastasia, had only survived the massacre of her family by playing dead. Carrie comforted herself that life here might be boring, but it was safe, providing of course you were female or exempt from National Service.
At that moment the hubbub of the town stopped. A voice rang out, screeching.
‘An angel. Look! Look! Up there! In the sky! T’is an angel!’
An old woman half huddled, half knelt on the ground, pointing straight up at the sky. People around her looked up – then carried on with their business, some laughing, some tutting with disgust at the drunken old hag and her visions. Carrie felt an immense wave of pity, aware of Simon taking a couple of steps back, before turning to flee. The old woman’s arms stretched upwards beseechingly. Carrie flinched as Gran started babbling about her favourite vision.
‘Don’t you see? Don’t you see him? It’s the Angel of the Titanic.’
Carrie wanted to yell and slap at the sniggering onlookers – these delusions were an illness, not free street entertainment. She also wanted to slap Gran, for embarrassing her in public. Instead looking neither left nor right, she managed to haul Gran to her feet. Wordlessly Carrie slapped dry powdery manure and straw from Gran's shapeless pinafore dress, and then began the long slow process of coaxing her home.
Chapter Five
Porth Perran is one of the picture book Cornish villages which proliferate that county, with a dinky harbour sheltering a small fishing fleet. Depending on its mood, the Atlantic Ocean smacked or kissed against one side of the partially natural sea wall.
Walk around the harbour, past the cafes and band stand, the little shops selling artisan curiosities, and the pubs to the other side of the harbour wall, and you can look down on a beach where waves roll into shore before gentling to a toe tickling ripple on golden sands. Lanes and alley ways spiralled outwards and upwards from the harbour and shops, crammed with quaint pastel coloured cottages tumbling against each other for support, seeming to climb the hill towards the castle ruins dominating the skyscape.
A young woman hurried along St Perran’s Lane, its old world charm wasted on her. Behind their stone plastered walls the cottages’ interiors gleamed with fresh white paint, while the Spartan furnishings created a peasant simplicity. Carrie knew this because last month she’d been on painting detail. Her hand cramped at the memory. In two weeks’ time it’d be May Day and the village would come to life again, invaded by holiday makers and the fishing boats would go to sea with paying customers on board. For those who couldn’t afford a “Traditional Fisherman’s Cottage” a second holiday village of rustic wooden cabins lay behind the castle ruins. Even further back, way out of sight behind towering conifer hedges were the workers’ huts, which consisted of old barns sub-divided into rooms.
Carrie thought of them as first second and third class accommodation. And she was def
initely third class, occupying one end of a ramshackle barn with her gran.
A pedestrian lane curled away from the harbour wall, sloping upwards to the cliff path. Carrie could run now without fear of the cobblestones tripping her and she broke into a jog, careful to conserve energy.
The harbour and the safe sandy cove fell behind her. The path she jogged along became scraggy; venturing too close to cliff tops which rose directly from the ocean. The more adventurous holidaymakers might come exploring this way, but on this breezy spring morning, it was a deserted wilderness.
Apart from a madwoman perched on the cliff edge muttering to herself.
Carrie puffed with relief, and conscious of time slipping away broke into a sprint.
‘’ere she come now my ‘andsome, and she be madder than hell.’
Carrie gritted her teeth. Not the blasted Angel again! It had appeared yesterday, market day in Wadebridge town. Somehow Carrie had managed to drag Gran back home, to number ten dormitory, Porth Perran, three miles away, five minutes before curfew. Unfortunately the Angel tagged along too. All last night Gran had kept her awake chatting to her new friend and surprise surprise! It seemed the Angel wanted to know all about the Titanic – how Gran’s Great Gran had saved the lives of thousands by warning of an impending collision with an iceberg. Carrie barely got five hours sleep what with Gran’s nattering and that bastard Coleman banging on the wall and hollering for quiet. She'd woke at first light to find Gran gone and a note on her pillow.
This, Carrie told herself, was the end. She’d sign the papers and Gran would be happier and safer in St. Lawrence’s home for the mentally ill. Gran spoke again, as though it were perfectly normal to have an invisible friend.
‘Well I’ll tell her, but her won’t like it.’
Gran cocked her head to one side and stared intently at a space three feet away, a knowing grin spreading over her face.
‘Simon Cooper eh? Old ginger nuts! Heh heh! The little madam.’
Carrie’s temper grew. She’d just known someone was watching yesterday with beady eyes and wagging tongue when Ginger Simon groped her. Her flesh crept at the memory.
‘Don’t come any closer maid, I’ll jump!’
For two pins she’d push the mad old cow over the edge herself.
‘Go ahead – jump! See if I care!’ Carrie shouted back but stayed where she was. If she wasn’t careful she’d be even later for work. Her supervisor, Mrs. Bray, disliked her above all the girls working at the metal casting factory. Losing this job would leave her dependant on the weekly cleaning of holiday homes and spasmodic flower picking. Even now if she could only get Gran home and run all the way to work, she might just make it.
‘Gran … please.’ She risked inching closer, relieved when Gran patted the grass next to her, wanting to talk.
Carrie settled next to her, casting a brief look down towards the waves smashing onto the rocks below, grateful she’d pulled on a thick fisherman’s jersey before hurrying after Gran.
‘Gran, come home. I’ll cook breakfast and tonight’s your bingo night.’
Gran’s face wrinkled with laughter as her angel spoke to her.
‘Bless you no! My Carrie ain’t a scared of nothing and never not heights. She’m a little mountain goat.’
‘Gran, I’m getting cross!’ Carrie warned, jumping to her feet, hoping the old woman would follow her.
‘Carrie, maid.’ Gran’s skeletal fingers clutched at her, tugging her down into a half crouch. Carrie placed a hand behind her on the springy grass for balance, perfectly at ease though inches from an eighty foot drop.
‘The Angel wants you to climb down there – into that cave.’
‘What?!’
Gran nodded sagely. ‘In the cave there’s summink for you. Summink that’ll change your life. The Angel says.’
Carrie stared at her open mouthed. Rock climbing! Pot holing! And she had her work’s boiler suit on, freshly laundered to eye watering whiteness!
‘There is no angel! There is no cave! Gran! Please! Do you want everyone to think I’m as crazy as …’
Gran’s rheumy old eyes peered at her as she fumbled at the chain round her neck.
‘Carrie, maid, I swear. I swear by all that’s holy. There’s an angel here, the Angel, and he wants you to climb down those rocks and into that cave.’
Before the golden locket flicked open Carrie knew what was inside:
A portrait of a young man. Years ago she had fancied herself in love with him. Dirty blond hair flopped round a slim almost skinny face. Deep set blue eyes stared out with intensity, the lips ready to curl into a smile. On the facing side, the miniature of a young woman who could have been Carrie’s sister. Large greeny brown eyes in a pale face, with a mane of chestnut coloured hair. Gran’s great-grandmother looked like a woodland nymph. The Edwardian artist had managed to capture a sense of mischief in both cameos.
Carrie sighed. A flurry of wind caught her hair streaming it upwards. A bush clinging to the cliff face twenty feet below also stirred; for the briefest second revealing a darkness behind it.
‘If I climb down and there is no cave – will you come home then?’ she asked.
Gran nodded like a little girl promised a bedtime story. ‘But there is a cave and the Angel will speak to you there.’‘
An angel I can’t hear is going to speak to me. Great.’
With that Carrie swung onto the cliff face, her fingers whitening as she hung onto the edge, canvass plimsolls scrabbling for foot holds. Inching down her hands to search for crevices barely there Carrie began her descent, barely able to believe she was doing this.
‘Mad. I must be mad,’ she muttered to herself, hoping it didn’t run in the family. She’d spent her childhood listening to tales of the Angel. Half of her wanted to believe, the other half determined to prove Gran wrong, and put an end to this nonsense once and for all.
There was an opening leading to what appeared to be a tunnel. After a moment’s hesitation Carrie crawled into the darkness, wishing she’d never agreed to this madness, feeling she had no choice somehow. Without warning, the tunnel ran out. With a gasp, Carrie tumbled headfirst into a cavernous chamber, managing to throw her arms out at the last moment.
Clambering to her feet, she steadied herself, trying to get her bearings. In total darkness she swiped her knees batting away unseen dirt, certain she could hear insects scurrying away.
‘Oh great. This is just great,’ she muttered, wondering how long Gran would wait before wandering back to the village; failing that how long it would be before they were both missed. With arms outstretched Carrie stumbled blindly forward, hoping to bump into a side of the cave, hoping she didn’t tumble down any further tunnels. She took baby steps, testing the ground before placing her full weight forward, and trying not to breathe too deeply of the damp stale air. In the quietness, she became aware of another sound, softer, more tuneful.
The cavern began to vibrate to the noise, a low intense hum. Carrie searched blindly for its source certain she’d disturbed a sleeping dragon. Or maybe once years ago someone else had fallen into this pit, existing only on rainwater and whatever insects they could find. They were coming for her now, half crazed at the thought of human company, and would drag her deeper into the cave … Carrie shuddered and moaned miserably, clutching her arms round herself, unable to drag her eyes from the source of the increasing noise. She moaned again when strands of blue flickered into the darkness, growing into ribbons and suddenly the whole cavern shimmered in a throbbing blue light.
A heavy weight rested on her chest, and goose bumps crept over her flesh. With unwillingness in every step, Carrie shuffled across the uneven cavern floor towards the light. She held out a hand, and then hesitated. Her eyes told her it was a sword in front of her. A sword buried in a stone. Her mind told her she was seeing things. Swords in stones belonged in Arthurian legends, not the twenty first century. Her hand hovered an inch from the sword when her body turned to ice. Her heartbeat stutt
ered and a voice inside her mind spoke clearly.
“Don’t be scared Carrie, it’s forbidden to touch the sacred sword unprepared. But I’m with you. I won’t let any harm come to you.”
Carrie’s gasp caught painfully in her throat, she tried to snatch her hand back but her limbs wouldn’t obey. As her fingers curled round the hilt of their own accord the voice spoke again. A clear modulated voice, used to being obeyed.
“Carrie, work with me here. I’ll keep you safe, but don’t fight me.”
The sword sizzled and sparked stinging her hand, sending painful static shocks up to her shoulder. Before she could cry out, a ripple of coolness ran down her arm into the sword, seeming to soothe it. Carrie’s tendons contracted and the sword pulled free of the stone with a grinding grating meshing of steel against granite. Carrie staggered against the unexpected weight, almost dropping the sleek hilt, aware of an unnatural presence coursing through her veins. Blinded by the sword’s brilliance; with a sense of growing wonder and unreality, she formed a makeshift sling from her thick woollen jumper and tied it over her back. Static charged the stale air so thickly she could barely drag it into her lungs. Stumbling back to the tunnel, her heart racing double time as though beating for two, her body again moved of its own accord as though on unseen puppet strings, almost floating back up the sheer cliff to Gran.
Pulling herself up and over the cliff ledge, taking huge deep gulps of the fresh air, Carrie felt her own body warmth returning as the presence left abruptly.
Gran’s face was seraphic. ‘You’ve heard him haven’t you? You heard the Angel!’
Carrie’s fingernails were heavy with grime, her knees were grazed, her boiler suit caked in muck and her shoulder throbbed under the sword’s weight.
‘No.’ she snapped. Something far from angelic had entered the cavern with her, then abandoned her with Ms. Crazy and a sacred sword none could touch. She ran her hands through her hair, yanking the mass of curls behind her back and into a pretence of neatness. Rougher than she meant to, Carrie shoved Gran before her, and hefting the sword, still wrapped in its thick woollen shroud, higher onto her shoulders, started for home. Her mind battled with her imagination insisting there was an explanation for this madness.