by Julia Hughes
‘Annie, please. Please Annie.’
He gritted his teeth, metal grinded as he changed gear but still he wouldn’t look at her.
‘Please, you have to believe me. I didn’t want this.’
They were flying along roads now; weaving in and out of traffic recklessly. Rhyllann pounded his own horn in response to the torrent of honking from other road users. With the top down the noise was deafening and she had to shout. She started shivering and couldn’t stop.
‘I’m not mad. This isn’t something I wanted to do. He made me do it. Wren made me. He needs you and he needs Caliburn. Why won’t you listen?’ She drummed her feet against the floor.
‘Last night it was him. He made Caliburn do it. They were going to – they kept touching me, pawing me. If it hadn’t been for Wren …’ She pushed that thought away quickly.
‘But he used up all his strength. He might just make it to Stonehenge. But he needs you! Listen to me!’ She screamed, drumming her feet even harder.
There was a sharp crack as Rhyllann slapped her.
‘Stop it. Stop this now. You’re in enough trouble. Do you want a strait jacket?’
There was genuine worry in his voice, not anger and this scared her even more. Tears spilled down her cheeks.
‘I’m not mad. I’m not! You shouldn’t be pushing a pen in an office; you should be flying planes!’
Rhyllann blanched.
‘It’s true. This is wrong so wrong. I’m not making this stuff up – how could I? Wren spent hours talking to me, describing how things should be. And all the time he kept telling me; “Find Rhyllann. Find Annie; make him understand.” He trusted you.’
She gulped wiping away the tears, angry he might think she was crying for herself.
‘He trusted you.’ She whispered.
They were waiting for her at the police station. Georgie boy must have phoned ahead to say Captain Jones was en-route with the sword wielding madwoman. Carrie twisted against the leg irons and handcuffs around her ankles and wrists to peer out of the rear window of the big black van. She watched as men in protective boiler suits retrieved Caliburn from the Stag’s boot, placing it carefully into a metal trunk before hoisting it into an Army Jeep. Twenty minutes later the Blonde showed up. This time flanked by three minders, all four wore regulation Army khaki uniform. After shaking hands with Rhyllann they got into their car and drove off. Carrie’s vehicle followed. By craning her neck she caught one last glimpse of Rhyllann sitting on the Stag’s Racing Green bonnet with his head buried in his hands.
Chapter Seventeen
The days that followed were nightmarish, Carrie moved through them with zombie like apathy. They kept her in a room without windows. A light glowed twenty-four hours a day. There was a bed and in one corner a wash hand basin and a loo that didn’t flush properly. Water was provided in a jug. Meals were bland and infrequent and Carrie suspected that at times they forgot to feed her. They treated her as less than human; taking blood and urine samples for no discernable reason. At first she refused to co-operate. Until the Blonde paid her a visit. Two wardens held Carrie upright gripping tightly while the Blonde sniffed around her cell, wrinkling her nose before settling her backside onto the bed. Not before making a play of swiping the blanket clean with a hanky.
Perching on the edge, with her eyes still wandering the sparse room, the Blonde explained in a low modulated voice that Gran was currently in St. Lawrence’s Mental Hospital near Bodmin. At present she had a very nice room all to herself, a room with a lovely view over the moors. This could change like that. She snapped her fingers to show how quickly Gran’s fortunes could change. Rising from the bed, fixing her eyes on Carrie’s face, she paced forward bringing a scent of musky roses with her, kitten heels tapping against the lino tiled floor. Inches from Carrie she halted and clicked her fingers again. Under Carrie’s nose. Smiling, satisfied they understood each other she left the room. After that Carrie became a model prisoner.
She spent a lot of time laying on the single bed staring up at the ceiling. Wondering if Wren’s spirit survived. Sounding apologetic he explained how it drained him just to talk to her. Thinking about that night at the arches she realised now he’d used valuable energy to fortify the sword then exhausted the remainder making certain she understood what he wanted her to do.
He’d spoken of a better world, one where girls like her could do anything and be anything they wanted to be. She wasn’t sure she believed him. But he believed in her. And she missed him. She missed the way he spoke to her as an equal when he was clearly so intelligent. The funny little giggle that escaped him even at his most serious. The thought of him waiting in vain at Stonehenge, hopes fading as he realised she’d failed him tormented her. Even more than Rhyllann’s betrayal.
Somehow she’d expected more from a man whose actions had saved the lives of six innocent people. Life behind the Iron Curtain must be really harsh for a family to scrimp and save until they’d enough money to purchase six uniforms. Enough even for Granddad to join them on their great escape to the West and freedom.
At the trail, the prosecutor emphasised that not only had Jones refused a direct order, but he’d also hit a superior officer. Something no decent Englishman would contemplate. And that phrase “decent Englishman” saved Rhyllann’s hide. Somehow Welsh discontents got to hear about it and marched on London. Terrified the Irish and Scots and goodness knows what other parts of the Empire would join in, the authorities backed down, promoting Barrington-Smythe to lord it other some distant African colony, Rhyllann to Captain and an office bound job. Knowing it was only a question of sitting back and waiting for Rhyllann to self destruct.
Down in deepest rural Porth Perran Rhyllann’s trial had been followed avidly. Articles in the "Kernow Picture Post" raved over Rhyllann’s intelligent brow, his warm brown eyes, and perfect teeth. Carrie thought he looked like a trapped animal. At the time she’d pitied him. Now she despised him.
Chapter Eighteen
The Neolithic circle of standing stones known as Stonehenge is sometimes touted as “One of the Seven Remaining Wonders of the Ancient World”. Part astrological time marker, part temple, the biggest mystery of all is how the stones were raised in the middle of a desolate Wiltshire moor. Even casual visitors to Stonehenge have their minds blown away by the stark beauty of the site, majestic in its solitude, simplicity and size. A person could spend days, weeks walking from stone to stone, pondering on the use of the Altar Stone, watching the sun rise over the Solstice Stone on Midsummer’s Day, puzzling over how the blue stones were transported from Wales, centuries before the wheel’s invention. But the architects of this giant timepiece, the ancient holy men of Britain, remain silent. Although a more perspective visitor might become aware of shadows flitting between the stones, an older mystery behind the mystery. And someone with very special vision might even be able to make out figures and hear voices murmuring, raising in chants and pleas to the heavens.
Hours turned into days, days to weeks and still Wren waited. His body was solider here, he could taste the breeze, feel the rasp of his skin under his fingernails again. Strangely the occasional person who could see him merely acknowledged his presence with a nod then ignored him. He became used to it. Often those same people left a little offering behind, a sandwich, half a pasty. When that happened, he consumed food gratefully, but he never felt particularly hungry or thirsty. What did worry him was that if he tried to leave the stones’ perimeter he found himself drifting, becoming one with the dust.
On some level he supposed either Carrie or Rhyllann had failed. But he wouldn’t allow himself to think about that too much, not wanting to imagine Carrie might be in danger.
When an old friend materialised on the twelfth day; with a sigh of relief Wren walked over to sit beside him on the Altar Stone.
‘You know, I used to be in awe of you.’ Wren begun conversationally ‘But now I realise, you’re just a traveller like me. You can’t exist outside this.’ He waved a han
d around the temple of stones. In the years gone by since their first meeting, Wren had decided that “Merlin” was just a convenient handle the mysterious other worlder used, knowing the connotations the name carried in Welsh mythology, knowing a thirteen year old would accept without question the demi-god like wise man of his people. As the figure became less transparent, it seemed no older than their first meeting; A thirtyish clean shaven man with floppy blond hair. As before his clothes were those of a new romantic, billowing trousers tucked into boots and a belted scarlet tunic, lacking only a gaudy scarf wrapped around his head to join Captain Jack Sparrow and crew. For long minutes, "Merlin" stared, reacquainting himself with an older Wren. Nodding to himself as though satisfied with what he saw in Wren’s growth, he spoke:
‘You have a physical body to return to,’ Merlin reminded him. He didn’t comment on Wren’s theory.
‘Mmm.’ Somehow it didn’t seem so urgent anymore. ‘This isn’t such a bad version.’ Wren laughed suddenly. ‘It took me ages to figure out what ‘White’s Only’ meant,’ he pursed his lips, considering.
‘Sexism and racism’s more blatant, life’s harder and shorter, people don’t have so much of everything.’ From his own experiences this world seemed much like his own world fifty or sixty years ago. ‘But they seem happy enough. I suppose.’
Wren did a lot of thinking while waiting for Rhyll-ann to show up. And who was he to decide one version of the story was better than the other? Or others. He continued his line of thought outloud.
‘Just in the other world I’m alive,’ he shrugged. In this alternative time line he’d been dead nearly half a decade. And no-one seemed to miss him that much. That thought should make him sadder.
The silence stretched on for so long Wren lifted his head thinking Merlin had gone. Blue eyes so like his own contemplated him. He shivered.
‘What is it? Something’s happened. Something’s gone badly wrong. And it’s going to really muck up the future.’
Merlin didn’t reply. Butterflies rose in Wren’s stomach, wings flapping frantically.
‘Merlin. Please. Answer me.’
The feeling of dread increased; Merlin could see the future. He could see, had seen this world suffer a catastrophic change, death and destruction on a biblical scale. But to reveal the future was forbidden. Wren had already broken this law once.
Wren’s mind whirled looking at the puzzle from all sides, thinking cause and effect. Action and reaction. Stripping it down to its simplest form and building from there. By coming to this world he’d acted as a catalyst. So whom, or what had he effected? He dismissed Gran immediately, Carrie was an innocent. Rhyllann? He shook his head. No, not Rhyllann. It couldn’t be Rhyllann. Not in this version of the world or any other. Rhyllann on his own could never be responsible for death and destruction. Unless it was death by partying.
That left Caliburn.
‘Caliburn has fallen into the wrong hands. Dangerous hands.’ Merlin read Wren’s mind, confirming his guess. And he’d released Caliburn into this world, into the hands of a young innocent girl. And a United Kingdom that was still officially at war.
The last war Caliburn’s owner presided over had been the Crusades. The repercussions still echoed down the centuries.
The butterflies were swarming now, churning. Wren clenched his stomach soothing it with long deep breaths. He began thinking out-loud again searching Merlin’s face for clues.
‘What is Caliburn? It’s not of this world is it?’
Merlin’s eyes flickered. Wren pressed on.
‘Is it some kind of conductor? It takes all the anger, rage and magnifies it somehow? Does it store energy?’
This time Merlin’s face remained impassive. But that meant nothing.
‘How does it know who to respond to? Is there some kind of – I don’t know – scanner? Reading us like a check out till reads bar codes?’ Wren exploded with anger.
‘Merlin – you talk to me! I demand you speak!’
‘Youngling, I liked you better when you were in awe of me. But you are almost right; Caliburn is not of this world, and can rearrange the stars. Used wisely, you can repair the damage caused to the fabric of time.’
For a second or two Wren wondered if the fabric was silk or cotton, before realising it was a metaphor; then realising Merlin had confirmed his theory, relief sank through him.
Now Wren pleaded. ‘Merlin … You can help. You know you can, help me turn back time, put things right.’ He clung onto this thread, this one ray of hope.
‘If I can just get Rhyllann here – if Carrie can get Rhyllann and Caliburn here – this world won’t become reality and the future will never happen. It’ll be like some – I dunno – like some half remembered film once watched. Merlin – I’m right aren’t I? So you can help me. Help me!’ He cried out in frustration. But Merlin was gone.
Wren slumped to his knees, beating his fists on the ground and let out a howl of rage. In surrounding hamlets and villages mothers shuddered and pulled their children closer. Later that night their men-folk would double check doors were locked and ensure a sturdy stick was within reach.
Exhausted, Wren dragged himself to the Altar Stone, laying his head on it like an ancient sacrifice.
‘Please Merlin. Help me. Help us.’
Because now it wasn’t just his own life hanging in the balance. Carrie’s and maybe Rhyllann’s life, maybe even the fate of mankind. The responsibility smothered Wren. Caliburn with all its power had fallen into the path of Evil. The task in front of him seemed insurmountable, it all seemed so unfair - why him? I can’t do this alone - I can’t. Somehow I’ve got to get Rhyllann to move.
Climbing onto the Altar Stone he crossed his legs Native American style and concentrated with all his might. Merlin perplexed, angered and frustrated him. But somehow left him with a little more energy, and Wren intended to squeeze every last drop from this last chance. He could only hope Carrie had managed to find Rhyllann. He’d wait for her to sleep, when defences are lowest, enter her dreams and find Rhyllann.
And when he found him Rhyllann would get the haunting of his life.
******
Carrie twitched in her sleep as she dreamt. She was walking arm in arm with Wren at her side. She couldn’t see him of course, dreams didn’t work like that, but in her dream she was happy and in her sleep she smiled because she could hear his voice.
‘Show me Carrie, show me how to get to Rhyllann’s house. Why don’t you take me there? We can pay him a surprise visit.’
He sounded clearer than usual, speaking outside her head and her happiness soared: He’ll stay with me this time. That’s what she thought in her dream anyway. But he was talking again, encouraging her to keep looking around her surroundings, point out any landmarks, asking her to describe what she was looking at: Like an English Teacher asking for an essay.
‘The pavement’s slabbed. Large pretty slabs of Portland Stone.’ she told him, ‘There’s a big factory? No, not a factory more like a warehouse where furniture’s repaired. Behind the houses opposite there’s an old railway line. Not for people trains. Just goods trains. They creak like mad when they go along.’
Her English teacher would have given her a ‘C’ for sloppy use of language. But she sensed Wren’s elation.
‘Concentrate. Concentrate very hard. Can you see a road sign? The name of the street?’
In her dream she screwed up her eyes, searching for a sign.
‘There! Look!’ Squeezing his arm in delight she pointed to a brick wall. A white plaque with thick black lettering was mounted just above eyelevel.
‘Well done Carrie. You’ve got good eyesight. I can’t see it from here – can you read it out-loud?’
She squirmed with pleasure. Of course she could.
‘Latimer Road: Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea.’
Chapter Nineteen
Wren couldn’t believe how stupid he’d been! He could have saved so much time by making an educated guess. Still, no
point in looking back. He took a deep breath, felt a familiar rush of air and sensation of dizziness and within minutes gazed down on a sleeping Rhyllann.
Watching him sprawled out on a double bed, with his chest rising and falling in deep slumber, gnawed bones scattered on sauce stained plates, sweet wrappers and lager cans over spilling from the bedside cabinet, Wren felt an incandescent rage building.
‘Rhyllann you shit-bag! Wake up now!’ He bellowed, just as an old goods train clattered along the tracks behind the houses opposite. The wagons groaned and creaked mournfully, and the engine let rip a mournful two note siren.
He caught the briefest glimpse of a confused Rhyllann slamming upwards to sit upright, covers falling from his bed. The world swirled again faster and faster. When it finally slowed he was drifting, smoke on the breeze. Wren understood that he should feel frightened but he didn’t. He didn’t feel anything. He was plankton. Wafting on a three, sometimes four dimensional ocean. With immense effort, using his last smidgeon of energy he focused on Stonehenge. He wasn’t going to make it. Not this time. His last conscious memory was the desolation on Rhyllann’s face as he searched an empty room.
But fate or chance was with him. The ebbs and scurries of the winds flapped the residue of Wren towards safety. By the merest of breezes as slight as a reader turning the pages of a book, Wren’s spirit drifted into harbour.
Laying on his back, staring up at the lintel raised thirteen feet above him, unseen insects buzzing nearby, Wren swore that for as long as he lived, he would never ever lose his temper again. Not even with Rhyllann.
If Merlin had not warned of an impending Armageddon, Wren could have quite happily spent the rest of his life or even eternity here, safe in his own personal goldfish bowl. The little packages of food were becoming more frequent. More and more visitors caught glimpses of him. Once he was even tempted to give a guided tour of the stones to a coach load of squealing overexcited primary school children, but caution got the better of him.