A Ripple in Time

by Julia Hughes

  He was doing all the work after all. Sucking his fingers free of grease, Rhyllann tipped back his head to pour the remaining crumbs from the crisp packet down his throat before she could change her mind. He paused with a hand over the cakes as though asking permission. They disappeared in two bites.

  ‘Tell anyone I’ve been eating fairy cakes an’ I’ll hit you.’ He joked. Reassuring himself as much as her he said ‘If I know my cousin he’ll have food waiting for us.’ With a sly look he added. ‘He likes the finer things in life, our Wren.’

  There was something she’d been longing to ask:

  ‘Why does he call you Annie?’

  Rhyllann took a long drag at the orange squash bottle, wiped the top then passed it to her. Taking a small sip she passed it back, holding the liquid in her mouth for as long as she could.

  ‘Believe it or not, he didn’t start talking until he was five. And he couldn’t say “ell.”’ He rolled the sound on his tongue.

  ‘He called himself Wren and me Annie. And it stuck.’ He dragged at the bottle again.

  ‘Bloody well made up for it since.’ He nudged the chocolate over to her.

  ‘Go on. I know you want to.’

  Carrie broke off a square and nibbled, fully intending to share with Rhyllann. The soft silky creaminess coated her mouth, she took another bite closing her eyes as her mind sighed with pleasure.

  When she opened her eyes again, Rhyllann was watching with amusement.

  ‘What is it with women and chocolate?’ He mused.

  And even though she really really really meant to give him the last square she popped it into her mouth to spite him. Savouring the faint bitterness as it dissolved and wishing she’d saved some for herself, for later, running her tongue round the inside of her teeth to mop up the last droplet.

  She hugged her knees, sighed and stretched her legs full length. It felt wonderful to have wide open spaces around her again, grass prickling her calves and the sun warming her back, green as far as the eye could see like an African Savannah.

  Beside her Rhyllann fidgeted, packing away empty wrappers and shaking out his hanky.

  Stooping, he collected Caliburn sliding it into his belt again, catching her hand with the same movement to yank her upwards as he straightened.

  ‘C’mon. No time for sun bathing.’ Before she could protest he’d slung her over his shoulders again and marched forward as though there’d been no interruption.

  Jolting against his back once more Carrie flung back her head to stare at the cloudless blue sky. Far overhead a crow streamed straight as an arrow in the direction they were headed. What a pity Rhyllann doesn’t know how to fly. She thought. Feeling ungrateful she said outloud.

  ‘Sorry about you and Susie.’ Suddenly realising it was probably Susie’s chocolate she’d gobbled up. Rhyllann marched on, either he hadn’t heard or he didn’t want to talk about it. Carrie fell into a kind of stupor lulled almost to sleep when he replied.

  ‘I was getting bored anyway.’ As though talking to himself he went on. ‘I get bored with ‘em all after a while. It starts off all sweetness and light, they say they’re in love, next thing, they wanna change you. Change your clothes, your hair, the way you eat, even the way you think. They’re only really after one thing. They’re not interested in my mind or what I want. They only want me for my body.’ He sounded bemused rather than bitter.

  ‘Maybe you should try having a relationship before you jump into bed with them.’ Carrie said sharply.

  He hoisted her weight, threatening to throw her off. ‘You saying I’m a man slag?’ He challenged. Then laughed.

  ‘I wasn’t asking advice from you. Little virgin girl. Oww! Stop that!’

  Carrie tugged at his hair again, giggling. Strands of light flickered from his side; Caliburn wanting to join in. Carrie fancied the sword appeared to reflect Rhyllann’s moods, before she could share this fantasy with Rhyllann he stopped short. They’d crested the brow of a small hill, in front of them the ground dipped, acres and acres of rough flattish moor land. Ahead of them the stones rose, an incongruous temple, testament to the earliest attempts by man to stamp his authority over nature and measure time. Miniature bodies swayed and the faintest echo of chanting floated across to them.

  Rhyllann rolled her from his back and flopped down beside her. His hand crept to Caliburn’s hilt. Staring straight ahead he asked.

  ‘Have you seen him?’ Again the muscle at the side of his jaw twitched.

  She frowned then brightened as she realised what he wanted.

  ‘No. I’ve heard him – inside my head somehow, telling me what to do.’

  He nodded. Still he didn’t look at her, concentrating instead on the horizon, as if trying to make out individual features of the hoards collected at Stonehenge.

  ‘Another thing I remember about Wren. He comes up with all these wild plans and ideas, somehow gets you to go along with them then he’ll drop you right in the shit – but he makes certain not to get his own hands dirty. So be warned.’ He caught her chin suddenly, tilting her face to meet his eyes.

  ‘Be warned.’

  Carrie jerked away. ‘You don’t trust him?’

  ‘So long as I can see him I trust him. I’m saying you shouldn’t.’

  With that he pushed himself upright then pulled her up beside him.

  ‘Come on. Let’s go and join the rest of the crazies.’

  As they neared, Carrie hobbling against Rhyllann, the chanting clarified into a folk song: “Where have all the flowers gone …”

  People huddled in groups, some joining in the singing, some chatting quietly amongst theirselves, some slept, one or two simply swayed with their faces turned skywards and arms outstretched. Outside the stone circle two bonfires glowed, behind these a row of tents had been pitched. Someone had thoughtfully provided metal bins - the human infestation was a clean and tidy one. They’d been converging here all week on and off drawn by the promise of the Guardian of the Stones. Those catching glimpses of a youth with dirty blond hair obeyed his mime to keep quiet, something in his face made them part of the great secret. Others seeing nothing grew bored and drifted home. At one point sightseers numbered almost five hundred before dwindling back to the hard core druidic society and a handful of aimless wanderers, now barely totalling forty.

  As Rhyllann finished explaining what Carrie had missed while imprisoned he stopped short. They were at the outer circle. In front of them, sitting hunched on a stray stone fallen on its side was a young man, a teenager, watching the revellers with interest. Absently he crumbled bread for a large black bird sharing his perch. Carrie could see the vertebrae of his spine outlined against the thin blue tee-shirt he wore over darker blue jeans. Beside her, Rhyllann swallowed hard, then swallowed again. Carrie looked from the stone, back to Rhyllann, frozen to the spot, his skin white and taut, eyes wide. Although they’d approached noiselessly across the grass, at the bird’s warning caw the youth swung round, startled. Then joy swamped his face.

  The ground beneath Carrie’s feet slanted alarmingly, the air wavered and the stone worshippers grew hazy.

  ‘Finally.’

  Wearing the dopiest of smiles he rose from the stone, his eyes shining, reflecting Rhyllann’s elation as they moved towards each other. Rhyllann paused an arm’s span away, seeming suddenly shy. He muttered something at the ground. The blond youth frowned, placing a hand on each of Rhyllann’s shoulders, he ducked to peer into Rhyllann’s face.

  ‘No. Don’t say that. You’ve never let me down.’

  Recognising his voice immediately Carrie felt her heart sink. She’d been expecting Wren to be older and at least of Rhyllann’s stature. How on earth could such a lightweight hope to put up a fight against the Blonde and her private army?

  As though hearing her thoughts Wren disengaged himself to take a couple of steps towards her. Bringing with him the unique presence worn only by the truly confident and Carrie’s doubts were replaced by sudden hope.

 
‘Carrie.’ He spoke even clearer than the voice in her head. He did look angelic up to a point. Blond hair swirling halo like above a long serious face. But peeping from the bluest of eyes was mischief in its purest form. When he smiled again Carrie knew exactly what he thought of her.

  She shuddered, drawing the tartan rug even closer, conscious of grass stained clothes and tear stained face, certain her hair hung in rats’ tails, knowing she smelled of smoke and wee.

  Taking another step, Wren reached to hold her face in his hands, drinking her in. She wriggled. Then stilled feeling warm breath against her cheek, then his lips brushing against hers and he drew back slipping his slender almost ladylike hands to her shoulders, smiling into her eyes.

  ‘Sorry. You don’t know how much I’ve wanted to do that.’

  Still hugging her close to him he steered over to a central stone and sat her down, kneeling at her feet to raise her poor swollen ankle into his lap.

  ‘That must hurt.’ His touch though tender was firm as he probed at the discoloured swelling, causing her to flinch.

  Wren gave a short sharp whistle and a couple of women detached themselves from the haze, whilst a man wearing a skirt marched over. Rhyllann’s eyes widened and his mouth gaped.

  ‘Emmie, Sandra – can you?’ Wren waved a hand over Carrie’s ankle, the two women nodded and took over.

  ‘Esmeralda and Cassandra’ll see to your ankle. I need a word with Rhyllann and Jules here.’ Slapping a bemused Rhyllann on the back as he spoke, the three men went into a huddle at the altar stone, shadowy figures giving them a wide berth.

  ‘Tch. Boys and their toys.’ One of the women said but Carrie hardly heard her. She touched her hand to her mouth, at that precise moment Wren looked back over his shoulder and winked and Carrie remembered she owed him a good slap.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Wren never questioned where the ability to transfer his thoughts to others came from, he’d developed it shortly after drowning at age thirteen, an event he didn’t care to examine too closely. And although he read other peoples’ intentions easily, he never tried to actually read their minds. That would be venturing into peeping tom country, similar to not keeping your eyes averted in the changing rooms. In any case, Wren had enough trouble making sense of his own thoughts sometimes, and now concentrated instead on convincing Rhyllann that the past one hundred years’ history had only been in existence for a month. After almost two hours of circular conversation, Wren found that streaming “videos” of Top Gear and Rihanna prancing nearly naked helped Rhyllann begin to understand the paradoxical nature of alternative histories and worlds.

  Julius helped too.

  Though Wren never saw the three legionnaires again, shortly after they left Julius arrived. A short stocky Roman with a square chest, bandy legs and faintest of rope burns around his neck like a silvery chain. He spoke a form of Middle English, confirming Wren’s theory that Stonehenge acted as a resting station for spirits who were earth bound. In his idler moments he wondered if Henry VIII and his court congregated at Hampton Court, while maybe the Normans haunted the Tower or Pevensey Sands. However it worked there was some kind of spiritual grapevine; ancient Brits and Romans seemed aware of his quest; they’d adopted him and taken his cause to heart.

  Julius spoke now; this had happened before. Turning points in the flow of time had been meddled with and the resulting ripples swelled into tsunamis. For example, when The White Ship bearing Henry I’s eldest son sunk within sight of land: The cruellest war of all; civil war ensued and people still spoke of the time as “When Christ and all his Saints slept.”

  What should have happened, and he, Julius, had witnessed this himself was …

  ‘So in this other world, the war ended in 1918?’ Rhyllann interrupted.

  Both Julius and Wren nodded.

  ‘And that’s it? No more wars?’ Rhyllann sounded incredulous.

  ‘Well … not exactly.’ Wren said unable to stop a vivid image from “Apocalypse Now!” complete with Wagner and helicopters pinging into Rhyllann’s mind.

  ‘Jesus what was that?!’ Rhyllann reacted as though stung.

  Julius grunted. ‘Men. Kings. Countries. Always fight. Always greedy. Want more. More and more and more.’ He made a grabbing motion with his fist.

  ‘But the “War to End All Wars!”’ Rhyllann quoted.

  ‘Well it didn’t.’ Wren fidgeted, craning his neck to see what Emma and Sandra were up to. And Carrie.

  Rhyllann followed his gaze then shuddered. Emma and Sandra would benefit from a good scrub, even then he’d hesitate. Carrie was already folded into his mind in a little sister role.

  ‘Then what’s the point? I mean – there’s still war and poverty and kids going hungry.’ He argued.

  ‘Because in our world you have a choice. You can be what you want to be. If you want to pig out in front the telly and watch Top Gear all day.’ An edge crept into Wren’s voice. ‘You can. If you want to learn you can pick up a book, or borrow money and go to college, or university. And if you want, if you try hard enough even someone like you can fly planes.’

  Rhyllann’s face lifted. ‘Show me those images again.’ He meant of him flying.

  Wren hadn’t finished. ‘But if you don’t want, you don’t have to. In her village’ jerking his head towards Carrie, ‘there were hardly any young men. They’d nearly all been conscripted.’

  Rhyllann shrugged; so what.

  ‘And that’s the biggest difference. No one who doesn’t want to has to fight.’

  ‘That’s just silly. What if no-one wanted to join the Army?’

  Wren doubted that would ever happen. Not while young men got the chance to play with guns for real. Not while old men urged them on.

  Julius laughed out-loud at such a notion.

  ‘Then I guess there’d be no more wars,’ Wren said, getting up to walk over to the girls, disappointed to find Carrie had fallen asleep. Rhyllann stayed to swap stories with Julius and they talked far into the night, while Wren watched Carrie breathing.

  She woke up screaming around two in the morning. ‘She’s coming she’s coming!’

  Wren sprung up beside her, holding her, comforting her. ‘Shush, shush – who’s coming? Who?’

  Rhyllann and Julius were on their feet, hunting. A nearly full moon flooded the landscape outlining the stones in stark relief. Caliburn glistened with its own eerie light in Rhyllann’s hand.

  ‘No one. No one’s coming. Nothing. You’re dreaming.’ Muttering ‘Mad woman,’ under his breath.

  ‘No, no. She’s coming. She’s coming for us.’

  ‘Well when she gets here, let me know.’ Rhyllann spat and sat down again, stirring the fire at his feet and turning his back on Carrie. Julius resumed his account of the Battle of Bosworth Field as though he hadn’t been interrupted.

  ‘She’s coming.’ Carrie turned terrified eyes to Wren.

  ‘I know sweetheart, you said.’ He stroked her hair. ‘Who’s coming?’

  ‘The Blonde – she wants Caliburn.’

  Carrie trembled uncontrollably, ducking her head into Wren’s chest.

  Wren smiled with anticipation.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  But before the Blonde showed up another woman arrived at dawn’s break.

  She was expected, as soon as Wren learned of her existence he’d sent out an urgent call for her to be found. He needed her. She had knowledge of the deepest darkest secrets of the universe. According to Julius anyway.

  Gia’s dark brown hair reached her knees as did her belted tunic. Gia herself barely reached Rhyllann’s chest but she insisted she was tall for her race. She was a Pict. Her people roamed Britain’s hills and valleys long before the Brits arrived to name the misty isle for themselves. At first glance her face looked covered with liver spots but closer inspection showed hints of blue tattoo darkened with age. She knew how to bring Stonehenge shuddering to a halt then turn back the wheel of time, reversing the stars in their firmaments.
So Julius said anyway. And that’s why Julius remained. To act as interpreter.

  Before she revealed anything about time travel though she squatted beside Carrie, who twitched and burned with fever. Gia’s hand hovered back and forth stroking the air inches above Carrie’s body. Taking a pouch from her belt she tugged at the twine, collapsing it into a rough circle of leather. Pawing at the contents she selected a couple of dark roots, hesitated, before nodding to herself and adding a pinch of moss green powder. This she masticated, her jaw gyrating like a cow chewing cud. Spitting the resulting mess into her hand, she smeared the paste over Carrie’s forehead, chanting.

  Rhyllann sniggered and Wren frowned.

  Carrie’s eyes flew open, her body stiffened with alarm. Then with a deep sigh like a child waking in the night to realise the stranger in the room was dressed in red with a snowy white beard, she rested her head on Wren’s lap and fell back to sleep.

  Gia’s monkey brown eyes examined Wren’s face for approval. He touched his fingers to his lips then rotated them quickly in her direction. “Thank you.” When he bent over Carrie he detected a smell similar to strong tea laced with a bitter underlay. He eased her head from his lap, padding Rhyllann’s jacket underneath, gently soothing the tartan rug over her shoulders.

  A toe stirred him. Julius. He thumbed impatiently towards the fire embers, where Rhyllann and Gia waited, watching the druidic society’s solemn welcoming-in of the sun. They clutched each other shaking with mirth when the Hairy Legged One finally fulfilled Wren’s expectations and fell off the Altar Stone backwards.

  It took Gia twenty minutes to explain how to turn back time.

  ‘That’s it?’ Rhyllann said, astonished.

  Gia touched the sword at his side, babbling and scolding when Caliburn let off a few lazy sparks.

  ‘From the stars.’ Julius translated.

  After that Wren wanted to question her about Merlin. Julius refused to translate and once Gia understood who they were talking about, she grew fearful and shook her head violently, even pushing at Wren to show her displeasure. Rhyllann merely looked at him as though he’d lost it.