Tomorrow's Guardian

by Richard Denning

CHAPTER NINE – IMAGINE THE POSSIBILITIES

  As the assegai came forward Tom reached out and grasped Septimus by the shoulder and, with a desperate effort, he Walked all three of them away from the tent. A moment later they appeared on a rocky hillside, the skies still dark and blood red above them. For a few seconds Tom stood on his feet feeling dizzy and nauseous as he looked around at the barren landscape, then he felt himself falling backwards as if into an abyss and he passed out.

  When he came to, he was still lying on the rocky slope hidden behind boulders, high up on Isandlwana hill. Slowly, because his head was still spinning, he sat up and looked about him. Down the slope a few yards away he saw the British officer, still unconscious and slumped with his back against a rock, his head lolling on his chest. Now that Tom had a moment to look at him he realised the young man was also wounded. Someone, presumably Septimus, had ministered to him as he had a bandage wrapped round his belly.

  Tom tried to stand, but felt a sudden pain in his right side just under his ribs. Glancing down, he saw that he also had bandages around him. He slid back onto the ground, then manoeuvred himself until he could peer through a gap in the boulders at the British camp far below him. Just visible in the growing dusk, scattered points of light revealed where the camp fires were burning themselves out. In their glow he could make out the Zulus moving about. He caught the slight sound of a footstep. Septimus emerged from behind a mound of scrub growing lower on the slope.

  “Glad you’re back with us, boyo!” he said softly, climbing towards Tom. “I’ve just been observing the Zulus. How do you feel?”

  Tom considered this. His side was painful, but his head was clear and he felt stronger than he had before. “Not bad. Where’d you get the bandages?"

  Septimus patted the rucksack, “Emergency supplies; I always carry them. I’ve daubed you with anaesthetic salve.”

  “Well thanks, it seems to be working.”

  “Good, because we must leave soon; it’s all over down there,” he pointed down at the camp.

  Tom could see scores of Zulus milling around, but no British soldiers alive. The ground was littered with their sprawled bodies. History had repeated itself. The Battle of Isandlwana was over. Tom nodded, feeling sad and disturbed by the killing he had seen. It was time to get away from this terrible place. “Well, we have what we came for: we completed our mission!” he said, nodding to where Lieutenant Dyson lay. “Is he going to be ok?”

  Before Septimus could answer they heard a shout of laughter.

  Startled, Tom turned his head to locate where it was coming from then, disbelievingly, he recognised the voice as Redfeld’s.

  “Yes,” he was saying, “but consider how much more you could have done!” The man stood a little way up the hill behind them, partially concealed by a rock. He appeared to be reading a newspaper.

  “What are you doing here?” Septimus hissed.

  “Oh, I’m just an observer, this time,” Redfeld remarked, folding the newspaper neatly, “I, how do you say it, ‘hitched a lift’ with you when you Walked back here.”

  He stared at Tom for a moment then folded up the newspaper, crossing his arms over it in such a way that Tom could see the front page. It was The Times and it featured a picture of a ruined city with tanks parked in the street outside a large, domed building; the roof had a big hole in it. The headlines read: WAR IN EUROPE ENDS! Tom’s class had learnt about the ending of Second World War in Europe when Germany was defeated. Something struck him as odd about the picture, but he could not quite place it. He glanced back at Redfeld and saw that the man was fixing him with the same intense stare as he had before, in the cafe.

  “History, Thomas, it’s a fascinating subject don’t you think? It teaches us what has gone before. By learning about the past, we can hope to avoid the same mistakes in the future. Indeed, we can build a better future.” With these words and a sweep of his arm, he indicated the world at large, “At least, that is what they believe in their world; their time–bound world.” Redfeld paused and regarded Tom for a moment, then smiled. “But what you need to realise is that for people like us, it is quite different. There exists the possibility for us to change the past to make a better present.”

  Tom shook his head, “The Professor told me we should not alter the past. What is gone is gone and should not be changed. The Professor …”

  “Thomas, you need to open your mind!” Redfeld shouted.

  “Shut up, Redfield, you’ll bring the Zulus down on us like a ton of bricks!” said Septimus, looking anxiously around the hillside.

  Redfeld shrugged then continued as if the Welshman had not spoken. “The possibilities are endless. The Professor is an old man; he is scared of what we might achieve – people like you and me, Tom. Come, let me show you.”

  Flinging his arms wide, Redfeld leaned towards Septimus and Tom as if waiting for the unlikely possibility that one of them would offer to hug him. He was not, it transpired waiting for a sign of affection, for a moment later Tom felt himself and the others moving through time. The feeling, however, was odd somehow. He had Walked now a number of times and Septimus had Walked them both, and the sensation had been similar on all those occasions. Now, however, there was something different. It felt awkward; like driving an English car in France – it never quite felt right to be on the right–hand side of the road.

  Then, with a jerk, they were back at Isandlwana, still perched high up on the same rocky mountain; still looking down at the same camp. Yet, from the position of the sun and from the calm and order in the camp below them, it was apparently earlier in the day.

  Redfeld beckoned the two over to him with a wave. They went and stood on either side of him and he pointed to the plain below. “Remember what happened on this day? The cavalry patrol located the Zulu army over in a long valley that way,” the man pointed at the haze, where even now a body of horsemen was moving away from the camp. He then took a pocket watch out of his breast pocket and examined it.

  “It won’t be long. Now, in your history, the Zulu army effectively surprises the British army here and because the commander does not fortify the camp but elects to fight the Zulus far out on the plain, he is overwhelmed … yes?”

  “You are not showing us anything we do not know, Redfeld,” Septimus muttered irritably.

  “Patience, my good sir; I will show you something quite new. Look over there,” he ordered, pointing to the south–east of the camp. A lone horseman in a red coat was galloping toward the tents.

  “That is an ... associate of mine disguised as an officer from Lord Chelmsford’s staff – the general who commands this invasion. His camp is a few miles that way. The general left the camp with half the army earlier today and actually knows nothing, as yet, of the Zulu attack. But my man will pretend to be an officer from Chelmsford: watch now; see what happens.”

  Down in the camp, the impostor reigned in his horse and saluted an officer standing there. “That is Pulleine – the commander here,” Redfeld explained.

  Redfeld’s man was pointing towards where the Zulus would attack and then at the wagons in the camp. Major Pulleine was now shouting orders to his officers and moments later, Tom could clearly hear the bugles calling and abruptly the camp became a flurry of activity. Wagons were being dragged into a ring and chained together into a laager: a wall of wagons that made the vulnerable camp into a fortress. Some soldiers were digging trenches in front of the wagons. Soon the army was assembling together within the confines of the makeshift fortress. Guns and rockets were being pushed into gaps between the companies. Ten minutes after the bugles had sounded Pulleine’s army was dug in behind very well protected barricades.

  Tom looked at all this in amazement. They watched as, soon afterwards, the Zulus emerged far out on the plain pursuing the retreating cavalry and surging on towards the British camp. They were met by the lethal volley fire of the superbly trained British riflemen and fell, as before, in their hundreds. But this time, the army was well pr
otected in their fortress. The guns supported the infantry. Everyone had immediately available ammunition. There was no slackening of fire, no collapse of unsupported lines of infantry. Secure in the enclosure, the British slaughtered the Zulus and hardly suffered any losses. It would be recorded as one of the great victories of the British Empire.

  Suddenly, Tom realised the enormity of what had just occurred. One message at the right moment had altered history dramatically and enormously. He felt his heart pounding: maybe Redfeld was right. The power was his to use as he could. There really were no limits to what was possible. He glanced round looking for Dyson expecting him to have vanished. The Lieutenant was still there, slumped unconscious against the rock as before. Tom was still trying to work out how that could be, when Septimus swore.

  “There’s going to be trouble when Professor Neoptolemas finds out about this, for sure,” the Welshman said. Tom could see that Septimus was looking, not at the battle below or at Redfeld, but at Tom himself – as if he perhaps suspected the thoughts running through Tom’s mind.

  “Why should we care?” Redfeld protested. “Look what we just did. Who is he to tell us what to do or how to act? Men such as us!”

  Septimus was shaking his head. “Redfeld, look down there. You’ve just changed history. Who knows what effect saving those fifteen hundred will have?"

  “Is that so bad? I have saved lives!” Redfeld pointed out.

  “But, you have taken them as well,” Septimus responded pointing down at the heaps of black bodies littering the ground. “How many thousands of Zulus died here that did not originally die? What impact does that have on history, on their families, their children?”

  Tom had been feeling the thrill of the power Redfeld had demonstrated, but, like a punch to the gut, Septimus’ point stunned him. Even from here the stench of blood reached them, mingled with the acrid smell of smoke. Suddenly this was not an example from history, but real. Tom felt suddenly ashamed: he had been dreaming of the power he could have used whilst men had been dying below.

  “That’s enough, Redfeld. Septimus, let’s go home,” he said quietly.

  Redfeld looked astounded and then a little angry. “What? No! I have shown you what you can achieve. If only you will use your power, this – or something like this – could be accomplished. Why should men like us not rule the worlds, Thomas?”

  “Worlds? What worlds?” Tom asked.

  “I meant, world,” Redfeld replied quickly, but not convincingly. He was hiding something, but before Tom could ask what, Septimus interrupted.

  “Hang on, you said, ‘could be accomplished’. Do you mean this has not actually occurred?”

  “No,” Redfeld shook his head, “this was just an example of what could have been. It is not real. I can use my talents to create a hypothetical alternative to reality. It is a useful tool and the knowledge gained can be used in the real timeline.”

  “So, you have not actually altered anything then?” asked Tom anxiously, wanting to be sure he understood.

  Redfeld looked disappointed, but again he shook his head. “No, but we could ... you could if you wanted to,” he said and then blinked.

  Tom felt the same strange upside down or wrong way up sensation. Then he realised they were back above their version of the battle, with its shattered British camp and triumphant Zulus.

  “Have you … I mean is history...?” Tom stammered.

  His lip curling in disgust, Redfeld nodded in answer. “History is safe, the way it occurred before. You and your Professor need not worry.” He turned to walk away up the hill then stopped and added quietly, “All I ask, Tom, is that you consider what might have been ...”

  Redfeld had barely finished speaking when, just as before in the cafe, a door seemed to open behind him bringing with it a glimpse of the room beyond and then, in a moment, both he and the room had vanished.

  Tom raised his eyebrow in query at Septimus, about to ask a question, when he heard a shout of alarm behind him.

  Swinging round, he saw five Zulus coming towards them, screaming in anger and gesticulating with their spears as they ran up the hillside. They were about fifty yards away and closing fast.

  “Time to leave, I think,” Septimus observed and Tom nodded.

  Gathering his concentration, one hand cupping the glass ball, he Walked himself and his companions away from Zululand to where, half a world and over a century away, the Professor’s study was waiting.