The Teen, the Witch and the Thief
Page 25
Um, Ted thought. He peered again at the impression. Unlike Barry, he was looking at it almost directly from above. It was certainly bigger than your average pothole and it was right where he had fallen.
Exactly where he had fallen.
And it looked horribly like a human outline. As if he had fallen into plasticine, rather than onto tarmac, and made a full body mould.
Barry was crouching down and examining the side of the car.
“I think the shock absorbers took it ... If not then the bloody council are paying for it, I promise you that! Right. Let’s get you to work.”
Ted closed his window again, and told himself it couldn’t be his outline. He sat back in the seat, tried to ignore his aches and pains, and comforted himself with the silver lining thought that from now on the day could only get less crap.
*
The King burst forth from the earth.
His bare feet, planted on the damp turf, could sense the power in the land. He knew immediately where he was. He had lived here; he was the King of this place and every living thing was subject to him.
Yet, it had changed. He could never have recognised it just by looking. He stood where his palace had been, at the highest point of his domain. It was the top of a round hill, a massive mound of earth, and it should have had views in every direction down into his kingdom. Now the spot was encircled with the remains of walls and a large earthen rampart so that in fact he stood in the middle of a giant bowl. Inside the rampart were the remains of buildings – buildings of stone, when his palace had been of wood – and even though he could sense they were very old in the terms of man, he knew they were still very young compared to him.
How long had he been away? And what had happened to make him leave?
Cold, light rain gusted across the grass of the mound and beads of water clung to his chest hair. He looked down at his stocky body and was intrigued to find himself completely naked. He pursed his lips approvingly as muscles slid beneath taut skin. He hadn’t lost anything in his time away. He didn’t feel uncomfortable, because he was the King, but being naked was inconvenient, so he scratched himself as he looked around and made a mental note to find clothes.
The King could sense a massive concentration of power to the south. He walked up the slope of the rampart and his eyes widened as he gazed out over the plain below where four valleys met.
A city had been built there. It covered the plain and crawled up the sides of the valleys, and it thrummed with life and energy. Surely there were more people living down there now than there had been on this entire island in the days of the kingdom.
What kind of people could build such a place? Whoever they were, they had a high opinion of themselves. The centre of the city was dominated by a giant building with a stone spire that thrust hundreds of feet into the air, challenging the very heavens. People like this, he decided, were worthy of his rule.
A stone-lined gate was cut into the rampart, and on the other side was a deep ditch. Someone had turned his old home into a fortress. A wooden bridge carried him across the ditch and then there was a locked gate at the far end, but no lock in the kingdom would keep him out and it fell open at his approach. Beyond the bridge was a wide open area of grass, and as he walked the turf gave way to a strangely hard surface, like stone but not. Next to it was a notice, a flat piece of painted wood stuck into the ground. There were also words, which he could understand because the artist had been a royal subject of his kingdom and he could sense the intent behind them.
Old Sarum. The original Salisbury.
He kept reading.
5000 years of history.
He blinked, his eyebrows rose, and he read it again. The information didn’t change. Five thousand years ... and that was as far back as these people knew. He suspected he might be even older than that.
His thoughts were interrupted by a bass rumble, a regular sound like a giant animal purring. A brightly painted metal cart was rolling up the hill towards him. Its top half was transparent and a man sat within, staring at him with as much astonishment as the King stared back.
A side of the cart swung open and the man climbed out.
“Opening time isn’t until ten, and what the hell are you doing standing there naked?”
He too was a royal subject, so the King could understand him perfectly and reply without effort.
“Obviously, waiting for you to give me your clothes.”
The man’s mouth dropped open as he finally realised who the King was.
“I am so sorry! I didn’t think. Please, take them–”
A few minutes later, the King was comfortably clad in the clothes of the present time and the first of his royal subjects to acknowledge him was standing shivering and cold in the rain. The King cast a farewell eye over the desolate mound with its empty ruins. He suspected he would not be returning here.
This had been the beating heart of the kingdom; the place he held his court, full of life and revelry and sheer joy in being alive. He remembered feasts; his Queen by his side; the companionship of his lords. (Ah, yes, his Queen! Of course, she would not be up here. He would need to seek her out again.)
Now there was no question that the focus of his reign would be the new city, so thoughtfully prepared in advance as his royal capital.
“I will need your cart.”
“Please, sir, yes! It’s all yours.”
The door was still open. The King sat where the man had been and looked at the wheel and the switches and levers and dials mounted in front of him. Clearly, they did something but he had no idea what.
The man was still waiting and shivering, so the King got out again and went over to the passenger side.
“Take me down to Salisbury,” he commanded. Salisbury. He relished the taste of the name on his tongue.
“Right away, sir!
The man climbed into the driver’s seat and pulled the door closed. A gentle warm breeze filled the car as soon as the engine was turned on. As it began to move, it suddenly struck the King that he was possibly leaving his old home for the last time. He must have left it before, but he had no memory of doing so. What had happened to bring about the end of his reign, over five thousand years ago? Had he been – it was a strange thought, but it had to be faced – cast out? Defeated? Overthrown?
Already he had one – no, two – no, three tasks ahead of him. Find the Queen. Re-establish the kingdom. And make sure that whatever had happened before could never happen again.
The King sat back, enjoying the comfort of the upholstery, and let himself be transported down to his new home.
[The End]
About Ben Jeapes
An overdose of TV science fiction as a child doomed Ben Jeapes to life as a science fiction author. He took up writing in the mistaken belief that it would be quite easy (it isn’t) and save him from having to get a real job (it didn’t). His novels to date are His Majesty’s Starship, The Xenocide Mission, Time’s Chariot, The New World Order, Phoenicia’s Worlds, The Teen, the Witch & the Thief, and The Comeback of the King. His short story collection Jeapes Japes is also available, containing 18 short stories originally published in Interzone, Fantasy & Science Fiction and other venues.
His ambition is to live to be 101 and 7 months, so as to reach the 1000th anniversary of the Battle of Hastings and the arrival – as family lore has it – of the man responsible for his surname in the British Isles. He is English, and is as quietly proud of the fact as you would expect of the descendant of a Danish mercenary who fought for a bunch of Norsemen living in northern France.
He lives in Abingdon-on-Thames and his homepage is at www.benjeapes.com.
Other books by Ben Jeapes
The Comeback of the King
Phoenicia’s Worlds
The New World Order
Time’s Chariot
The Xenocide Mission
His Majesty’s Starship
Jeapes Japes
www.benjeapes.com
Ben Jeapes, The Teen, the Witch and the Thief