Tomorrow's Guardian

CHAPTER EIGHT – RESCUE

  There was not time, Neoptolemas told Tom, to train him properly. The need to rescue the three before their deaths was pressing and he, Tom, must go soon.

  That puzzled Tom. He thought he was able to travel in time. Surely he could spend five years training and still be able to appear at any moment he chose.

  “Ah, well, you would think so wouldn’t you, but it’s not the case,” the Professor explained. “There are cycles to time and as a result we cannot always go to a specific point. There are moments when it is easy to visit a given date and then a few days later it becomes impossible. We are fortunate, given the time that has elapsed since you first dreamt about Edward Dyson, that we can still trace him. Suffice it to say that these three events are resonating strongly across the years and it is simple to pick up that signal and move back along it, but leave it a few days or weeks and it will be too late. It could then be years before the opportunity arises again, if ever.”

  “So… then, I only get one shot at this?” Tom frowned as he thought it through, “I mean, if I mess up, I suppose I can’t …”

  The old man finished the question, “Just try again? No, certainly not. Firstly this is not a video game. You can’t load a saved game or whatever the correct terminology is. Secondly, you can’t begin to imagine the complications of actually meeting yourself. Other than it being extremely embarrassing, that is. I mean who else knows all the bad things about you, except you!” The Professor smiled then grew serious again, “But aside from this, it breaks a fundamental rule of the Universe and while we may manipulate time to a limited degree believe me, my boy, when I say we do not break such rules. Thirdly, you just can’t. It’s been tried. You cannot, having visited a time, revisit those same moments. It’s as if somehow time keeps a record and blocks those years from you forever.”

  Tom began to wonder what he was expected to do. He could not fight off an army of Zulus, he was not a fireman and he knew nothing about submarines. What could he really do? He asked the old man these questions. Neoptolemas smiled and opened a drawer. He pulled out a chain made of cast iron and soldered onto a thick glass globe the size of an orange, inside of which was a liquid.

  “This is an anchor,” began the Professor, “but not in a nautical sense. This helps bind you or will pull you to a certain time.”

  Tom did not understand the explanation and frowned. Neoptolemas saw his confusion and tried a different tack. “Do you believe in ghosts, Tom?” he asked.

  “Not really, well I don’t know, perhaps I do …” Tom trailed off, realising he had given three separate answers.

  “Well, ghosts do exist. Perhaps not the troubled souls of the dead like you see in films, but an image of the troubled souls of the past. It has long been believed that bodies of water and metals like iron can store impressions of events that have occurred nearby. I am not talking about someone making the tea or a mundane activity such as that. No, I mean that a violent event – something terrible – produces so much energy whilst it occurs that some of that force soaks into the surrounding structure. Old rock, iron, water – they can all store such impressions and then, one day, an individual visits who is open to such images. They feel or even see something they cannot explain and call it a ghost.”

  The Professor fingered the glass globe, “This chain and ball: they are made up of iron and water, among other things. Some of my agents are talented in forcing the image of a place and time into them. If Walkers carries such a device, it can help them find the way home – the way back here – however far they have gone. You will carry it with you. Persuade those you must rescue to hold or touch it and then with your help they will arrive back here. That’s all. No heroics, Tom. And above all do not attempt to change history. London burned in 1666, the British got massacred at Isandlwana and that submarine did sink. You aren’t there to alter that. Just get the three of them out!”

  Tom took the ball. The chain clinked slightly against the glass as he held it up to peer at the water inside. “How does it work?” he asked. “Do I have to push a button?”

  “No – as I said, you simply persuade them to hold it. You touch them and try and Walk back here. The anchor will make it easier and you might feel a pulling towards us. Just allow it to bring you back.”

  Tom started to think of what he had to do. Suddenly, he felt a wave of panic wash over him and his hands started to shake. “Sir, I … don’t think I can do this alone,” he said quietly. The Professor opened his mouth to speak, but just then a voice rang out.

  “But, you won’t be going alone, boyo. I’ll be coming with you,” said Septimus, from the doorway.

  Another room: a boardroom high up on the top floor of an office block. Ten men in grey suits sit around a table. At the head of the table is another man, who is somehow familiar to Tom, although he has certainly never met him. Then, as before, he is no longer Tom; he has become the man at the head of the table: an older man with silvery grey hair and he feels a burden upon him, for he has a duty and that duty is more important than anything else. On the table top in front of him is a long, shallow, open topped wooden box, full of silver and copper sands: a sand table, in fact, but not smooth, neat and static – this sand is moving; its surface shifting this way and that. There are forms and patterns metamorphosing within it. In some places there is order, a duplication of shapes that suggest some plan or purpose behind it. Large areas of the sand box are like this: predictable and repetitive, but oddly reassuring to look at. The old man regards these areas with calm and pleasure. Then there are, of course, the two opposing lines of struggle.

  Parallel to each other, running the length of the table along the edges, two ripples run, starting at his end and moving away from him. Even they have some symmetry. Sometimes they come together and join before breaking apart again and deviating from each other. If one veers this way, the other mirrors the move the opposite way. Yes, they are disturbances, but they are usually predictable and therefore acceptable to his ordered mind.

  Then, suddenly, as if someone has dropped a stone into a puddle, a disharmony rises up and where there has been order, all around are chaotic swirling shapes in the sand. The old man frowns, and leaning forward, squints for a moment before turning to the man on his right.

  “Find him. Find him now!” he orders. He stares back at the table. The ripples caused by the disturbance threaten to change everything. What would be there afterwards? He sniffs at the thought. That is irrelevant. It is now that matters. His musings are disturbed as someone shakes him by the shoulder.

  “Tom!” a far away voice calls. But who is Tom? For a moment the man’s mind looks inward at himself and is surprised to find he is not alone. Then, he recognises the boy.

  “You! Tom…?”

  “Tom!” shouted Septimus.

  Blinking, Tom stared all around him, confused for a moment. Then he recognised Septimus and glancing down saw that the suit was gone and he was Tom again. He had been daydreaming. He looked up and nodded at his companion.

  “You ok, boyo? You were absent for a moment then. I mean, the lights were on, but no one was at home.”

  Tom shook his head to clear the last images of that strange vision in the boardroom. Best not to mention it for the moment, at least until it made more sense. “I’m ... ok, Yes, I’m ok. Let’s get on with it.”

  The heat of the mid–afternoon sun was beating down upon the plateau in front of an oddly formed mountain. It was cone shaped and reared up suddenly from the plain. All about there were whitewashed cairns and here and there tombs and burial plots. It was the battleground of Isandlwana. Tom and Septimus had arrived and stood for a moment looking around them.

  “The British came here, confident in their ability and the might of their arms, but they were swept away by a vast force of Zulus. Still, for either side, it was a terrible day. Almost three thousand men died here,” Septimus observed.

  Tom looked around. “These stones ...?” he asked.

  “Placed
over the bodies of the dead,” his companion replied and looked thoughtful for a moment. Then, seemingly focusing on the present problem again, he continued. “The British were arranged in a line across the plateau facing north, where most of the Zulus were. The problem is in knowing where Dyson was. It seems his company was somewhere in the middle of the line. The Professor lent me a book, which I have here,” he pulled it out of his small rucksack. There is an account by a member of a rocket troop who survived the battle, which mentions Dyson: a certain Gunner Joseph Garrant.”

  Septimus flipped through the book and found the page. With a glance up at Tom to check he was listening, he started relating how the artilleryman had passed Dyson’s company on horseback as he tried to escape the Zulus who had overrun his position earlier.

  “Garrant left us a good account of where his rocket troop had been placed. It was initially away from the camp out on the plain. They were attempting to fire on the Zulu’s left horn – that’s the name they gave to the wings of the army – when the battery was overrun. The gunners tried to pack up their equipment and escape. They panicked and most were killed. In the confusion, Garrant became separated from his crew and headed directly towards the mountain. The camp lay in his path and so he found himself passing Lieutenant Dyson’s company, just in front of the tents. He witnessed Dyson’s men, with the Lieutenant himself following along behind, running back into the camp. There, amongst the cooking fires, was where he last saw him before carrying on his own flight toward the mountain. Once there he was able to find an escape route across the pass and get away to the British territory of Natal.”

  Septimus stopped talking for a moment, because he had found a small note from the Professor stuck into Garrant’s book, like a bookmark. He read it and laughed.

  Tom gave him a quizzical look. “What is it? What’s so funny?”

  Septimus hummed to himself and then whispered some words that sounded as though they came from a hymn. “Crown him the Lord of years, the potentate of time. Creator of the rolling spheres, ineffably sublime ...”

  “Eh?” Tom said.

  Septimus looked smug. “Would you believe that at the precise moment the British positions in the camp were being overrun and our rocketeer was riding past our soldier, just then, at that very moment – there was a solar eclipse!”

  “Cool! I was watching a programme on telly about eclipses. Did you know that astronomers know when they have happened – even down to the actual minute? That means ...” his voice trailed off as he realised Septimus was grinning at him, one eyebrow raised.

  “Yes, Tom, precisely: it means we have our time fixed. The Prof says it was about 2.15 p.m. that the eclipse began, but it reached its height at 2.30 p.m. The Professor also gave me a map. It shows the positions of Garrant’s battery, the camp, the cooking fires and the mountain, along with the positions of the various infantry companies at certain time intervals. I think that we can estimate Dyson’s location at about 2.30 p.m. that day to within a hundred yards. That is the best we can expect. We can appear just before 2.30 p.m. where we think he will be.” Septimus finished and took a deep breath. Then, with a shrug, he went on. “After that, it’s down to luck.”

  Tom took the map and turning it so the mountain lay at the opposite side of the page, orientated himself. Using the landmarks that Septimus had mentioned, he tried to picture in his mind where the camp had been. He thought back to that confused, terrifying dream. Had there been there an eclipse? Yes, now he thought about it the sky had been a dark red colour. So then, where had the camp been? Where indeed had Edward been?

  They walked forward, across the scorched grass and through the sweltering heat, towards the camp. Mount Isandlwana loomed above them. They moved about for a while, estimating the position they were looking for from the map and the landmarks. After a while they agreed on the most likely spot to try. Septimus put the book and map away. He reached into the rucksack, pulled out another book and flipped through a few pages. Tom could see it was full of black and white photos.

  “Right then, here we are,” Septimus said, passing the book to Tom with one hand and tapping on a photo with the other, “front row, second from the left.”

  Tom looked at the picture indicated. It was an old black and white photo of eight officers standing or kneeling around some flags. They were all in the same uniform. He looked at the second from the left. He was a young man in his twenties, cleanly shaven, tall and looking very proud. Tom wondered if any of his fellow officers in the photo had survived the fateful battle.

  “That’s the guy we are looking for?” Tom asked. Septimus nodded, putting the book away and fastening his rucksack.

  “When we arrive, it will be chaos. The Zulus won’t stop to notice that we’re oddly dressed. We are white faces: they will kill us if they see us. We keep out of sight and locate Dyson. We have no idea how long he lived after Garrant left him, so we can’t waste time. Furthermore, we cannot alter anything else that occurred. Focus on the task at hand and remember that photo. And make sure you’ve got your ball and chain ready. Let’s go!”

  Tom nodded took a deep breath and put his hand on Septimus’ shoulder.

  The jump was not a long one. They did not move at all in terms of position on the surface of the planet, although Tom had learned that his talent for Walking somehow took account of the movement of the earth, its solar system and even the rotation of the galaxy. All he had to do was manage the move back through some one hundred and thirty odd years.

  They juddered to a stop and found they were standing between rows of conical white tents. Above them the sky was darkening to a deep blood red. Tom could see the disk of the moon already cutting across the sun, dimming the light as it did so. It was his first eclipse and it was a frightening sight. All around them was noise. Somewhere nearby, a man screamed. Elsewhere there was a crackle of rifle fire and the shouting of orders. And behind it all, like the noise of a swarm of bees, the terrifying buzzing war cry of the Zulu warrior. He had heard it before: in his dream. Tom was rooted to the spot.

  “This way, boyo,” shouted Septimus above the din. He dragged Tom along and pushed him between two tents. They emerged onto a scene of chaos. They were indeed near the cooking area: a dozen fires heated bubbling cauldrons of stew that would never be eaten. The cooks huddled together and tried to keep the Zulu warriors away.

  Zulu warriors! Now Tom could see them in the flesh, they were terrifying. Naked, except for loin cloths, head and arm bands made from animal skins, they were armed with short spears – just like the assegai his teacher had brought into class – and wooden clubs, using both effectively as they ran, stabbing and smashing at the enemy. A few did have firearms, but the vast majority seemed to favour surging at the British in great groups and overwhelming them by sheer weight of numbers. Fortunately for Tom, he and Septimus had emerged from the tents behind the huddled groups of red–coated British riflemen, who still kept shooting down scores of their foe. For the moment, the Zulus were being kept away from the Walkers. Tom looked about, then his eyes widened. A hundred yards away – near the cooks – he spotted Dyson.

  “There he is!” he shouted and started forward.

  Septimus came after him, yelling at Tom to be careful, but Tom hardly heard him. He was closing in on Dyson, fumbling at the ball and chain fastened to his belt when, with a roar, a dozen Zulus burst through the thin line of red coats and ran into the camp. One came towards Tom, screaming at him. Tom stopped dead in his tracks, terrified and pinned to the spot with fear. He saw the warrior draw back his spear.

  “Look out, Tom!” yelled Septimus and the voice freed Tom from his paralysis. At once he knew what to do. He charged towards the Zulu, then, just before the spear point reached his body, he Walked through the void, shifting himself a few steps forward. To the Zulu it must have seemed as if Tom had vanished and then reappeared behind him.

  Confused, the warrior spun round and as a result, he did not see Septimus approaching until the Welshman’s
fist was crashing into his face. The time traveller leapt over the Zulu, who had collapsed like a sack of potatoes, and sprinted on after Tom.

  Tom could see Dyson, but was still yards away when a score of Zulus closed in on the Lieutenant. Their spears went back ready to strike him down. Tom shifted himself ten yards forward in an instant. Reappearing in front of the startled officer, he grabbed the man’s jacket and shifted them both another dozen yards into a nearby tent. A split second before he Walked them both, Tom felt a hot pain in his side as a spear point ripped into his flesh. Then they were gone, reappearing inside the tent. He and Dyson collapsed onto the ground. Shaking with fear, the Lieutenant was on his feet in moments and with trembling fingers was trying to push a bullet into the empty chamber of his revolver, when Septimus burst through the tent flaps.

  “Damn, but you’re good, kid! I’ve never seen anyone move so fast. I er …” Septimus stammered as he saw the blood trickling down Tom’s side.

  Wincing, Tom looked up at Dyson. The English officer’s face was pale and he was panting hard as he stared at the two of them, his eyes wild and confused.

  “Who the blazes are you?” Dyson demanded. He pointed his revolver first at Septimus then at Tom, swayed and collapsed in a dead faint, toppling to the ground.

  Septimus leaned over Tom and pulled him to his feet. “You’re wounded, boyo. We must get out of here!”

  Outside there were growls, roars, screams and yells as the battle raged on. Then, they heard raised voices in a language Tom did not understand, coming closer. He tried to reach out to the Flow of Time, but he was now weak and exhausted and could feel nothing there. He began to panic. “I c– can’t,” he whispered.

  “Tom, we must go now!” Septimus said urgently, his face etched with anxiety as he flicked his gaze to the tent flap. Tom tried again, conjuring the clock face in his mind, but he could still not feel the stream of time he needed in order to Walk the three of them back to Neoptolemas’ office.

  “Sorry, Septimus, I can’t do it,” was all he could manage to say before gasping in pain. The assegai wound must have been deeper than he first thought, because the pain was getting worse. Reaching down, he felt the blood trickling out of him and it seemed as if his strength was dripping away with it. The world was starting to go dim and distant. Yet, somehow, he knew that he must get them away from here. In his mind he saw the cone shaped mountain of Isandlwana and with his hands, he reached out for the unconscious body of the British officer.

  Septimus had picked up the officer’s revolver and stepped back to stand between Tom and the door. The tent flap was suddenly yanked to one side and two huge Zulu warriors entered: their bright spear points at the ready. Then, there was the sharp crack of a gunshot and one Zulu reeled back, grasping his shoulder. His fellow roared and advanced on Septimus, who pulled the trigger again. But, this time, there was only the click of an empty revolver. Septimus looked at the useless weapon and then back at the Zulu and shrugged.

  The fierce warrior grinned in triumph and swung back his arm ready to throw the assegai.