Chaos Clock (5 page)

Mr Flowerdew lived in one of a terrace of houses with small gardens in front and long ones behind. Ruth insisted on coming to the door with them. Just to say hello, she said, but Kate thought she wanted to make sure that he remembered inviting them.

The iron gate squeaked on its hinges as David pushed it open and they walked up the path under a rowan tree weighted with ripening berries. The door opened before they got to it.

“Good afternoon,” said Mr Flowerdew. “A squeaky gate is sometimes an advantage. I am often able to surprise guests, even when they mean to surprise me. Come in, come in.”

He ushered them into a hall dominated by a grandfather clock with a deep, slow tick, its face
enamelled
with stars and moons.

“That clock,” he said, seeing them study it, “is exactly as old as I am. It was made for my birth and set going on the day I was born – a family tradition. It has never stopped since.”

“My goodness,” said Ruth, “how impressive. I don’t remember seeing it before.”

“It isn’t always here.”

What an odd thing to say, thought David. It would be very difficult to move.

“Anyway,” Ruth was saying, “I must be getting along. It’s very kind of you to invite them. I’ll be back about seven.”

“Splendid. Goodbye for now.”

He saw her out, then turned back to the children. “Come into the drawing room first.”

It was a big room with a bay window, and from the fireplace a wood-burning stove threw heat to every corner. Tall bookshelves took up one whole wall, and another was almost completely covered with paintings and sketches and photographs. There was a music system with shelves of CDs beside it and, more surprisingly, a wide-screen TV.

“I enjoy watching films,” Mr Flowerdew said when he saw them looking at it, “and many of them don’t look their best crushed onto a square screen.”

David had moved across to the wall of pictures. “Look – it’s us!”

And so it was. The two of them, aged five, shining clean in new uniforms, ready for their first day at school.

“I remember Dad taking that photo,” said Kate.

“Me too. He got really annoyed because we wouldn’t stand still.”

“Weren’t we small? Yet I remember thinking I was so grown up because I was starting school.” Kate’s gaze drifted upwards. “There’s Grandma.”

Grandma Alice beamed out at them, as blue-eyed as her granddaughter, seated on a straight-backed chair with a very new baby in her arms.

“Who’s the baby?”

“It’s you, Kate.”

Mr Flowerdew was looking at the photo now.

“Is it? I’ve never seen this photo before.”

“No. I took it, and this is the only copy. You were just a week old when it was taken.”

Kate studied her tiny self with interest, not that she could see much: just a squidged-up face and one fist. Grandma looked very happy, holding her with practised ease. Round her neck Kate could make out the gold necklace that was now her own.

“Now where have I put my reading glasses …?” He patted his pockets and looked around the room. “Hmmn. They must be upstairs. Bring the project up and we’ll look at it in my study.”

The study was up two flights of stairs, and they settled there like birds amongst a fabulous clutter of objects.

An astronomical telescope stood ready by the window, with binoculars and a small notebook nearby on the windowsill. From the mantelpiece, a stuffed tawny owl surveyed the room. Its breast feathers, when Kate touched it, were impossibly soft. There were more shelves of books – many about natural history – and a neat stack of sketchbooks with a little set of watercolours beside them.

Beside the tawny owl were a number of small objects: little carvings, mostly in wood, but a couple that looked like ivory.

“Look, Kate,” said David, who had come over for a closer look. “Isn’t that the same as the one you like in the museum?”

He was pointing at a tiny otter, back legs curved, front paws pressed to the side of its head.

“Oh yes! Is it all right to touch it?”

“Go ahead. It’s survived hundreds of years of quite rough treatment. I doubt you could hurt it even if you tried.”

Kate carried it to the window where the light was better.

“This is my favourite thing in the whole museum. Oh – there’s a hole through it.”

You couldn’t see the hole unless you turned it over to see the bottom, which would have been the otter’s back.

“It would have been a fastening for a coat originally: like a toggle. There would have been a piece of sinew or something of the sort through there to attach it.”

“I love the way it holds its head in its paws.”

They wandered about the room, looking and touching to their hearts’ content as Mr Flowerdew read the project. When he finished, he said, “It’s excellent; just as I thought it would be. Strange, isn’t it, to think that we live in the same places they did, that are so different now. What would we each do if we came face to face, I wonder?” He took his glasses off, and chewed reflectively on one of the legs. “Did you know there was once a big settlement on Arthur’s Seat?”

David nodded. “Dad told me a bit about that.” He hesitated for a few seconds, then plunged on, “When we met you at the museum – not when you took us to see the stones – the first time. You knew about the project but we hadn’t told you. How did you know?” His heart was beating fast.

Mr Flowerdew beamed. “I am very old. At my age you know a great many things without having to be told. It is one of the few advantages of the ageing
process.”

It wasn’t an answer, but it was all that he got before Mr Flowerdew changed the subject.

“It’s time I started to make tea. Come down to the kitchen; I’m sure I bought some food and drink for you.”

In the big kitchen he rolled up his sleeves, tied on a long white apron like French waiters wore in films, and Kate and David busied themselves with coke and chocolate biscuits while he made an enormous pizza.

He saw them share a look of surprise as he worked. “What? You think old men can’t make pizza? Just you wait!”

Once it had gone into the oven he poured himself a big glass of red wine. “Did you know it’s good for the heart?”

“Dad always says that too,” said Kate.

They ate the pizza blistering hot. There was more than they could manage. When he was utterly, totally full, David said, “Thanks. That was delicious.”

Kate mumbled agreement through her final mouthful.

Mr Flowerdew was silent, twirling the stem of his glass between his fingers so that the wine spread in ruby veils up the sides. In the quiet, the ticking of the grandfather clock sounded very loud, and when Kate looked at Mr Flowerdew’s face he seemed suddenly sad and far away.

As though he sensed her watching, he looked up, straight into her eyes, unsmiling, something more than the old friend of her grandma’s she had always
known.

He sighed. “And now, Kate, David, there are some things I must tell you.”

They looked at each other and then back at Mr Flowerdew. What could he mean? For a moment there was silence except for the tick of the great clock.

“Time,” began Mr Flowerdew, “goes in one direction only, does it not? From the past to the future, no turning round, no going back.”

“Well, yes, of course,” said Kate.

He shook his head. “It is not inevitable that it should behave like that, and there are some whose greatest desire is to see it change. If they were to have their way, time would come unstuck; past and present would be jumbled together.”

“But that’s impossible,” said David.

Mr Flowerdew shook his head again. “Not
impossible
, only unimaginable, but if the Lords of Chaos ever have their way, that is what will happen. Opposed to them are the Guardians of Time, who fight to keep the stream of time flowing smoothly. This is a conflict that has gone on since the world first formed and will always continue, unless the Lords of Chaos win and time spins out of control forever.”

The children exchanged glances and Kate shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

“Oh come on, that’s not true. You’re just making it up as a joke. Why are you saying all this? Anyway, how would you know about it, or why wouldn’t everybody know about it?”

“I know,” he said gently, “because
I
am one of the
Guardians of Time.

“You ask why everyone would not know about this war – for that is what it is. The answer is that people are blind to most of what is around and in front of them. Sometimes a battle breaks through into the human world, and appears as a war or plague, or some event which no one can explain, but your race forgets the true significance of things quickly.

“You think I’m a delusional old man, who’s raving,” he said with a smile, “but
think
. Remember what happened in the room with the Pictish stones.”

Kate’s eyes widened as she remembered the strange buzzing. How could she have forgotten that?

“The dream,” said David wonderingly. “It’s
something
to do with the dream I’ve been having, isn’t it?”

“Tell me,” said Mr Flowerdew.

He described the lake and its stony shore and, his voice a little unsteady, his fear of the unknown presence. “I’m scared I’m going to see whatever it is before I can wake up.”

Mr Flowerdew steepled his fingers and sat in silence for a few seconds. “What about your dream, Kate?”

“How did you know?” She hadn’t meant to sound angry, but she did.

“From your face. Tell me, please.”

So she described the desert and the wolves and the dripping figure of Tethys.

When she had finished, he drew himself up straight in his chair. “This is one of the occasions when the war between Chaos and Time is breaking through to your world. I’m not surprised you both dreamed in the
museum, for it is the focus of what is happening.”

“Why?” asked David, drawn along, for the moment, with the old man’s story.

“Power! It is a focus because of all the powerful objects held there. This power has been building up for years, like water behind a dam, and since the Duddingston Hoard was found …”

“The Duddingston Hoard? What’s that?”

“To the eye, nothing more than a cache of old and broken weapons; but the power of the Guardians was poured into some of those weapons at their forging, for they were made for one of the great battles between Time and Chaos, three thousand years ago. After the battle, they were thrown into the loch to take them out of the world of men and dissipate their power. They should not have been taken from the loch. Now there is too much power for the dam to contain and it has begun to leak; in Edinburgh, time is coming unstuck.

“It has always been a city where the past has left a strong imprint, and it is easier here than it would be in most places for the Lords to open the door to the past a little. We push it shut from the present of course, but it is slowly opening, and the past is rising up all around us.”

He rubbed a hand across his face, as though he was suddenly very tired. “I’m truly sorry that I have to involve you in this, but there is no help for it. I know that what I say sounds incredible, but please think about what I have told you and consider whether it could be true, because without your help, I do not know how the Guardians can force the door to the past shut.”

“Our help?” It was Kate who spoke. “How could we
possibly help? We’re eleven years old.”

“I don’t want …” Whatever Mr Flowerdew was about to say was interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. He looked at his watch in surprise. “It’s later than I thought,” he said. “That must be your mother, Kate. All I ask is that you think about what I have said and, if you decide it could be true, let me tell you more about it. Now, Kate, you had better let your mother in.”

Kate got up slowly, dazed with words, and went to the front door. David made to follow, but Mr Flowerdew put a hand on his arm. “David, I know your dream is frightening you. It cannot hurt you, I promise you that; but as long as you are afraid, it has power over you. Next time it comes, raise your head and find out who is there with you.”

“You two are very quiet,” said Ruth on the way home. “Is something wrong?”

“No.”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“What did you do?”

“We looked round the house – there are loads of interesting things.”

“And he made really good pizza for tea.”

“And we talked.”

“Yes, we talked.”

“That’s all.”

Mary Sinclair locked the door behind her and put the key in her pocket. It was a beautiful bright autumn morning, a touch of frost in the air. She could see her own breath and that of the dog hanging in the air as they walked into Holyrood Park and up the path towards Dunsapie Loch.

Once they had crossed over the road she took off Holly’s lead and the Jack Russell ran off up the hill at once, barking happily. Mary stayed just above the road, breathing the sharp air deeply, knowing that Holly wouldn’t stray too far.

The dog began to bark again, as though she’d seen a rabbit – common enough up here. Mary looked to see where she was; while Holly was normally obedient, she might well take off after a rabbit.

The dog was standing still, hackles up, barking furiously at something on the skyline, not a rabbit after all. Mary squinted up; she really should get glasses, she couldn’t see very clearly at that distance.

“Holly, stop barking! It’s just people out for a walk, like us.”

Five people were silhouetted against the sky. She couldn’t make sense of their clothes, they looked odd somehow; and they were carrying long sticks.

“Holly!”

The dog wouldn’t stop barking; Mary climbed up to where she was and clipped the lead back onto her collar, then looked up again.

They were still there with their sticks, sharp against the skyline in a huddled group. The low sun glanced off the end of one shaft as though there were metal there.

Mary felt the hair rise on the back of her neck.

“Come on, Holly,” she said quietly, pulling on the lead. “Let’s go home now.”

As the pair of them headed back down the hill she glanced over her shoulder frequently, watching the figures on the horizon until the slope of the ground hid them from view.

“Well, what do you think?” David tore off a piece of bread and threw it into the water for the ducks to fight over.

It was the day after their extraordinary visit to Mr Flowerdew. When Kate had phoned David to suggest a walk to Blackford Pond he had accepted at once.

There was an eruption of quacking as three mallard laid claim to the same piece of bread.

Kate shook her head. “I don’t know what to think. He’s probably just a crazy old man, but …”

“But everything fits, doesn’t it?”

“It’s still impossible. It must just be a whole lot of coincidences and him trying to entertain us with a story or something. He’s probably having a good laugh at us right now.”

David looked at her, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. Instead she reached into the bag for another piece of bread to give to the geese milling about their feet.

“You don’t believe what you’re saying,” David said.

She threw down the handful of bread she’d been holding. “It can’t be true. This sort of thing only happens in TV programmes.”

“Okay. What about the dreams we’ve been having?”

“Coincidence.”

“And what happened in the room with the stones?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Kate pushed her hair behind her ears and reached for another slice of bread.

“I’m scared too, you know,” said David. “The dream scares me. I don’t want to go to sleep, even though I haven’t had it again since the museum.”

They moved away from the geese and began to walk slowly round the pond.

“Just say it
is
true,” mused Kate, “then why us? There’s nothing special about either of us, and Mr Flowerdew must know that.”

David didn’t reply.

“We have to go back and see him again, don’t we?” she went on. “We have to find out more: hear what he has to say and then make up our own minds. I bet if we go back there ready for what he might tell us we’ll realise he’s just a silly old fool.”

Still, David said nothing.

“You believe him already, don’t you?”

“Sort of. I don’t know why; it’s just a feeling. Maybe you’re right: it’s all a story and the dreams are just dreams. I hope you are.”

They had reached the far end of the pond.

“Do you want to go up the hill?”

“Okay.”

There were rough steps up the side of the hill, their cut earth stabilised by old wooden railway sleepers. When they got to the top they turned to look over the roofs and trees spread below them. It was windy up here, though it had been calm enough down by the pond. There were a few brambles still clinging to their thorny stems, missed somehow by those who descended with bags and bowls as soon as they were ripe. Kate pulled a few to eat, but they were half dried out and had lost their sweetness, and she threw them down the hill instead.

“Okay. We need to see Mr Flowerdew to sort all this out,” said Kate. “Can we just tell our parents we want to go and see him again? They might think that’s odd – after all, we’ve known him for years without wanting to go and see him all the time.”

“Yes, but we’d never been to his house before and it
was
really interesting even if nothing had happened, and your mum knows him really well; it’s not as if he’s some stranger we want to see.”

“I suppose so.” Kate shivered. “It’s getting cold. Let’s go back.”

By the time they reached David’s house they’d come up with a way of asking to visit Mr Flowerdew without seeming desperate, but their inventiveness was wasted. The first thing David’s dad said when he opened the door was, “Mr Flowerdew’s just been on the phone. You forgot to take that set of oil pastels away with you,
David. I said you’d go round on Wednesday after school to get them. He seemed to think you’d be going as well Kate, but you’d better check that it’s okay with your parents. You didn’t say anything about the pastels when you got home, David.”

“Ummm … no, I forgot.”

“It’s not very good manners to forget when someone’s given you a present. Make sure you apologise on Wednesday.”

“Yes, I will, Dad.”

Safe in David’s room they exchanged wide-eyed glances.

“There wasn’t any set of pastels, was there?”

“No. I would hardly forget to take something like that with me.”

David flopped onto his bed, kicking off his shoes.

Kate sat down next to him. “You’d almost think he knew we were trying to find an excuse to see him.”

“He did.”

“What?” She turned to look at him properly.

“Well, can you think of a better explanation?”

“It could be a coincidence. Maybe he meant to give them to you and forgot.”

“Yeah, right. Come on, Kate, you don’t believe that any more than I do. Why won’t you be honest with yourself about this?”

She turned away to the window and looked out over the garden, struggling with herself. Finally, she said:

“Because if I keep pretending, then maybe none of it will be true. I wish I’d never heard what he told us yesterday. I want life to stay normal.”

“So do I,” David said from the bed, “but if what he told us is true, then pretending isn’t going to help, is it?”