Seeds of Time

S
EEDS OF
T
IME

For Meaghan Jean, the reader,
and for Audrey Jean, who read to both of us.

kc dyer

Copyright © kc dyer, 2002

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency.

Editor: Barry Jowett
Copy-Editor: Andrea Pruss
Design: Jennifer Scott
Printer: Webcom

National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data

Dyer, K. C
    Seeds of time / K.C. Dyer.

ISBN 1-55002-414-0

      I. Title.

PS8557.Y474S4 2002   jC813'.6   C2002-902281-9   PR9199.4.D94S4 2002

1     2     3     4     5         06     05     04     03     02

We acknowledge the support of the
Canada Council for the Arts
and the
Ontario Arts Council
for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the
Government of Canada
through the
Book Publishing Industry Development Program
and
The Association for the Export of Canadian Books
, and the
Government of Ontario
through the
Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit
program.

Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credit in subsequent editions.

J. Kirk Howard
,
President

Printed and bound in Canada.
    Printed on recycled paper.    
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A girl, a beginning, a terrible start,

A school guards a cliff, dark and old...

A brief gleam of brightness, a light in the dark,

Argument, friendship grown cold.

Some questions, a lesson, a taste of black death,

A strange shattered home on the shore,

Portraits and secrets, a bully bereft,

A sad tale never spoken before.

Mystery deep, contraband under rocks,

A surprise in the cliffs near the tide,

A journey, new terrors, a horrible shock,

A face old and new for a guide.

Ancient world with young eyes,

black and sick, plagued with fear,

Attempted kidnap, run or die.

Return and regret...

...Glyphs aglow, secret shared,

Travellers three, side by side.

Ainslie, a tour; and a call to the feast,

Chief of the Guard in his prime,

A traitor unveiled, a secret released,

A battle, two friends lost in time.

When hours mean days, a race must rule all,

Voices, the dark and the sea,

Return to the past. Who is safe? Who did fall?

A message, a life legacy.

One last long journey home...

... a fight on the shore,

Little hope for a life lost to crime,

A short talk in a cave, a new school is born,

Could the future hold more seeds of time...?

I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to the readers and writers in my life, for it is their encouragement that has made this book possible. Thanks to my friends Linda and David Horspool, Meghan Wray, Penny McDonald, and Deborah Anderson, and to Jim Cummings's class at Gleneagles School for the patient listening, discussion, and reading that went into making this book. I am grateful to the members of the CompuServe Literary Forum and the North Shore Writers' Association for their sharp eyes and warm guidance, and to the wonderful Canadian writers Marsha Skrypuch and Shelley Hrdlitschka for their generous and gracious support. Special thanks go out to Barry Jowett for his hard work and kind words. And thanks most of all to Meaghan and Peter for the unwavering love they give to their baggy-eyed mother, the midnight writer.

The wheels of the Volvo spat gravel as they pulled into what looked like a country lane.

“I hope this is the correct turn,” Dr. Connor muttered. “They did say there wouldn't be a school sign.” The only indication on the highway was a small notice reading PRIVATE ROAD. The road turned out to be a long, winding driveway into the school grounds. The breeze that had been blowing all morning stirred the green and wine-coloured leaves of the maples and cherries lining the drive, but the ornamental trees blocked out much of the view of the grounds.

Darrell felt a sudden sense of panic. “Mom, this place seems so weird. Wouldn't you rather have me with you this summer? I don't need to go to an art school over the summer break. I'll just bring my supplies and follow you around. What could be more
inspirational to an artist than spending the summer in Europe?”

Dr. Connor shook her head firmly. “I'm sorry, Darrell. If this were a sightseeing trip or even a business trip with conventional hours I would love to have you with me.” She gripped the wheel and glanced at Darrell. “I hate being away from you for any length of time, sweetheart.”

Darrell pounded her fist on her knee, furious. “Don't call me sweetheart! That was Dad's name for me. I hate it when you call me that.” Her hands were shaking, and she looked out the window, her eyes hot.

Dr. Connor bit her lip and then reached over and took Darrell's hand. “This symposium is run by Doctors Without Borders, Darrell. It's an intensive four-week session that involves surgical observations during the day and lectures at night. I just won't have any free time. Besides,” she added, glancing sideways at Darrell's red face, “the last time we talked about this, you said you were ready to have some time on your own. School's been out for two weeks already, and we agreed that this summer school would be the perfect compromise.” She rubbed Darrell's arm. “It's close to home, a chance to work on your favourite subject, and it's something to do away from your own school and, er, friends ...” she finished lamely.

“That's just your way of saying that I no longer have any friends,” Darrell said stonily. She yanked her
arm out of her mother's grasp. “Some great friends they must have been to begin with, too.”

Dr. Connor's face reddened. “Darrell, we can't change the past. You are angry, and you have a right to be. But don't blame your friends for not sticking around. After the accident, you lost something. I don't know what it is ... your sense of humour, or something. You seem so angry all the time now. You've scared all your friends away.”

Darrell stared furiously at her feet while her mother fished between the seats and pulled a pamphlet out from the pile of papers stuffed against the hand brake. Still watching the road, she held out the pamphlet.

“It's time for you to join the world again, Darrell. This camp is a chance to make some new friends. And you won't be entirely alone. Kate Clancy is going to be there, too.”

Darrell looked sharply at her mother. “I haven't spoken to Kate since the accident, Mom. She probably doesn't even remember who I am.”

Dr. Connor sighed. “Of course she remembers you, Darrell. When I ran into her mother at the hospital last month, she told me about this summer school. She said she was sending Kate and she thought you might be interested, too.”

Darrell leaned back in her seat and rubbed the brace on her right leg absently.

“Why would Kate want to go to an art school over the summer? She hates art! She only loves computers. She's always carrying that laptop around with her. She even takes notes on it in school. There is nothing about an art school that she'd like.”

A buzzing sound filled the car, and Dr. Connor reached over and flipped off her cell phone impatiently. “It's not just an art school, Darrell.” She pointed to the pamphlet in Darrell's hand. “Look, I talked at great length to the principal last week, and it sounds like a fabulous place. I trust the judgment of Kate's mother. And remember,” she added, “I'm only in Europe for a month. If you really hate the place, I'll come and get you as soon as I get back. You can spend the rest of August at home when I go back to work.”

Darrell sighed. She stuck her charcoal pencil behind her ear and craned her neck to see through the trees. Her drawing pad lay cast aside on the car seat, a half-completed landscape on the open page. A large backpack sat on the floor of the front seat, jammed full of art supplies.

“This place seems like it's in the middle of nowhere,” she complained. “I can't see anything except a lot of trees.”

“Relax, Darrell, we're almost there. The school is supposed to be right on the water, so I'm sure there will be more than just trees to look at.” Darrell's mother checked her watch impatiently. The car bounced along
a little faster than was strictly necessary, spewing gravel as they rounded the turns. They swept around a final, sharp corner and the buildings of Eagle Glen School emerged in front of them.

The driveway circled right up to the front door of a grey building, which appeared to be an old lodge surrounded by outbuildings of various shapes and sizes. Behind the buildings, a scant hundred metres of winding paths led down a series of bluffs to the beach. Darrell stepped out of the car and looked around, feeling wary. The quiet, with only the sounds of the wind and the surf, leant an air of desertion to the grounds of the school. She couldn't see any trace of human habitation. A small sign of painted iron, supported by two low posts, was the only indication they had indeed found Eagle Glen School.