the door closing behind me sounded distant. I spun round, and to my amazement saw that the door was ten, maybe fifteen metres away.
‘A remarkable room isn’t it,’ Marcus said, his voice soft. ‘There was only one other like it. At Lord’s. But not any more.’
I stared around in wonder. The walls were lined with old, half-burnt cricket stumps, a gold plaque beneath each one. A dull glow from the far wall cast an eerie gloom and the lanterns around the room made our shadows flicker on the walls.
‘What do you mean?’ Jim said.
‘The Lord’s Sanctum has been destroyed by Malchev.’
Jim froze and I felt the heavy weight of his hand on my shoulder. ‘Lord’s?’ he whispered.
‘I am afraid so,’ Marcus said.
I barely heard Marcus’s words. We had reached the other end of the room and I was gaping at the wall lined with Wisden covers, each inside its own glass case. Some of them were glowing.
‘Travellers,’ Marcus said, pointing to one of the glowing covers. ‘See how brightly the 1967 Wisden shines? That’s because it’s being used by two parties at the moment: you and me.’
A faint humming noise came from above. As we watched, one of the glowing Wisden s dulled, like a spotlight slowly fading. In a moment its cover was back in shadow.
‘Does that mean someone’s just returned from a travel?’ I whispered, amazed at this incredible wall of Wisden s.
‘Indeed,’ Marcus said. ‘If any of these Wisdens glows, we know there is a traveller using that edition to travel back in time. The brighter it glows, the more travellers are using it.’
I gazed around the chamber. Apart from the stumps and plaques near where we’d entered, and the Wisden s in their glass tombs, there was nothing except a rough-looking bed with a small bedside table. On the table stood a large candle.
‘Is this place real?’ I gasped. It was almost like a cave.
‘Oh yes, real enough,’ muttered Marcus. ‘The Sanctum is the home of the Cricket Lord. He has special powers that enable him to be away from here for days on end, roaming the world, watching cricket matches in whatever time he pleases, and as often—’
‘Marcus!’ Jim called sharply. ‘1967. Look!’
The humming noise from above increased slightly as the book glowed brighter.
‘Three travellers to this Test match,’ Marcus muttered. ‘I don’t like it. Malchev might already be aware of us. Come.’
He walked back towards the entrance, but not before I’d seen the worried look he gave Jim. Something big was about to happen. Maybe something bad.
‘What are the stumps for?’ I asked.
‘You’re about to find out,’ said Jim.
We stopped in front of one of the stumps, which leaned out from the wall at a 45-degree angle. The top half looked normal enough—although the wood was a darker brown than the pale colour I was used to—but the bottom section was burnt black and charred. I looked at the gold plaque beneath it and read the inscription aloud:
‘Jim Oldfield. Cricket Lord, Melbourne—1950.’
‘What’s going on?’ Ally asked.
‘I will explain it all fully later,’ Jim said, looking at Ally and me, ‘For the moment all you need to know is that this stump represents me as a Cricket Lord. These stumps are crafted from the very wood that was used to make Father Time—the famous weather vane at Lord’s—and are the essence of what it means to be a Cricket Lord. The wood holds magical properties that none of us is fully aware of, but when part of the stump is burned and the smoke inhaled—’
Marcus coughed. ‘Jim, we may not have much time.’
It all sounded crazy to me.
Jim smiled. ‘It’s all in the ashes, Toby. The ashes from the stumps here.’
‘The Ashes?’ I said, staring wide-eyed at the stump Marcus was now holding.
‘Not the Ashes, no. But the concept is not dissimilar.’
I knew the story about how the burnt remains ofa bail from a game between England and Australia—which Australia had won—had been
‘A remarkable room isn’t it,’ Marcus said, his voice soft. ‘There was only one other like it. At Lord’s. But not any more.’
I stared around in wonder. The walls were lined with old, half-burnt cricket stumps, a gold plaque beneath each one. A dull glow from the far wall cast an eerie gloom and the lanterns around the room made our shadows flicker on the walls.
‘What do you mean?’ Jim said.
‘The Lord’s Sanctum has been destroyed by Malchev.’
Jim froze and I felt the heavy weight of his hand on my shoulder. ‘Lord’s?’ he whispered.
‘I am afraid so,’ Marcus said.
I barely heard Marcus’s words. We had reached the other end of the room and I was gaping at the wall lined with Wisden covers, each inside its own glass case. Some of them were glowing.
‘Travellers,’ Marcus said, pointing to one of the glowing covers. ‘See how brightly the 1967 Wisden shines? That’s because it’s being used by two parties at the moment: you and me.’
A faint humming noise came from above. As we watched, one of the glowing Wisden s dulled, like a spotlight slowly fading. In a moment its cover was back in shadow.
‘Does that mean someone’s just returned from a travel?’ I whispered, amazed at this incredible wall of Wisden s.
‘Indeed,’ Marcus said. ‘If any of these Wisdens glows, we know there is a traveller using that edition to travel back in time. The brighter it glows, the more travellers are using it.’
I gazed around the chamber. Apart from the stumps and plaques near where we’d entered, and the Wisden s in their glass tombs, there was nothing except a rough-looking bed with a small bedside table. On the table stood a large candle.
‘Is this place real?’ I gasped. It was almost like a cave.
‘Oh yes, real enough,’ muttered Marcus. ‘The Sanctum is the home of the Cricket Lord. He has special powers that enable him to be away from here for days on end, roaming the world, watching cricket matches in whatever time he pleases, and as often—’
‘Marcus!’ Jim called sharply. ‘1967. Look!’
The humming noise from above increased slightly as the book glowed brighter.
‘Three travellers to this Test match,’ Marcus muttered. ‘I don’t like it. Malchev might already be aware of us. Come.’
He walked back towards the entrance, but not before I’d seen the worried look he gave Jim. Something big was about to happen. Maybe something bad.
‘What are the stumps for?’ I asked.
‘You’re about to find out,’ said Jim.
We stopped in front of one of the stumps, which leaned out from the wall at a 45-degree angle. The top half looked normal enough—although the wood was a darker brown than the pale colour I was used to—but the bottom section was burnt black and charred. I looked at the gold plaque beneath it and read the inscription aloud:
‘Jim Oldfield. Cricket Lord, Melbourne—1950.’
‘What’s going on?’ Ally asked.
‘I will explain it all fully later,’ Jim said, looking at Ally and me, ‘For the moment all you need to know is that this stump represents me as a Cricket Lord. These stumps are crafted from the very wood that was used to make Father Time—the famous weather vane at Lord’s—and are the essence of what it means to be a Cricket Lord. The wood holds magical properties that none of us is fully aware of, but when part of the stump is burned and the smoke inhaled—’
Marcus coughed. ‘Jim, we may not have much time.’
It all sounded crazy to me.
Jim smiled. ‘It’s all in the ashes, Toby. The ashes from the stumps here.’
‘The Ashes?’ I said, staring wide-eyed at the stump Marcus was now holding.
‘Not the Ashes, no. But the concept is not dissimilar.’
I knew the story about how the burnt remains ofa bail from a game between England and Australia—which Australia had won—had been
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