Read Online The Turnarounders and the Arbuckle Rescue by Lou Heneghan - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lou Heneghan
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I’ve got it!’ He leapt up again as an idea came to him. ‘Prompts!’
‘Eh?’ said Alfie.
‘I need to find something to prompt you. Get those memories clicking into gear. Let’s start with me!’ Ambrose extracted a thick encyclopaedia from the mess of other books and papers on the table. ‘Here. Look at this!’ He gestured to an entry at the bottom of the page. It was a dark, Victorian illustration of an old hooded man carrying an hourglass in one hand and a scythe in the other. The caption beneath it read: Detail of Old Father Time in pen and ink drawing by William Smith (1856). It took a second for Ralf to see it, the man in the picture had longer hair and a beard, but the similarity between him and the man next to him was striking.
‘It’s you!’ Valen exclaimed.
‘They never get my good side,’ Ambrose said gloomily.
‘You’re kidding me!’ Ralf’s eyes darted back and forth between the picture and the man as if he was at a tennis match. ‘You’re Old Father Time!’
‘The word ‘Old’ is a bit redundant in my line of work.’
This time nobody spoke. The five just looked at him in confusion.
‘Okay. I get that Death isn’t a person, yeah,’ said Alfie, eventually finding his voice. ‘I’ve seen him in films and stuff but he’s made up. But I still don’t get who you are. How can you be Time? I mean that’s a – an abstract idea thingy too, innit?’
‘The problem’s in the name, you see. In Britain they call me Old Father Time, but I have many other names too – Ambrose, or rather Ambrosius, was the name I was using when we first met. It means ‘immortal’. So do quite a few of my other names, as it happens – Phoenix (flashy, I know, I usually save that one for special occasions), Aeon, Barinthus, Chronos –’
‘No way!’ Ralf exclaimed. That did it. The name was like an electric shock and Ralf’s heart thumped so loudly he was sure the others could hear it.
‘That’s the name, Wolf! I can see it means something to you!’ Ambrose clapped his hands in glee. ‘Now for the job. The job should bring it back! I am a Pilot, a navigator of sorts, you know, like the little tugs they use to guide the big ships into harbour.’ Ralf gave a slow nod and Ambrose, encouraged by this reaction went on. ‘Clear enough, I hear you say, except I don’t guide ships – it’s my job to navigate Time.’
‘I still don’t get you,’ said Alfie. He seemed to have lost his initial shyness and was now munching happily on an iced bun as he listened.
‘The idea’s simple,’ Ambrose explained. ‘My job is to make sure things happen as they are supposed to and all at the proper moment. I don’t like to brag, but I’ve been doing this – well, forever really – and I’m quite good at it. I follow the rules. And there are rules. It’s like I was telling you before, Valen. I see out the old and bring in the new. But I don’t make things happen. I don’t interfere with people’s choices.’
‘So you just stand by and watch people die,’ said Valen, accusingly. ‘That’s horrible.’
‘It’s Nature,’ said Ambrose. ‘Everything has its time. Even I can’t change that. I just keep things ticking over. Anyway, for a long time things went like clockwork – the first fifty million years or so were pretty dull, if you want the honest truth. But The Battle of Darkling Vale changed everything.’
‘Battle?’ Ralf asked. The name seemed familiar.
‘Still nothing? Well, let’s see if I can’t give your minds a little jog there too...’ Ambrose strode across the tent to the tapestry on the far wall and extended a finger. What happened next made Ralf’s legs shake and he had to hold on to his cake to stop it falling to the floor. He heard gasps and cries of wonder from the others.
Where Ambrose’s finger had touched the surface of the tapestry a pool of bright colour formed. It flowed across the stitching like the ripples on a pond and where it touched, the
‘Eh?’ said Alfie.
‘I need to find something to prompt you. Get those memories clicking into gear. Let’s start with me!’ Ambrose extracted a thick encyclopaedia from the mess of other books and papers on the table. ‘Here. Look at this!’ He gestured to an entry at the bottom of the page. It was a dark, Victorian illustration of an old hooded man carrying an hourglass in one hand and a scythe in the other. The caption beneath it read: Detail of Old Father Time in pen and ink drawing by William Smith (1856). It took a second for Ralf to see it, the man in the picture had longer hair and a beard, but the similarity between him and the man next to him was striking.
‘It’s you!’ Valen exclaimed.
‘They never get my good side,’ Ambrose said gloomily.
‘You’re kidding me!’ Ralf’s eyes darted back and forth between the picture and the man as if he was at a tennis match. ‘You’re Old Father Time!’
‘The word ‘Old’ is a bit redundant in my line of work.’
This time nobody spoke. The five just looked at him in confusion.
‘Okay. I get that Death isn’t a person, yeah,’ said Alfie, eventually finding his voice. ‘I’ve seen him in films and stuff but he’s made up. But I still don’t get who you are. How can you be Time? I mean that’s a – an abstract idea thingy too, innit?’
‘The problem’s in the name, you see. In Britain they call me Old Father Time, but I have many other names too – Ambrose, or rather Ambrosius, was the name I was using when we first met. It means ‘immortal’. So do quite a few of my other names, as it happens – Phoenix (flashy, I know, I usually save that one for special occasions), Aeon, Barinthus, Chronos –’
‘No way!’ Ralf exclaimed. That did it. The name was like an electric shock and Ralf’s heart thumped so loudly he was sure the others could hear it.
‘That’s the name, Wolf! I can see it means something to you!’ Ambrose clapped his hands in glee. ‘Now for the job. The job should bring it back! I am a Pilot, a navigator of sorts, you know, like the little tugs they use to guide the big ships into harbour.’ Ralf gave a slow nod and Ambrose, encouraged by this reaction went on. ‘Clear enough, I hear you say, except I don’t guide ships – it’s my job to navigate Time.’
‘I still don’t get you,’ said Alfie. He seemed to have lost his initial shyness and was now munching happily on an iced bun as he listened.
‘The idea’s simple,’ Ambrose explained. ‘My job is to make sure things happen as they are supposed to and all at the proper moment. I don’t like to brag, but I’ve been doing this – well, forever really – and I’m quite good at it. I follow the rules. And there are rules. It’s like I was telling you before, Valen. I see out the old and bring in the new. But I don’t make things happen. I don’t interfere with people’s choices.’
‘So you just stand by and watch people die,’ said Valen, accusingly. ‘That’s horrible.’
‘It’s Nature,’ said Ambrose. ‘Everything has its time. Even I can’t change that. I just keep things ticking over. Anyway, for a long time things went like clockwork – the first fifty million years or so were pretty dull, if you want the honest truth. But The Battle of Darkling Vale changed everything.’
‘Battle?’ Ralf asked. The name seemed familiar.
‘Still nothing? Well, let’s see if I can’t give your minds a little jog there too...’ Ambrose strode across the tent to the tapestry on the far wall and extended a finger. What happened next made Ralf’s legs shake and he had to hold on to his cake to stop it falling to the floor. He heard gasps and cries of wonder from the others.
Where Ambrose’s finger had touched the surface of the tapestry a pool of bright colour formed. It flowed across the stitching like the ripples on a pond and where it touched, the
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