Forever Shores (39 page)

I'm ageing. I don't feel any older than thirty, but I look it. My skin is drier and creased. My cheekbones are more prominent. My eyelids are different, too. Saggy. There are a few strands of white in my hair.

I tried to estimate how much time I have spent in the room. More than a day for a day. More than two, sometimes. Weekends might have stretched to a week. During times of inspiration, I came out only to go to the toilet. I've often wished that whoever had created the room had included one. Often I went into the time room so laden down with food that I could barely carry my painting materials as well.

If I've spent a day inside for every day outside, then I must be thirty-five years old!

Monday 24th July

I haven't entered the room since Sunday. I'm worried that I'm addicted to it. The side-effect of this addiction is premature ageing. I have to think about what I might miss if I continue living this way.

Like a boyfriend or husband. It sounds terrible, but I've been single for ten years. Oh, I've had a few brief relationships, but I was afraid to get too close in case they found out about the room. And children. But I've never felt any great desire to have any, really. I assumed that a day would come when I'd know it was time to do the husband-and-kids thing, but that day hasn't come yet. Perhaps it never would have, whether I'd found the time room or not.

I think I should spend some time away from the room and try to sort out what I want from life.

Sunday 27th August

I've started a new series of paintings. It sounds corny, but they are of clocks and time pieces. They're realistic and intricate, and take many weeks to complete. The first one I did was of women lying in a circle with their feet touching. The woman at one o'clock is young. The woman at six is middle-aged. The woman at twelve is old. I painted the hour-hand at four and the minute-hand at twelve. All the woman have their arms around each other's shoulders.

After this one I did the same thing, but developed it further. The young woman is larger, brighter and a little blurred and faded. The middle-aged woman is in focus, but smaller. The old woman is smaller still, and in shadow. The effect is of a flat cod slowly retreating into the distance.

I see time symbols in everything. I was inspired when I looked down at my tools and saw that a paint tube with a pear-shaped spurt of paint below it, looked like an hourglass. I did a picture of this, too.

The hourglass shape is in everything. I paint thousands of them, in miniature, to make up large, ordinary objects. I paint enormous hourglasses with thousands of ordinary objects inside them. My favourite is of a giant hourglass with a crowd of women standing inside the top half. One is diving gracefully through the aperture. Below her is a mound of sleeping, contented women.

Tuesday 5th March

Michelle gave me yet another cheque today. I didn't know what to do with it. I have all the paints I need, and the house is full of nice furniture. She suggested I buy a sports car, or a home entertainment system, or go on a holiday, and I nearly took her advice.

But then I thought: why bother? I don't drive much any more, and I wouldn't use the home entertainment system. I don't want to leave my house to go anywhere. I have everything I've ever wanted. I told her to send the money to a charity.

Since I gave up work I don't see people very often. I don't want to leave my house. I'm afraid people will discover my room while I'm gone, or that people will wonder why someone in their mid-thirties, who doesn't drink or smoke and didn't spend their youth trying to get a good tan, looks like someone in their sixties.

There's only so much that creams and powders will hide.

Friday 19th May

I've become quite morbid lately. I've started wondering what would happen if I died in the time room. If I had been taken in there by someone else, would I come alive again if they left the room without me? I guess I'll never know. I've never shown anyone else the room, and I don't intend to.

No one can enter after I do, however. Time does not pass in the outside world while I'm in it, so there is no way someone can happen upon the room and open it, thus discovering my body.

But if I died in there, and the room remained ‘activated', time would keep stretching out. Would that moment keep expanding forever, or would there come a point when the ‘bubble' of time would burst?

Or is the room set to expel its contents if the person who activated it died in there?

Wednesday 12th November

I haven't written in this diary for a long time. As always, I was afraid my family would find it if I took it to hospital with me. They might read it in the hope of finding a reason for my mysterious ‘disease'.

I wish I didn't have to put up with these tests, but I can't pretend that there isn't anything wrong with me. The doctors have decided I have a rare ageing disease. Accelerated ageing syndrome, they call it. The same disease suffered by those sad little children I've seen on television. It's something they're born with. The doctors are really puzzled about me, since I appear to have manifested the syndrome in my forties. And what really has them perplexed is that I should have something wrong with my genes, but I don't.

They've finally decided they can't do anything about it. So they sent me home and encouraged me to make the most of my life, doing the things I enjoy. Like painting. Mum and Dad come around every day or so. I wish I could tell them the truth, but I can't risk it.

Though the room won't be of use to me for much longer, I don't want it to fall into the wrong hands after I'm gone.

I'm enjoying spending more time with my parents, though. I haven't seen as much of them as I might have if I hadn't discovered the time room. And we have more in common now that we're almost the same physical age.

Friday 14th July

Michelle visited me here in hospital today and brought me my diaries, as I had asked. She told me that I had won an award. The hospital staff made a big fuss, which was nice. Michelle told them that my paintings are hanging on walls all over the globe. I like the thought that my art has travelled to far-off places. Nobody will ever know how much work and sacrifice was behind my success, but I don't think anyone, except perhaps another artist, can really understand that anyway.

My house was sold yesterday, which is why I risked having my diaries brought to me. They will be sent to the new owner. I had Michelle search for talented creative people who needed a big break. I insisted on being able to interview them myself. I had their entire lives investigated, just to be sure. I don't want my gift to end up in the wrong hands.

Today a shy, young man with a great talent for music will be exploring his new home. I wish I could be there to see him discover the time room. In my mind, I see him skimming over the books and trying the bone flute. It is winter, but it is strangely warm and he can't find the switches to turn off the lights. He'll find his watch is running too fast, or that something he has taken into the room with him flies out of the door when he leaves. Or he'll try to take a book out, and find it won't move past an invisible barrier at the entrance. I see him returning with one of his many instruments, and making beautiful music in that quiet place.

And I see the sunflowers there on the shelves, beautiful forever.

Waste
Michael Pryor

‘The Brigade isn't for you, lad,' said Captain Dar. ‘Leave now, go home, raise children.' He glared with red-rimmed eyes, stubble on his face. ‘Are you going to finish that drink?'

Tilden Lambholder looked down at the glass that Captain Dar had thrust towards him. ‘No sir.'

‘Good.' The captain reached across the desk and swooped on the glass. He threw the brandy down his throat as if it were medicine. ‘I mean it, lad. Go home. Don't make the same mistake I did.'

‘But sir! I've always wanted to be in the Brigade! It's been my dream!'

Captain Dar smiled a little at that, but it was a wintry smile. ‘Forty-two years ago I said the same thing, lad, on my first day in the Brigade. I wish someone told me then what I'm telling you now.'

Lambholder sat back in his chair. Captain Dar's office was small. It looked as if it was trying to work its way up from dilapidated to shabby, but was losing the struggle. Piles of papers stood on the desk and most of the floor. Some had toppled over but the dust that lay on them seemed to indicate that this event happened a long time ago.

Only two features of this room looked at all cared for. One was a calendar, with dates conscientiously marked off. The other was a shelf that stretched along one wall. On it were earthenware and metal crucibles. Most were old and battered, some were badly cracked. They ranged in size from one the size of a teacup to one made of rusty iron, a hand-span tall.

Dates had been scratched into these crucibles, or splashed on with paint. ‘Argan Heights, 876', ‘Tanniput, 879', ‘Outskirts of Shandler'.

Lambholder noticed, with some interest, that a few of these pots still glimmered from the magic they had once held safely.

A single grimy window gave a view of the gates to the depot. A collection of buildings stood around sheepishly. They looked as if they'd been painted in the past, but these days didn't have anything to do with fancy muck like that. A haze hovered over this depressing scene, and seemed to come from several pillars of smoke or vapour behind the buildings.

‘You don't mean it, sir,' Lambholder said stoutly. ‘You don't really mean I should go home and not join up.'

‘Oh yes I do,' Captain Dar said softly. ‘The Brigade is a laughing stock. The lowest foot soldier in the army looks down on us. The swabbies on our war galleys lord it over us. Even the low life in the city watch think they're a cut above us. You don't want to be part of that. Get yourself a respectable job. Take up cobbling. Cobbling's always good.'

This wasn't what Tilden Lambholder had been expecting when he'd farewelled his white-haired mother and ten white-haired aunts days ago. After all, tales of the Brigade had been his bedtime stories since he was small. ‘No sir. It's the Brigade for me.'

Captain Dar put down his glass, placed both elbows on the desk, cradled his chin in his hands and studied Lambholder with pity. ‘And why, lad? Why this demented dream to join the Brigade?'

Lambholder's huge frame squirmed a little in his seat before he caught himself and sat up straight. ‘It's honourable, sir, the Brigade is. Doing something for people, helping others.'

‘Oh yes. It does that.'

‘And …' Lambholder hesitated.

‘And?'

‘And it's in the family, sir. My da was in the service.'

Captain Dar closed his eyes and bowed his head. ‘I should have known. Thirteen months to retirement and this happens,' he mumbled. He looked up and studied the ceiling. ‘Your father was Felden Lambholder, wasn't he?'

‘Yes sir! The bravest, most reliable, most hardworking corpsman ever!'

Captain Dar nodded slowly. ‘Your ma told you that, did she?'

‘Yes sir! And my ten aunts. I never knew my da, of course, but I've heard all about him.'

‘And did they tell you how he bought the farm?'

‘The farm? We had a farm long before Da joined the Brigade.'

‘Cashed it in, lad. Have his number come up. Bit the big one.'

‘Sir?'

‘Died, lad. Did they tell you how he died?'

‘Well, they said it was heroically defending his friends, giving his life so that others—'

‘Short on detail, were they?'

‘In a manner of speaking,' Lambholder said stiffly. His father's demise had always been spoken of in hushed whispers. In the great store of stories about Felden Lambholder that his mother and his ten aunts would tell throughout the long frigid nights of Upper Harkbut, Felden Lambholder's last stand was the least repeated.

‘So they didn't tell you about how he was caught in a wave of waste magic that turned him into what looked like a puddle of gently simmering vegetable soup?'

Lambholder's mouth hung open and he had some difficulty in closing it. ‘Ah?' he finally managed.

‘I was there,' Commander Dar went on, his gaze distant. ‘It was a nasty situation we were called out for. Grade nine, at least. Felden didn't see it coming, at least he had that mercy. But I saw the wave roll down the hill. Raw, untamed magic, it was. It hit a boulder, diverted, but a splash caught Felden in the middle of the back. He was soup in the blink of an eye.' He sighed. ‘But that's life in the Waste Brigade. When your sole job is to take care of magic overflow, waste and build-up, what do you expect?'

At that moment, a short, red-faced man bustled into the office and saluted. ‘Chief, Private Tremen wants to see you.'

Captain Dar sucked his cheek for a while and stared at the bottle of brandy. ‘Take care of it, will you Crully?' he said to the red-faced man. ‘I've had enough of that social climbing leech.'

Crully saluted again. He seemed to enjoy it. ‘Like to sir, but can't. Tremen has a man with him, and the man specifically asked to see you. He was very persistent.'

‘Give me a moment,' Dar sighed, ‘then send him in.'

‘Righto, Chief.' Crully turned to go, but something leapt to his mind with enough force to make him topple a few steps backwards. ‘Oh, and Private Wambley's gone. Meant to mention it earlier.'

‘Gone?'

‘Left to join the army. He said he was wasted here. He said it like it was a joke, sir.'

‘It probably was, Crully. It probably was.'

‘Ah. I'll see to Tremen and the man, then, Chief.'

At that moment, Lambholder felt the floor under his feet shake a little, and a dull explosion sounded nearby. Captain Dar glanced out of the window. ‘And take a squad out to see about that, will you Crully? It sounds like Leaching Pond 3 is playing up again.'

‘Righto, Chief.'

Captain Dar turned his attention to Lambholder. ‘You see what sort of outfit this is? We clean up waste magic, which is dangerous and nerve-wracking and no one wants to do it. We're necessary—everyone admits that—but we're not on anyone's “must invite” list when it comes to royal balls, gallery openings or gala hooplas.'

‘Sir, I wouldn't know what to do with a gala hoopla if one came along. I just want to join the Brigade.'

Commander Dar sighed, rubbed his face with both hands, swept the bottle of brandy into the top drawer, stood and sighed again. ‘Don't say I didn't warn you.'

A minute later and Private (Probationary) Tilden Lambholder had been sworn in as the newest member of the Waste Brigade.

‘Right,' Captain Dar said. ‘You stand against that wall and try to look threatening. It might help get rid of this visitor.'

Lambholder did his best. With his height and the muscles he'd developed working on the farm, he had the physical attributes to look threatening. However, the mildness of his demeanour and naturally sunny expression made it a difficult task.

But a new corpsman had to try. Shoulders back, chest out, he attempted a scowl and a menacing posture, even though he'd never been much good at it. Ma and Aunt Mona said he was just a big cuddly fella and they would never let him deal with the sheep thieves that infested Upper Harkbut.

Lambholder wondered, guiltily, how they were managing without him.

Captain Dar sat and stared at the door, drumming his fingers.

Lambholder wasn't often the doubting type. His life—until this point—had been one of utter certainty. The weather in Upper Harkbut was certain (cold). The sheep were certain (woolly). His future was certain (joining the Waste Brigade). But a flicker of a shadow of a hint of a doubt was beginning to touch the outermost fringes of his mind.

Lambholder was beginning to suspect that Captain Dar wasn't the paragon of perfection that he expected the leader of the Waste Brigade to be. Lambholder had imagined a rugged individual, hard bitten but dedicated to the common good. Brave, enduring, idealistic, but with a tough practical core. Instead, he saw a man with liquor on his breath and stubble on his chin, one who tried to dissuade Lambholder from joining the Brigade. Lambholder was mildly hurt at this. He hadn't thought he'd get a ceremonial welcome, but he was disappointed that the son of the great Felden Lambholder wasn't accorded some sort of recognition.

A knock came from the door. Before Captain Dar could answer, it swung open and a corpsman sidled in. He was small and neat, in contrast to Crully. His hair was clean and perfectly parted in the middle, his face was well shaven, and his uniform looked altogether made from better material than the standard issue. He paused in the doorway and ushered in a lean, smiling civilian. The civilian was dressed in the neat jacket and leggings of a small-time merchant. He was carrying a compact trunk, and he slapped it on the desk with a grin.

Captain Dar looked at both men. His expression indicated that he was definitely thinking of retirement, or perhaps the bottle in his third drawer. ‘Tremen,' he said to the corpsman, ‘what is it this time? Who's this?'

The corpsman saluted lazily. ‘Someone I think you'd like to meet, Captain.'

‘Another one of your friends?'

‘Not all of them are in high places,' Tremen said, smirking a little. ‘Just most of them.'

‘I see. And this is?'

‘Chindler Sheeze,' the civilian said. ‘Thanks for agreeing to meet me, Captain Dar. This could be your lucky day.'

Sheeze leaned across the desk and stuck out his hand. Dar eyed it sourly, then stood and took it. ‘What do you want?'

‘I have something a man in your position may be very interested in.' Sheeze stopped and looked over both shoulders. ‘Is this room secure?'

Dar lifted an eyebrow. ‘It's well attached to the rest of the building, if that's what you mean.'

‘What about him? Can he be trusted?'

‘That's Private Lambholder. He's one of the Brigade. Of course he can be trusted.'

He's one of the Brigade.
Lambholder beamed until he remembered his role, and after that the scowl fought with a grin for possession of his face.

Sheeze threw a worried glance at Lambholder before turning back to Captain Dar and smiling. Lambholder decided he didn't like that smile. It reminded him of the man who'd once come to the farm selling sheepdogs. He smiled a lot. He smiled when he told about his clever dogs. He smiled when he said what a nice house the Lambholders had. He smiled when he accepted the ludicrously low price Aunt Crendula paid for the dogs. He smiled as he waved and left. And, that night, when his dogs ran away from the Lambholders and joined him, he probably smiled a lot, too.

Tremen cut in smoothly. ‘Sheeze here has come into possession of a remarkable item.'

‘That's right,' Sheeze hurried on. ‘And it's something only a professional would appreciate, Captain. A man like yourself, experienced in the area of disposal and confinement of magical waste.'

‘And you want me to give you money, is that it? I can sense these things, you know.'

Sheeze blinked. ‘I don't see investing in our enterprise as
giving
us money. In fact, we'll be giving your money back a thousandfold in a very short period of time.'

Captain Dar sighed and looked at the calendar on the wall. ‘And what is it this time? Magic proof gloves? Enchantment resistant goggles? I warn you, I've seen them all.'

While this had been going on, something had been unsettling Lambholder. Up on the farm, the Lambholders didn't have many visitors, so the sound of a horse or a wagon was something to be aware of—for better or for worse. He'd grown used to hearing the rattle of a wagon long before it came into sight. It was a useful skill, as it allowed the Lambholders to prepare for visitors, of all sorts.

And so, without really realising it, he'd been tracking the progress of a wagon. A single wagon, and from the sounds it seemed as if it was racing towards the Waste Brigade depot.

It was only when the screaming started that he started to pay more attention to it.

‘Sir,' Lambholder said, interrupting Sheeze before he could answer the captain. ‘There's something happening outside.'

‘It's not Crully, is it? He hasn't fallen into a holding pond and got turned into a frog or anything?'

‘No sir. There's a wagon coming our way, very fast. And someone in it is screaming.'

Dar found a ring of water on the desk where his glass had been. He dipped a finger in it and traced an elaborate doodle. ‘A novice wizard. That's all I need.' He stood. ‘Tremen, wait here with your friend. Sheeze, don't move until I get back. Lambholder, you come with me.'

Lambholder followed Captain Dar. They hurried along a short, dark corridor and into the large room through which Lambholder had first entered the building. A bare wooden counter—unattended—divided the room in half. Captain Dar vaulted over it and ran to the racks of equipment by the door.

‘Here, get this on,' Captain Dar said. ‘We've got a situation on our hands.'

He grabbed a heavy leather coat from the row of coats hanging on hooks. Then he struggled into one himself. ‘Gloves, too,' he snapped, ‘and mask.'