The Unlikely Time Traveller

I wanted us to talk about the Northern Lights. But Robbie wanted to know all about the time-travel formula. He went on and on about it, so eventually I told him. But first I made him swear he would never tell anyone else, and if he did he would have to leave the gang and I would never speak to him again, ever. So he swore.

We were pushing our bikes up the lane, on the way to the den. I checked there was no one about, then, all hush-hush, mumbled, “A bowl of earth.” Robbie had to lean over his handlebars to hear me.

“Is that it?” he whispered.

We wheeled our bikes further up the lane before I told him what else. “And water, a smoky fire, gold, and a glass globe.”

“A glass what?”

“A globe. It’s like a Christmas tree bauble. You hang it from a branch of the yew tree and push. Then,
if
…” He stared round at me, wide-eyed and nodding, which made a change from all the scowling he had been doing. “…
If
it all works,” I went on, “the glass shoots out these misty rainbows. It’s something to do with fire and light and water all fusing together. They’re called elements.” Robbie wasn’t saying much. Normally he was a great interrupter, but maybe he needed all his breath to push his bike. “Oh
yeah, and,” I carried on, “there’s got to be an antique song as well.” I stopped to catch my breath. The lane was pretty steep and the cobbles were tyre-busting bumpy. “It’s all from something called…” I tried to remember… “alchemy, I think. It’s like ancient magic.”

Robbie’s eyes lit up at the mention of magic. “Would any song do?”

“Probably, so long as it’s old.” By this time we’d reached the top of the steep lane. “Anyway, the time-travel flashing rainbows,” I said, getting back to what I really wanted to talk about, “are like the Northern Lights, only the Northern Lights are huge – they cover half the sky. We’re going to stay out all night to see them, remember. And that’s going to be one impressive adventure.” I jumped onto my bike and took off. Robbie followed me.

“It’s the Dalora Balora,” I yelled, racing my bike over the path that cut through the big stubble field. “Or maybe” – I got off to open the gate – “the Borora Auralie.” Robbie caught up, then scowled for about the twentieth time that day. His grumpiness was beginning to seriously annoy me. “Whatever it’s called, bright coloured lights flash about in the night sky and it’ll be totally awesome. Northern Lights is their other name.”

“Big deal,” he said. “I went to Edinburgh Castle and saw the fireworks at the festival. You have to believe me, Saul, it doesn’t get more awesome than that. What a show. Of course,” he said, putting on his let’s-feel-sorry-for-Saul face, “you don’t get to go to Edinburgh much, do you?” By this time we had reached the big crumbling wall that runs around the wild garden where we have our den. We wedged our bikes right into the hedge so anyone passing wouldn’t see them.

“This isn’t about, Robbie, fireworks in Edinburgh.”
I tried not to shout. “It’s about a totally natural star-spinning, light-fizzing show.” Robbie stomped off ahead and ducked down to wriggle through the hole in the hedge that leads to the garden. He was elbowing along pretty fast, so I spoke to his back, loudly. “It’s actually going to be right above us. Agnes says it will be the most spectacular Northern Lights ever and the best place to see it is in the Borders, meaning – right here.” I fell out into the wide overgrown garden. Robbie was already brushing dirt off his trousers. “Come on!” I got up and nudged him. “It’ll be the best thing. We’ll bring sleeping bags and loads of food, and sleep under the stars. Agnes says it’s going to be a once-in-a-lifetime chance. Will says he can bring along his dad’s old telescope. And I’m going to film it if I can get my mum’s camera. Come on, it’ll be awesome.”

I spotted a flash of fear in his eyes, so I laughed and slapped him on the back, friendly style. “Don’t worry, there’s nothing scary.” I pulled a scary face, but he just scowled at me, again. “Come on,” I nudged him. “It’ll be cool, Robbie – an adventure.”

“You call that an adventure?” Robbie made a funny snorting noise, shook his head and stomped off to the old hut that is our den. Halfway there he stopped and swung round. “Want to do really cool stuff?” he yelled, like I was deaf. “Get the bus into Edinburgh, go for a pizza, see a movie, check out the skatepark, and hang out round the shops on Princes Street, buy things. That’s the kind of stuff I want to do.” Robbie kicked at a tuft of grass then mumbled, “That’s cool stuff to do.”

He was looking really glum. I followed him. Part of me felt annoyed with him. The other part felt sorry for him. Deep down I guessed poor Robbie was scared about spending the night outdoors in the wild overgrown
garden with a spooky crumbling mansion house close by.

“What about doing what I want for a change?” he said, smacking himself on the chest. “It’s always you, or,” he pulled a daft face, “Agnes. Why is it
Saul’s
Gang anyway? What about Robbie’s Gang? And why are you always so impressed with whatever Agnes says?” He kicked up a bunch of the autumn leaves lying around. They crunched and scattered everywhere. “Oh, wait, I know,” he said in this stupid high-pitched voice, “how about we call it…
Agnes’s Gang
?”

I laughed at that, though he was right in some ways. I was beginning to feel a bit funny about our gang still being called Saul’s Gang. So I ran past him and reached the den first. The stone was still outside our old wooden hut marked with the two words I had written with a flint ages ago:
SAUL’S GANG
. I didn’t say anything, just hunched down, picked up a sharp stone and scored out my name. On top I wrote:
OUR
. Then I threw the sharp stone away.

Robbie was standing next to me. “Happy?” I asked him.

“Whatever.” He shrugged, but he looked happier.

I gave him another friendly pat on the back. “Look, we only called it Saul’s Gang because I started it. Doesn’t mean I’m the big hero round here. You want to call it Robbie’s Gang?”

Robbie shrugged, but he didn’t say no. “Well, to get people to name a gang after you, you’d have to do something heroic, like pull a drowning dog out the River Tweed.” I laughed, but Robbie didn’t seem to find that funny. “You’d have to take charge, be brave, impress people.”

“I could do stuff like that if I wanted,” he said, huffily. “What do you think? I’m a waste of space? You think you and Agnes are the big superstars around here?”

“Course not, Robbie. I was only having a laugh. Relax.” Except the truth was Robbie wasn’t likely to take big risks. Climbing a tree was about his limit!

He kicked up more leaves. “I’m still not into watching lights in the sky.” He gazed about, wearing his total-boredom face, then started yawning. We’d only just got to the den, and now it looked like he was ready to leave. I had wanted us to plan where we were going to put our sleeping bags. I’d even printed an amazing picture of the Northern Lights off the internet to show him. But he was sighing and wouldn’t stop scuffing leaves.

Then I heard his phone beep in his pocket. “Dinner time,” he said, not even looking at the text. He started to head off but suddenly turned back to me and said, “How much water?” I just stared at him, puzzled. He can be so random sometimes. “The time-travel thing…” he said, like it was obvious. “Lots or just a cup?”

“I don’t know.” Then it was me kicking leaves. “Just a bit in a bowl. But that’s not the point, the point…”

“See ya, big chief,” he chirped, not caring what the point was. Off he went. I heard the hedge rustle as he wriggled through the hole.

“Bye Robbie,” I said to the hedge, then yelled, though I doubt he heard, “The point is you have to really
want
to time travel! See ya, enjoy your dinner.”

I’d have to sort the sleep-out arrangements with Agnes tomorrow. She’d be way more into it than Robbie.

With Robbie gone, I went back into the den and slumped down on one of the cushions we had put there. Actually it was one of Robbie’s cushions. He was definitely the richest person in the gang. Like, most of the stuff in the den had once upon a time been in Robbie’s big fancy house. I sat there, wondering what he’d be having for dinner. Steak and chips? I was pretty sure Thursday night was steak night at Robbie’s house. And hot chocolate fudge cake and ice cream for pudding maybe? Which made me feel hungry, so I didn’t hang about.

I charged around the garden looking for a good spot for our sleeping bags and figured that the flat grassy spot near the fire pit would be the best. I’d tell Agnes, see what she thought.

Then I dashed over to the place under the yew tree where we had buried our time capsule. I lifted up the square of green Astroturf, then the stone. Underneath was the old biscuit tin, in its secret hiding place. I squatted down, wedged the tin lid off then slipped the picture of the Northern Lights in with the other stuff – stuff my gang reckoned people in the future would get really excited about, like daft photos of us, coins, toys, wrist bands, locks of hair, and even – best of all according to Agnes – a letter she and I had written to
anyone who might find the tin hundreds of years in the future. Now these future folk could see a picture of the Northern Lights too, just in case they didn’t happen any more. Maybe there’d be too much air pollution by then to see the night sky. I buried the box again and headed for home, cycling over the field and into town.

But all the time I couldn’t shake off this nagging feeling. Something was up with Robbie. He felt left out, that was obvious, and maybe a bit jealous that I was with Agnes quite a lot.

The truth was that Agnes was way more exciting than Robbie. He was often pretty grumpy and he didn’t want to do half the things I suggested. Plus he was finding high school hard going. At swimming the other day someone called him ‘Dough-ball’. Poor Robbie. Maybe he knew I was thinking about him because next thing my phone went. It was a text from him.

If u cant afford 2 go 2 embra, I can pay.

Which annoyed me. He just didn’t get it. I didn’t even text back.

“You ok, Saul?” Mum asked, plonking Esme into my arms as soon as I got in. But just then Ellie screamed, Mum ran off to find her, and the house erupted into general twin kiddie madness.

“Yeah,” I mumbled, telling Esme all about it, “I’m fine, and we’re going to see the sky on fire, the Aurora crazy show. You should come along too, Esme, except it’s a night-time do and you’re too young. You’ll be fast asleep. Also, you’re not in our gang. Robbie is, but he’s really scared. Honest, Esme, he thinks the whole idea is one big spook-fest. He doesn’t like mice for one.” I tickled her and she squirmed. “Or spiders.”

Esme shook her head. She didn’t like spiders either.

“Then he says weirdos come out when it’s dark, and maybe aliens too. And he says he can only sleep in his own bed, unless he’s in a hotel someplace. And he wants to get the bus into Edinburgh, eat pizza and watch films. Which I get. I mean, me too. I could eat pizza till it’s oozing out my ears. But I like doing the wild stuff too. Robbie calls it ‘Agnes stuff’. He really needs to get over it. And this spectacular show in the sky is going to be a one-off.” I whispered in her ear, “It’s called” – suddenly the right name came to me – “the Aurora Borealis.”

“Aur-or-a Bor-e-a-lish,” repeated Esme, listening seriously.

“The what?” That was Mum, back again. The screaming from the living room had stopped. I put Esme down and she wandered off to see her twin.

“The Aurora Borealis.” I hadn’t planned on telling Mum right away. I was going to wait for a good time, but I had started, so… “Um, Agnes said we’ll get the best view right here in the Borders. So… we thought, like with Will and Robbie, we could all, you know, do a, um… sleepover? Outside. And watch it? You only see it at night.”

Mum studied me, like she was working out how responsible I was. Dad was always telling me he did outdoor stuff when he was my age – sleeping in the woods, wild camping, cooking sausages on sticks over bonfires, fishing. He says that’s what childhood is all about, or should be. Good old Dad.

Mum chewed her lip. She scratched her chin. Childhood, according to Mum, is about cleaning my room, playing with the twins, making her cups of tea and doing my homework.

“It’ll be absolutely fine,” I said, throwing her my winning smile. “We’ll be in Agnes’s dad’s garden. It’s cool.” Calling the wilderness where we had our den ‘Agnes’s
dad’s garden’ made it sound almost respectable. It made it sound like there was somebody there to keep an eye on us. Which there wasn’t. “And we’ll take flasks of hot chocolate,” I added, making the whole adventure sound like Scout camp. “And marshmallows.”

Mum raised her eyebrows. “Well, I don’t know,” she said, humming and still chewing her lip. Then she brightened up, like she just had a great idea. “If your dad swings by in his taxi every now and then, just to check you’re ok, I’d feel much better. If he doesn’t mind doing that, then you can go.”

Poor Dad! “Fine,” I said. To be honest, I felt a bit relieved. Maybe Dad could even join us. He would love to see the Northern Lights flashing about in the sky. It wasn’t that I was scared exactly. Not like Robbie anyway. But I hadn’t ever spent a night outdoors with no adults around.

Mum was getting cups out of the cupboard, humming a tune to herself. Taking advantage of her good mood I spoke to her back, “And, umm… could I borrow your camera?”

She stopped humming and swung round. I could practically see her thinking. “Ok,” she said finally, and plonked the cups down on the worktop.

“Brilliant,” I said and gave her another of my big smiles. My face was beginning to hurt. “Thanks.” Relieved that everything was working out fine, I rummaged around in the bread bin for something to eat. Mum was filling the kettle.

“But Saul,” she said over the gurgling sound of the water, “I doubt Robbie’s mum will let him stay out overnight.” She set the kettle down and clicked on the switch. “In fact, I met his mum in the supermarket just yesterday. She told me,” Mum lowered her voice, as if Robbie might be listening at the door, “that he still sleeps with the light on and thinks there are monsters in the
dark.” She shook her head and sighed. “Poor Robbie.”

“Yeah,” I mumbled, stuffing half a bagel into my mouth, “poor Robbie.” Which, when you think about it, was a funny way to describe the most cashed-up boy in the class.