A Ripple in Time, Page 3

  They’ll say I stole the sword, I’ll get the sack, Gran’s going in a mental home, I’m going to jail.

  Up in front, Gran started singing. Tugging at the jumper to snuggle the sword more firmly between her shoulder blades, Carrie told herself that next time the old biddy threatened to jump, she’d let her fall.

  ******

  Carrie was two hours late for work. She dropped her head to appear meek, when really she wanted to avoid the spit flying from Mrs. Bray’s mouth, which seemed too small to contain her angry words. Carrie bit her tongue on learning she’d forfeited a whole day’s pay, but was still expected to work a full nine hour shift.

  ‘Think yourself lucky you’ve still got a job. It’s only because of your unfortunate circumstances...’

  Carrie bit her tongue harder, and holding her head high now, marched over to her workstation, aware of her co-workers’ hands flying to their mouths as they whispered spiteful comments, while eyeing her tattered boiler suit up and down.

  At long last the six o’clock hooter sounded, Carrie gave up her work bench, avoiding the curious stares from the night shift, knowing they’d soon be brought up to date. Collecting a bucket, broom and mop she hurried along a wide corridor to begin cleaning the canteen and restroom areas, grateful for some solitude at last.

  ******

  Wren regained consciousness to darkness, although stars and a sliver of moon shone above him. He was back on the cliff tops, Carrie and her Gran had disappeared – along with Caliburn.

  Wren’s spiritual presence grew weaker with each demand. Soon he would have to retreat to the Stones entirely. He prayed for enough time before he burned the last reserves of his strength. To find yourself in an alternative world, or the same world with an altered history was difficult enough to comprehend. To discover that in this version of history, he’d died at age of thirteen, and his physical body was rotting underground (presumably in a London graveyard) really blew Wren’s mind. He’d been correct in assuming the ancient Welsh monolith somehow offered protection, which was some consolation; logic told Wren he’d gain even more shelter from Stonehenge. As he’d hoped, his spirit grew stronger there. He became convinced though that as days passed, so this version of the world's history became more solid, and his own memories began to fade, especially those of his teenage years.

  For reasons he didn’t quite understand, it seemed important to find Rhyllann, which should have been simple in this ghostly form. Stepping outside the protective stone circle of Stonehenge, Wren gave himself up to the breeze and allowed himself to be drawn by the magnetic power of Caliburn. Finding the mythical sword still undiscovered in the cavern it had been placed almost a thousand years ago by a daughter of King John, Wren gave into total despair. He would still be in that cavern now, had someone not started calling for him. Discovering that someone, even if she was a mad old woman, could see and hear him was dizzying.

  Last night once the old lady lost some of her awe, she’d spoken animatedly. Like most old people, events from her youth were clearer than recent events, but that suited him. For nearly three hours she chatted eagerly, though some of his questions clearly surprised her.

  Occasionally he sensed her tiring and paused in his interrogation, using the time to consider the facts he’d learned. He allowed the old woman to continue to think of him as an angel, it pleased her and didn’t bother him. Apart from the crow’s feet around pebble blue eyes and greying hair, Gran was childlike, willing to believe in miracles.

  No, she’d never heard of John F Kennedy, or Martin Luther King, and looked blank when he mentioned Hollywood. “The Americas” as she called the United States became more isolated and insular from Europe as the twentieth century progressed. In this new century, commerce and communication between the two continents was sparse.

  This news perplexed Wren. Gran called him the “Angel of the Titanic” so he guessed correctly the great ship avoided the iceberg on that fateful night. Logically an event between the non-sinking of the Titanic and today had to be responsible for such a changed world.

  It was a narrow timeline and it didn’t take long for a possible reason to flag up. A scant two years after the maiden voyage of the Titanic, Europe became embroiled in the bloodiest, bitterest, most pointless war in modern history: sparked by the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife Sophie, heir to the imperial throne of Habsburg, the Austro-Hungarian empire declared war on Serbia. Which prompted Russia to "bow to the wishes of her people" and side with Serbia. Germany immediately declared war on Russia, and when two days later, France honoured the Russian Alliance, the German army mobilised, marching through neutral Belgium to enter Paris. Within weeks the British Expeditionary Force landed in France, ready to begin battle in the fields of Flanders.

  Wren quickly established that Gran and Carrie’s world experienced the same Great War, with one important difference:

  America remained aloof from this carnage. Without America’s intervention the Allied Armies of both sides had fought each other to a standstill.

  The “Treaty of Versailles” had never been signed. In fact, the Great War never ended, merging seamlessly into a version of the Cold War. Great Britain and her Empire were still under military command. Additionally, the whole of Germany as well as Russia lay behind an iron curtain. Instead of the Berlin Wall, a swath of no man’s land two miles wide and stretching from sea to sea existed, patrolled endlessly by the two warring factions.

  Occasionally skirmishes and battles erupted and the line bulged eastwards or southwest: Small victories; or slight setbacks. The local paper hid the monthly list of casualties between WI meetings and jumble sales. Men over the age of eighteen were conscripted for five years into National Service, whilst the Ministry of Defence took priority over local and national government.

  From this it was easy to surmise there had been no Second World War. Doubtless behind the Iron Curtain, Pogroms, Gulags and versions of the secret police existed, but that part of Europe was a closed book to Carrie’s Gran.

  Despite all Wren’s questioning he still didn’t have the faintest clue why America failed to enter World War One, which in this world’s history, would forever remain the Great War. In the end he was left to speculate.

  His own knowledge of America’s history was sketchy and mainly based on Hollywood’s version. However, he knew about the great depression, prohibition, Roosevelt’s New Deal, America’s role in World War Two, and her subsequent emergence as a world power. The single fact that the Titanic did not sink altered the course of America’s destiny and consequently the fate of the world. If Wren's memory served him, it was the sinking of another ship, one carrying civilians, torpedoed by a German U-boat which had plunged America into the Great War. But like the bombing of Pearl Harbour Wren had his doubts about whose finger had been on the trigger.

  A world without telly didn’t faze Wren. He could live without the “X” factor. But it seemed other fields in technology had also suffered. He watched enough “Top Gear” with Rhyllann to appreciate the sophistication of modern engines. But here the car industry seemed stuck in the 1930s. The market town of Wadebridge seemed affluent, but not once had anyone drawn a mobile from their pocket either to text or make calls. Gran and Carrie actually lived in a barn like building divided into chalets in a field. Their lives appeared to be dominated by red tape and rationing. Apart from an annual trip to Plymouth neither of them set foot outside the Duchy of Cornwall. Other than designated holidays and official business, travel was discouraged. Even more so after “All that business with they Welsh” Gran said darkly. And Carrie, intelligence shining from her like a beacon, worried about losing some menial job in a factory. A pretty young girl, with a natural grace, Wren liked her on sight. He’d shared her outrage at being goosed by the ginger haired youth, and decided he wouldn’t mind kissing her in the barn, with or without tongues. It was just a shame Carrie didn’t share her gran’s vision. Homing in once more on the old lady’s faith, sensing Caliburn too w
as nearby, Wren reached out and seconds later found himself back in chalet number two, dormitory ten.

  Only now the room heaved with bodies, spilling out the open door onto the field. Shadowy faces flickered in candle and torchlight, and Wren gingerly picked his way through the crowd and into the main living area. To his right, an old fashioned travelling chest covered with a scarlet gold fringed cloth provided a flamboyant makeshift altar for Caliburn. At Wren’s arrival the sword’s glow deepened and vibrated the room with its purr.

  ‘The Angel – he’s come back!’ Gran shouted overjoyed, trying vainly to embrace Wren.

  ‘Oh my Angel – where have ye been?’ She sobbed.

  There was no jeering from the mob this time just a low murmur of wonder. Peering over Gran's iron grey curls, Wren watched as Carrie sank deeper into her chair, and buried her head in her hands.

  Chapter Six

  Swallowing hard, Wren adopted a stern expression, and jumped onto the packing trunk. Though the room was packed, glowing with a religious expectation underlined by the blue radiance from Caliburn, the crowd formed a respectful semi circle from the altar, thankfully just out of touching distance. Apart from Gran who’d promoted herself to chief handmaiden, and donned a bright pink and green shawl which hung from her shoulders to mid calf, like a neon coloured robe.

  Now a beefy well to do looking man with bushy sideburns either side of his weathered face pushed forward. Fixing on a spot in front of him, staring ahead like a blind man he spoke:

  ‘What do you want from us …Angel?’

  Although he’d never met him, Wren immediately knew the guy from Rhyllann’s description: Detective Inspector Crombie’s partner in crime.

  ‘Sergeant Holden.’ Wren said out-loud.

  Gran gasped. ‘He knows your name Jeff.’

  ‘He does now you’ve told him,’ Carrie muttered, throwing Wren off his stride. Swallowing his giggles once more he waited for the crowd to hush Carrie before resuming his speech. Again he wondered at the lack of young men. Hand wandering ginger Simon wasn’t even present. They couldn’t all be working night shifts could they?

  Gran jerked her head impatiently, anxious not to lose her audience.

  ‘I have a very important task for this village.’ Wren waited for Gran to repeat his words.

  ‘He says this village is very important and has a task.’ She intoned pompously.

  ‘Gran, please. Just repeat what I say.’

  ‘Gran, please …’ she started, then blushed. ‘Oh. Sorry my Angel.’

  With a saintly smile for Gran's benefit, Wren continued. ‘The child Carrie and her Gran must take the Sword of Flames to London.’

  This time Gran repeated his words faithfully.

  ‘There they must seek out the chosen one. They must place the sword in his hands.’

  ‘Thought I was the chosen one,’ Gran muttered bitterly. Wren gave her a stern look.

  ‘We must seek out the chosen one.’ Gran chanted obediently.

  Wren paused letting the expectation build.

  ‘Rhyllann Jones.’ He announced in ringing tones.

  ‘Rhyllann Jones?’ Gran echoed questioningly.

  ‘Rhyllann Jones!’ The name exploded from Jeff Holden, and the crowd shuffled uncomfortably, repeatedly murmuring the three syllables.

  Carrie sunk her face in her hands again.

  ‘Oh dear lord – someone stop her. Why are you listening? Why are you even listening?’ She asked of nobody in particular, squeezing her way through tightly packed bodies to stomp to her bedroom.

  In a loud whisper Holden said ‘You sure ‘e said Rhyllann Jones? ‘Im that stirred up all that trouble with they Welsh?’

  This was a bitter blow to Wren. He felt the crowd slipping away from him, as they swapped scandalised snippets on the Rhyllann Jones affair.

  ‘Even the greatest sinner can find redemption in the eyes of the Lord.’

  A new speaker pushed his way to the front. A slight figure, dressed in black.

  Wren pointed at the vicar excitedly. ‘Exactly! Just that! Tell ‘em I said that Gran! I agree with the little father.’

  ‘The Angel says Father Andrew speaks with the voice of truth.’

  Father Andrew grinned slyly and winked. For an instant Wren felt naked. He could see him! But the crowd grew silent again waiting for Wren's next words of wisdom.

  ‘Since you have all gathered here, to witness this miracle, you are all bound to help Carrie and her Gran complete their journey.’

  He waited while Gran stumbled through the sentence, cautiously eyeing Father Andrew–who winked at him again.

  ‘I bind all of you to secrecy.’ Wren thought it best not to let the whole country know of Caliburn’s existence. Without knowing why he added.

  ‘Sergeant Holden will accompany the child Carrie and her Grandmother.’

  Jeff Holden flushed and puffed out his chest. Beside him a fresh faced wide hipped woman gasped and clutched at Jeff's arm.

  ‘Now go. All of you. Think about … look deep within your heart and think how you can assist these three pilgrims in their quest.’

  He waited while Gran relayed his request. But the crowd didn’t move. They shuffled their feet and swayed but no-one headed for the door. Instead people outside surged forward.

  Father Andrew cleared his throat. ‘I think – my Angel – they’re waiting for your blessing.’ He said in a stage whisper. Wren decided he really didn’t like this man.

  ‘I know. I’m waiting for quiet.’

  ‘QUIET! All of you!’ Gran ordered. ‘The Angel wants to bless us, you buggers.’

  Wren dragged an old Celtic blessing from his memory.

  ‘May the wind always be at your back, the road rise up to meet you. …’ He forgot the rest.

  ‘I hope you dance.’ He finished feebly refusing to look at Father Andrew. It sounded okay when Gran repeated it.

  ‘Oh, and Gran – tell them whoever helps you the most gets the biggest reward. In heaven.’ Wren added as an afterthought. Father Andrew shook his head reprovingly.

  ******

  Carrie sat in darkness on her side of the bed blindly rolling her hair into metal pins, determined to look her best tomorrow, even if it meant a night of agony. She’d wear her button down blue dress with a semi-flared skirt and white collar; a couple of years out of date but the colour suited her and in any case, her other dress smelled faintly of the farmyard. Carrie's fingers rushed at the last curler, screwing it against her scalp too tightly. Setting her jaw against the spiteful stabs of pain, she teased the tendril of hair free. Thinking Rhyllann bloody Jones! Gran had grasped at the first name to spring into her dozy old mind. It was madness! Only the whole village seemed hell bent on joining in. But, if she were clever, Carrie might make something out of this foolishness. London’s streets might not be paved with gold, but Carrie knew she’d find some way to escape from this backwater.

  She sighed. Anything in London would do. Anything. Anything to get away from here and this superstitious nonsense. Her mind shied away from the cavern. Someone else had been there with her, taken control of her, but certainly not an angelic presence. The sword was something else. The “Sword of Flames” Gran’s Angel called it but that seemed wrong. Carrie shivered involuntary; looking down at her arms, she saw they were covered in gooseflesh.

  “Preternatural not supernatural.”

  It was the same calm smug voice she’d heard before and if she ever met its owner she would give him a good slap. Pulling back the covers Carrie slipped into bed beside Gran, and before the curlers began to dig into her scalp, willed herself to sleep.

  Chapter Seven

  The villagers took Wren’s request for help to heart. Gran’s dingy little square of a front room resembled a scout hall jumble sale. Carrie blinked in amazement at the bric-a-brac, second hand clothes heaped on the floor and well thumbed paperbacks piled precariously on the mantelshelf. She wanted to scream. Catching her reflection in a speckled mirror did not improve her m
ood. Picking her way through the debris on the floor she gingerly wrapped the red makeshift altar cloth around the sword, then spotting a golf bag (a golf bag – what were they thinking?!) tipped out the mismatched clubs and guided the shrouded sword into the bag. There! That felt better.

  When she’d first held the sword she got the strangest sensation it resented her touch and ached to explode with power, turning her body into an inferno. It resented her, and like a semi tame wolf made to behave, wanted only the slightest provocation to charge those strange blue lights through her entire being. But the burning sensations seemed to have lessened, it felt uncomfortable rather than painful. Carrie disliked touching the sword though and resolved to keep skin contact to a minimum.

  Gran’s voice called. ‘That you maid?’

  Shouldering the cumbersome golf bag with only the slightest stagger, Carrie tripped down the two stairs into their stone flagged kitchen come washroom and stared in amazement.

  Through a mouthful of chicken Gran spoke. ‘Nah, my ‘andsome, Father Andrew ain’t been ‘ere long. Two, maybe three year. One of they new brooms always changing things. Thas of ‘im. When ‘e ain sticking his nose in other peoples’ beeswax ‘es up there on them cliffs. Bird watching ‘e says. Gives me the heebies.’ She reached over to tear off some bread and helped herself to some more chicken.

  ‘Come in maid, come in, get yerself outside some of this!’ She flapped an arm over the normally spartan table: laden with every kind of meat, breads of three different types, sponge and fruit cakes, jugs of creamy milk, and bowls of what appeared to be beef dripping. Catching sight of Carrie for the first time she dissolved into cackles.