About the Author
Mark Bowsher was the last child to be born in Gravesend Hospital in 1983. The journalist there at the time was only interested in the first baby born in 1984 (where is he now, eh?). He has since moved to London to earn a few pennies making films professionally. His first three shorts won Best Short awards at festivals in the UK and the US and gained praise from the Huffington Post and the BFI. He’s previously written for Den of Geek, Cult TV Times and Lionsgate’s Fright Club ezine. The Boy Who Stole Time is his first novel but he’s threatening to write more.
He is not married and does not live in Surrey but did once climb a mountain dressed as Peter Pan.
@MarkBowsherFilm
The Boy Who Stole Time
Mark Bowsher
Unbound Digital
This edition first published in 2018
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All rights reserved
© Mark Bowsher, 2018
The right of Mark Bowsher to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ISBN (eBook): 978‑1‑912618‑65‑1
ISBN (Paperback): 978‑1‑912618‑64‑4
Cover design by Lyall McCarthy,
with additional work by Mecob
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, Elcograf S.p.A.
For Nan and Grandpa
Most people have two parents
We had more
Thank you for everything
And for Jackie Turley and Jane Bowers
Who’ve written more of my own
words than I ever will
Dear Reader,
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A note on pronunciation
If you’re not sure how to pronounce any of the names or words uttered in the magical worlds in the story, there’s a handy guide at the back of the book. Or just pronounce them however you like.
– MB
As the seconds, the hours,
The years, the ages march on,
Neglect not the dust left at Its feet.
Myrthali! The Sands of Time!
Take It! they say,
And reclaim that which is lost.
Contents
About the Author
Dedication
Dear Reader Letter
Super Patrons
A note on pronunciation
Epigraph
CHAPTER 1 THE STOLEN HOUR
CHAPTER 2 LAUGHTER IN BATTLE
CHAPTER 3 THE SHADOW TALKS
CHAPTER 4 THE HARVEST OF TIME
CHAPTER 5 THE DEVIL’S PROPOSAL
CHAPTER 6 BETWEEN THE SUN & THE MOON
CHAPTER 7 THE POCKET WORLD
CHAPTER 8 THE BREATHING PALACE
CHAPTER 9 THE KING & THE LADY OF THE NORTH
CHAPTER 10 THE BROKEN SCYTHE
CHAPTER 11 SMASHED GLASS
CHAPTER 12 A POT OF HALFIRE
CHAPTER 13 TH
E MOUNTAIN ATOP A TREE
CHAPTER 14 OLD MARGARY
CHAPTER 15 THE IMPENETRABLE CANOPY
CHAPTER 16 NIGHTMARE OF THE VULREIN
CHAPTER 17 TWO SPELLS
CHAPTER 18 A DIVE INTO DARKNESS
CHAPTER 19 THE CAVERN OF LIGHT & COLOUR
CHAPTER 20 MANY-RULED SPLAT
CHAPTER 22 SIX HUNTERS & A TRAITOR
CHAPTER 23 THE FIRESTORM
CHAPTER 24 COUNTDOWN
CHAPTER 25 MOONSTONE & GINGER
CHAPTER 26 THE SANDS OF TYRAAH
CHAPTER 27 GULWIN’S TALE
CHAPTER 28 THE FESTIVAL OF MAGIC
CHAPTER 29 THE AMATEUR’S DEFIANCE
CHAPTER 30 THE ARENA
CHAPTER 31 THE BIRD IN THE DEEP
CHAPTER 32 ‘I WILL LET BLOOD FLOW IN THE HALLS OF THE BLACK PALACE…’
CHAPTER 33 THE CROWN
CHAPTER 34 PALACE OF THE SKIES
CHAPTER 35 THE EMPTY HAND
CHAPTER 36 STORIES
Acknowledgements
Pronunciation
Patrons
CHAPTER 1
THE STOLEN HOUR
It was a cold, crisp March morning, the gentle sun from the tail end of winter setting the curtains aglow, when the hour was stolen from Krish.
But of course, you can’t ‘steal’ time. You can’t borrow some from your wristwatch and give it to your alarm clock to get another half-hour in bed. Not in Krish’s world anyway. A painfully ordinary world with twenty-four long, boring hours in its day, full of plenty of dull activities such as maths lessons, homework and waiting for buses. A world where the walls didn’t breathe, mountains were firmly planted on the ground and magnificent birds were not born in storms of fire in the sky above. And shadows certainly didn’t get up and go for a walk. At least, not until today they didn’t.
Krish was awake and he was not happy about it. He was still trying to detangle his dreams from his memories of the night before. He’d gone to bed pretty late, after a boring black and white film about the kidnap of a general in Crete during the Second World War. His Dad said he should watch it to the end so he would ‘learn something’. He learned that black and white films about kidnapping generals were long. He slipped off to bed while his Mum and Dad had stayed up chatting. At some point, as he lay in bed, drifting off to sleep, he’d heard his Dad downstairs starting to sound very concerned. His Mum had brushed off everything he’d said. Was this part of the dream by now? Had it been a dream at all? He’d heard Uncle Ravi’s voice in the early hours and several times there’d been the sound of a car approaching then leaving the house and the front door opening and closing. His family didn’t make a habit of inviting relatives over in the middle of the night or of going out joyriding in the early hours so it couldn’t have been real. A rather dull sort of dream, though.
Krish yawned widely and quickly forgot about the oddly uneventful dream. He looked at his alarm clock: 7.27am. Almost an hour until he had to get up. He saw his phone next to the alarm. He often awoke early and wasted some time on the internet before he got out of bed. He stretched a tired arm out to pick up his phone. As the screen lit up he took in the time at the top: 8.27.
In a panic, Krish jumped out of bed and threw on his hockey kit. How could he forget? The clocks had gone forward overnight. His phone was attached to the internet, so it had updated itself automatically, but his alarm clock was still stuck in the past.
How dare they? thought Krish. How dare they steal an hour from me!
He threw open the curtains. Not a soul on the street. The sun was low but bright, the air was clear. A world of golden light, frost on the pavement, cold shadows huddled in corners. All was unnervingly still. The kind of day where curious things hide in plain sight.
Krish shivered and headed for the bathroom.
He splashed some water on his face (something he’d seen his Dad do to wake himself up when he’d overslept and was late for work). He stared at himself in the mirror. He hated seeing his own stupid face. His Aunt Nisha said he had ‘puppy-dog eyes’ but he thought they were blank and boring. In fact, he thought he was rather boring all over. He wasn’t short, he wasn’t tall. He wasn’t fat, he wasn’t thin. He had a little muscle from playing hockey, but not too much. His hair was short at the sides and longer on top, where he tended to use a little wax to make it stick up a bit. His Mum always said he had ‘classic features’, which he knew was just a slightly politer way to say ‘boring’. That was who Krish was really; the polite, boring kid who people liked, but never loved (if they noticed him at all), who rarely had much to say outside of his own head.
Krish dried his face with a towel, returned to his bedroom, grabbed his hockey kit bag and headed for the kitchen. He almost ran into his Dad as he reached the bottom of the stairs.
‘Dad!’ he cried out. ‘Why didn’t you get me up? You knew the clocks were going forward!’
His Dad didn’t seem the least bit apologetic. But he did seem concerned. Krish wondered what was wrong with him. His face looked heavy. He could see all the lines on his forehead more clearly than usual. He looked much older somehow.
‘Krishna…’ He hated it when his Dad used his full name. ‘Erm…’
In the pause Krish noticed the breakfast table in the kitchen. There was Dad’s bowl of cereal – which he’d usually polished off by now – sitting there, the cornflakes all soggy, and his mug of coffee full but no steam was coming off the top. Krish’s cereal was in a bowl with the bottle of milk next to it, ready to be poured, and some thick white buttered toast plus a portion of blueberries and raspberries on a plate for his older sister, Joshi. There was no breakfast set out for anyone else.
‘Where’s Mum?’ Krish demanded.
At this time of morning on the weekend she was usually bustling about the kitchen, coating lamb in salt and lemon juice or marinading chicken in yogurt, garlic, ginger, cardamom, cumin and chilli; teasing her family with all the wonderful aromas of dinner half a day too early.
‘Oi! You’d better not forget the naans!’ she’d call out to his Dad with a wry smile. ‘You made the milk too hot last time, killed the yeast! Came out tough as old tyres!’
‘Oh, well I guess you’d better do the naans, I’ll do the chicken!’ his Dad would reply with a chuckle.
Then his Mum would stare at his Dad in mock-seriousness. ‘Don’t threaten me with your cooking, Bhasker!’ They’d both laugh. They loved going through this routine every weekend; same old jokes, same old smiles.
Right now his Dad didn’t look like he’d ever smile again.
‘Your mother isn’t very well, Krishna.’ His forehead suddenly looked even heavier somehow. ‘She had to go to the hospital again in the night. Uncle Ravi came and stayed here to look after you and Joshi. He’s gone now. We didn’t want to wake you.’
For a moment Krish didn’t know if he felt more concerned for his Mum or more annoyed that hockey would be starting in twenty minutes and he still hadn’t had his cornflakes.
‘What? Mum’s ill again?’ Krish asked. ‘I thought she was getting better?’
‘We all thought that, but no. She’s still not very well. Not very well at all.’
*
The corridors of the hospital went on for ever. Turn after turn after turn. Trolley beds in the corridors, waiting rooms, vending machines, patients wandering about lost, doctors and nurses marching purposefully past them. Did this hospital never end? Every ward he peeped into he wondered for a second if he’d see his Mum’s face.
And then, at last, the nurse accompanying Krish, Joshi and their Dad led them into a small room on its own at the end of a corridor. Nobody else was there. Just a woman who looked very much like his mother but less lively, lying motionless in the bed, ignoring the view of the car park through the window. Joshi’s eyes widened and Krish’s mouth fell open in shock at the sight of this woman who was usually so full of energy. They both tried to mask their reactions wh
en their Mum turned to see them. She sat up. The nurse smiled politely and departed. Krish’s Mum smiled too. But it took effort. Krish had never realised how hard it could be for someone to smile. It was as if there was some incredible weight on his Mum’s lips.
‘God! Smells worse than a dentist’s in here, doesn’t it?’ his Mum said. She let out a small noise that was almost a laugh. There was an awful silence for a moment or two.
His parents spoke for a while but Krish didn’t hear a word. He just stared at his Mum. She didn’t look right in a hospital bed.
‘Well you’d better be better for your birthday!’ Krish said once his parents had ceased nattering. ‘Seriously, you’ve no idea how much pocket money I’ve saved up to buy your present.’
His Mum attempted another smile and just about succeeded. The corners of her month creased upwards into a faintly warm expression. ‘Pocket money I gave you!’ she said in a weak, tired voice. It was as if she was clinging to that smile for dear life. ‘I can’t wait to open it. Maybe I could be very naughty and open it early! Just in case I don’t have enough time. You just never have enough time, do you?’
Krish looked at his feet. The grey-white linoleum flooring, covered in scratches left by hospital beds being wheeled around, was not a pretty sight, but anything had to look better than that smile. Was the smile her attempt to distract him from the sadness in her eyes? He could swear that smile was hurting her. Holding her lips in a poor imitation of an expression that normally came to her so naturally.