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“You there! What manner of creature are you?”
The rather high pitched voice that shrilled consciousness back into Tom was accompanied by a painful prod just below the left shoulder blade. Tom groaned and rolled over slightly, opening his eyes. Through his blurred vision, he could make out a tall thin figure. It sprang back when Tom moved. He managed to raise himself up on to one elbow, it was a struggle because it seemed that every part of him hurt as soon as he moved.
“I’ll ask you again. What are you?” demanded the prodder.
“What do you mean, ‘What am I?’” said the boy massaging his aching ribs. “I’m Tom. Where am I?”
“What is a ‘Tom?’ I don’t know that species,” said the man impatiently and prodded him again with what turned out to be a walking stick. He started back again when Tom flailed out with his arm to ward off the offending article.
Tom’s eyes were beginning to clear now, and he could see his tormentor more clearly. He was a rather elderly man, tall, very thin with white hair that appeared to have had an argument with itself about which direction it wanted to go, so it went in every direction. He was wearing a maroon cravat, dark waistcoat with a long-tailed jacket over the top and pinstriped trousers. Tom noticed that the strange man’s clothes were tatty and full of repairs and patches.
Tom hauled himself to his feet and swayed unsteadily for a moment. The man was clearly agitated, stepping from one foot to another like a small child in need of the toilet. He ventured a little closer, brandishing his walking stick in front of him like a sword. He looked with great interest at Tom, or at least at parts of Tom. His ears, the top of his head, his mouth, his feet and even his backside.
“I see no pointy ears or horns. No fangs or hooves. No tail. Are you a Lycanthropoid?”
“A what!” Tom exclaimed.
“Lycanthropoid! Lycanthropoid!”
Tom looked blank.
“One who has been infected with Lycanthropy...” then with exasperation at Tom’s blank look, “A werewolf,” he cried. “No, you are fully dressed, and anyway the full moon was more than a week ago.”
“I’m just a normal human kid.”
“You’re... you’re human!” the man said, staring at him.
“Of course I’m human,” said Tom rubbing the back of his neck.” What did you think I was; a duck?” He looked up and saw a shaft of daylight pouring through a hole in the roof, then looking around him found he was in a barn of some sort with a few bales of straw against one wall. There were bits of old rusty farm equipment around, an old fashioned plough, the kind you see at the summer county show, drawn by large horses with polished brass on their harnesses. In the centre of the barn was something about the size of a large car or van covered in a big brown tarpaulin.
“Are you sure you ARE human, Hmm? Not a Polyprosopus?” said the man backing up again.
“A ploppy what?”
“Polyprosopus...Poly, Many - Prosupus, face... A shapeshifter,” the man shrilled.
“You’re having a laugh,” Tom replied aghast.
“I can assure you, young...er...whatever you are, I find nothing amusing about your presence here. You have quite ruined the roof of my larger workshop, just a few short weeks after having had it repaired following a somewhat volatile experiment with a lightning conductor, several yards of copper pipe and a vat of beetroot brandy.
“If you are indeed human, I suppose you were dropped by a gryphon or some such, eh — no doubt taking you back to her nest to feed her cubs. Then I expect you decided to stay here till the curfew was lifted. Am I correct?”
Tom started towards the door, limping rather badly. He stopped, bent to remove a three-inch splinter of wood from his trainer, then carried on without the limp. “I think you’ve had too much of that brandy you were on about,” he said. He stopped again and turned to look at the man. “Where are we?”
“This is my cottage, on the hill off Incubus Road.”
“Incubus Road?” Tom shrugged.
“It’s on the outskirts of Malgoria, to the east.”
Tom shrugged again and shook his head.
“You have never heard of Malgoria? Where have you come from?”
“Marsham,” Tom replied. “Berkshire.”
“Berkshire!” the man exclaimed. “In England?”
“Yes,” said Tom feeling increasingly uneasy.
“Oh, my heavens. Oh you poor boy,” he man sat down heavily on a wooden crate, his expression immediately changing to one of sympathy. He looked at Tom for a few moments with sad blue eyes. “I am afraid you will not see your home again, my boy,” he said quietly.
“What do you mean?” Tom cried. “I’m going home now.” He walked to the door and opened it.
“No!” exclaimed the man. “Wait. You can’t go out before the curfew is lifted or you will be arrested.”
Tom was already outside. He found himself in a small snow-covered farmyard. There was a little thatched cottage opposite and several smaller buildings, some stone and some, like the one he had just emerged from, were made entirely of wood. Chickens ran around the yard and in and out of a coop at the top end where a gated fence separated the yard from a small paddock. Here a stable stood, with doors leading both from the yard and the paddock. A somewhat elderly horse was gazing out to see what all the noise was, snorting his steamy breath at him.
At the other end of the yard, a fence and gate separated the yard from a lane. On the other side of the road, a thick hedge stood with the odd tree here and there.
“They’ll take you to the monastery if you’re found,” said the man.
Tom turned around. “You’re crazy. There isn’t a monastery for miles, and that’s only a ruin.”
“If you’ll just let me explain. There are things you do not understand.”
“I understand that I’m going home,” Tom said, opening the gate.
“Please,” the old man pleaded. “Listen to me. The curfew will be lifted in less than an hour. Now if you would just accompany me into my house, we’ll have a spot of breakfast and a nice cup of tea, I’ll try to explain where we are, and then, when it is safe to do so, you may, if you wish, leave with my blessing. I intend you no harm, nor do I wish any trouble to befall you... An hour...That’s all I ask, and I’ll answer your questions.”
Tom looked at the old man and saw genuine concern on his face. Now they were out in the daylight he could see that the man seemed quite frail as he stood there wringing his hands. He shut the gate. “Alright. An hour, then I’m going home.”
“Thank you,” said the man with relief. He took out a red and white handkerchief and dabbed his forehead. “This way, please.”
The old man led Tom into the little cottage. Once he stepped through the stable style door, he found himself in an old fashioned farmhouse kitchen complete with a huge porcelain butler’s sink and butcher’s block worktop. In the centre of the wall facing the door, set into the large chimney breast was a big old wood-burning stove with a fire crackling away in its furnace, the door open warming the kitchen. Around the stone chimney breast, hung various pots and pans, assorted cooking utensils, some welding goggles and a gas mask. Tom thought this a little odd but said nothing. In the centre of the room was an old wooden table with cutlery drawers at each end. The table-top was covered with notebooks, ink pots, quills, scraps of paper, a slide rule and a large test tube rack containing several glass tubes full of various coloured liquids.
In front of the stove was a rocking chair with worn cushions on it. The man pulled one of the carvers from the table and placed it on the other side of the stove facing the rocker. He indicated to Tom to sit down.
“Come and warm yourself,” he said. “Now, would you like tea and how about some nice warm bread and honey for breakfast, hmm?”
Tom nodded and thanked the man, warily. He had not eaten since he was at Sam’s the previous evening, and now the smell the warm bread made him realise how hungry he was.
“Who are you?” asked Tom
“I am Albert J. Proles, professor of engineering at Cambridge University,” replied the old man as he busied himself pulling up a small stool to act as a table and laying out the teacups. He handed Tom a plate and knife. “Or at least I was.”
“Cambridge, that’s miles away, we’re nowhere near it,” Tom exclaimed. “Have you retired?”
“No, I never retired, but you are quite right in saying that Cambridge is a long way away. In fact, it is a lot further than you believe.”
Professor Proles placed a pot of tea on the stool along with a dish of butter and a pot of honey. He offered Tom a plate of steaming freshly baked bread, then he came and sat down facing the young man and poured the tea.
“I’m afraid it isn’t like the tea you are used to because unfortunately it either does not exist here or no one has discovered it yet. However, I have created this herb infusion which is as near as I can get to good old English tea.” He offered Tom the sugar bowl, which Tom declined and then proceeded to put four spoons in his own cup.
Tom helped himself to the bread and honey and ate ravenously. The professor took a single slice and watched the teenager eat. After a while, Tom had finished his second slice and took a sip of the tea. He wrinkled his nose, and the old man smiled.
“You might find that it helps the taste no end if you add plenty of sugar,” he said, stirring three heaped spoonfuls into the cup. Tom tried it again, and this time the taste was much less bitter and quite agreeable.
“Why can’t you get ordinary tea here?” he said. “I don’t understand.”
The professor placed his cup on the saucer resting on his knee and took a deep breath before beginning. “I’m afraid there is no easy way to explain the predicament you and I find ourselves in. Likewise, there is also no way to make what I am about to tell you any more believable, however after you have been here a short while you will find that what I say, as fantastic as it may seem, is also the truth.
“You are no longer in Marsham. In fact, I am afraid to say you are no longer in England. To the best of my knowledge, you are on another world entirely. I cannot say whether this planet is in our galaxy or indeed in our universe, but one thing I do know for certain is that we are nowhere near our Earth. Just take a look at the sky this evening, and you will not see a single constellation you recognise, I’m sure.
“Somehow, some force or other has opened what can only be described as a great mouth in our reality, and sucked you into this world and my barn where you landed.” He finished and picked up his teacup again, watching for Tom’s reaction. Tom sat listening in complete disbelief.
“So you’re saying if I go out I’m going to bump into a whole load of aliens or something?”
“There will certainly be a few things that will surprise you a little. For example, humans are very much a minority group in this world. However, there are many creatures who, to all outward appearances, appear human, which is why I questioned you so when I found you,” said the professor.
“I can’t believe I’m listening to this. You’ve been watching too much Star Trek. Can I use your phone to call my dad, please?” Tom asked, putting the tea plate back on the stool.
“Forgive me, I do not understand some of the words you use.”
“Now I know you’re taking the mick.”
“Let me ask you something. Where were you just a moment before you found yourself in my barn? Eh?”
Tom stared into the open door of the stove where the fire flickered around the remnants of the charred wood, trying to piece together the events that had brought him to this strange little cottage. “I was on my way home across the common...”
“Yes,” the professor prompted.
“The lights all exploded, and it became windy. And I couldn’t move.” The stress of remembering his ordeal began to show in his voice as he spoke. “There was this light.”
“A little point of light which grew larger until it engulfed your entire being. You were unable to command your own body and could not even breathe, though you were not starved of oxygen. There followed a sensation of falling through the air before landing in the barn,” the professor finished.
“How did you know?” asked Tom.
“The exact same thing happened to me too. Only I landed in a Larnis tree.
“I was at the university where I was doing research. A friend of mine had rather a fascination for the supernatural and the occult. Oh my, in those days anything to do with the occult was blasphemy, strictly a taboo subject.
“On one occasion, my friend arrived in the laboratory where I was working in a state of extreme excitement. He had apparently discovered an ancient book hidden in the archives of a church. It appeared to record the exodus of a race of people from our world. The illustration inside the leather cover was of two worlds with a path made of light linking them.
“Alexander, my friend, was ranting about this book proving his theory about mythology being founded in truth and that there really were demons and all manner of ghoulish creatures at one time roaming our very own lands.
“He eventually sat down at his desk and began translating the text. He worked all night with neither sleep nor food. When I returned the following morning, I found him pacing up and down the lab with an open book in each hand still trying to decipher the ancient writings.
“Later that day, I heard him cry out with elation as he had succeeded in translating the passage that was causing all the trouble. He began to read out what sounded like nonsensical gobbledegook, and as he did so, a strange light appeared as a dot in the centre of the room. Within seconds it began to grow, and as I attempted to investigate the cause, I found I could not move.
“I tried to call to Alexander, who was still at his desk with his back to me, unaware of what was happening, but nothing came from my mouth. I remember a wind came from nowhere and blew open the window. Papers and equipment flew from the desks and workbenches. Alexander rushed to the window to try and pull it closed, thinking that the wind was coming from outside. But it was not, it was coming from inside the room. Alexander looked around and saw me stuck in this ball of light and cried out to me. I did not hear what he said for at that moment, Alexander, the laboratory and my whole world disappeared. The next thing I knew, I was halfway up a tree with my foot in a Corbit’s nest. That was, if time here works the same as it does in our world, one hundred and ninety years ago, give or take a year or two. King George III was on the throne. Very unpopular, you know. Mad as a March hare of course.” He smiled as he reminisced.
“So you are over two hundred years old?” said Tom condescendingly.
“Yes, I suppose I am,” replied the professor. “Not that I can remember much of it, of course. Shortly after my arrival in this realm, I had rather an unfortunate experience with a spinning wheel and, er, nodded off. They couldn’t find a handsome prince willing to oblige so my little nap lasted for a hundred and forty-nine years until Prince Gerald the Tidy happened to be passing on a State visit. Charming fellow.” The old man paused again in thought then shook himself back to his dubious reality. “Anyway the point I am trying to make is that you are no longer in your world and you need to be very careful here until you are accustomed to the peculiar ways of this realm.”
“If I am in some other world, how do I get back?” asked Tom.
“I am afraid you can’t. This place is your home now, and you have to make the best of it,” said the professor sadly.
“What do you mean I can’t? If I got in, I can get out,” said Tom alarmed.
“I searched and searched for years for a way to get home and back to my beloved Edith. There were rumours and myths about opening a door to Earth, but I never found any truth in them. So you see, you are as stuck here as I am and you will never see your home or your loved ones again. It is hard, I know, but the sooner you come to terms with that, the sooner you will be able to get on with your new life here.”
At this Tom got up hastily putting his cup on the cluttered stool with a clatter. “You’re mad. This can’t happen. You’re trying to keep me here,” he shouted in panic. He ran out of the door and down to the yard gate. The professor came out after him calling to him to wait, but Tom went through the gate pausing for a moment to look up and down the unmade narrow lane. Nothing was familiar. The track wound down the hill with a high tangle of hedge on one side with tall trees behind and the professor’s smallholding on the other. Tom ran off down the path through the newly fallen snow, ignoring the old man shouting after him about the curfew.
After a few minutes, Tom thought he must have left the man well behind and slowed to a walk trying to make some sense of everything that had happened since he had left his friends at the edge of the common. Perhaps he had fallen and hit his head when running through the copse. All this, the strange light, falling through the barn, the professor, was all a dream. He would wake up in a minute on the edge of the common with a headache. But even as he was thinking this, the tiniest part of him, the part that daydreamed, the part that believed in the magic of Christmas kept niggling at him that the professor’s story was true. ‘No, don’t be silly!’ his common sense told him. ‘If there were a way to another world, scientists would know about it. He would have learned about it in science or geography at school. Ha! That would make geography worth staying awake for...’
He stopped. His mouth fell open. His common sense was speechless. His wide eyes stared in amazement at the sight that met them as he rounded a bend in the road. The hedgerow and trees fell away, and a vast snow-whitened meadow lay to the right side of the track, beyond which a great pointy-topped, snow-capped mountain rose from the ground, complete with rocky foothills and a wide river winding its way through them.
As Tom surveyed the scene before him, his niggling voice all smug, he noticed a castle or fort standing proudly at the top of the foothills. From this distance, it looked as though it was actually carved out of the mountain itself with a high wall encompassing the entire magnificent building. The central structure had three crenelated towers, and there was smoke rising from the roof of a building behind the middle tower. In the centre of the big wall surrounding the structure, was a big black arch through which the river flowed. The river wound its way down through the foothills towards Tom’s general direction before disappearing from sight. ‘OK,’ he thought. ‘This isn’t Marsham.’
While Tom stood staring, all agog, at the scenery, he was blissfully unaware that slowly the branches of two rather oddly shaped trees on opposite sides of the track had started to move towards him. The strong branches silently bent towards the young man sending their vine-like tendrils rustling softly through the snow. As they began to surround Tom’s feet, he managed to compose himself after the shock of the sight before him, his mind trying to come to terms with the fact that the old man had been telling the truth, or at least that he was a very long way from home. He decided to go back to the little cottage and talk to the professor again. But, as he was about to turn, the vines tightened around his ankles and in one swift movement sprang upwards hauling him feet first off the ground.
Tom was suspended in the air thrashing about like a fish on the end of a line. He shouted for help as he tried to reach the vines, but they were too tight. The pain in his ankles was almost unbearable where the crushing creepers cut into them. He fought against them in vain until, after a few long minutes, he heard a voice from somewhere below. The voice shouted something in a different language. Tom strained to see where the voice came from and just managed to glimpse a figure in a hooded robe before a blinding white light shot from the long staff he was carrying. Instantly the vines shrivelled up and crumbled releasing him. He tried to save himself as he fell, but it all happened too quickly, and he landed hard in the middle of the narrow lane, unconscious, again.