It was late afternoon shading into evening by the time James Hart and Leonard Ash returned to the park, and most of the day’s visitors had already left, heading for the comfort of home and the security of locked doors and windows. So far the murders had all taken place at night, and few felt at ease any more once the sun had gone down. Street lamps were already blazing at every street corner, though the shadows had barely started to lengthen. There was a tension on the air from the constant pressure of assessing eyes as people hurried down the emptying streets. Even those who preferred the dark and blossomed in the moonlight walked warily in the narrow streets, and sought the company of their own kind whenever possible. But even so, there are always some with pleasures or business that can only be satisfied after dark, in the privacy of shadows. They walked alone, in dignified haste, with carefully averted eyes, and ignored Ash and Hart as they passed. Ash watched them all with thoughtful eyes, but no one came close, even when he nodded politely.
The park turned out to be empty, apart from half a dozen kids playing some complicated game with two frisbees. They didn’t acknowledge Ash’s or Hart’s presence, but allowed the course of their game to move them away from the Sarcophagus as the two men approached. A faint mist had sprung up, pleasantly cool on the skin, but the air had all the tension of an approaching thunderstorm. The temperature dropped sharply as they neared the Sarcophagus, and Hart was surprised to find his breath steaming on the air before him. Sudden chills shook him, and he plunged his hands into his jacket pockets. He looked back at the T-shirted kids who’d been playing in the last of the sunlight, but they were gone with the rest of the park, swallowed up by the thickening fog.
He looked reluctantly back at the Sarcophagus, a great block of solid stone standing fixed and immutable on its raised dais. The stone showed no signs of age or weathering, but still there was a definite air of permanence to the Sarcophagus, as though it had been designed with constancy in mind. It looked bigger than Hart remembered, and seen up close again it seemed somehow more solid too. More . . . real. He stood with Ash before the stone, and shivered from something more than just the growing cold. The underlying tension of the evening was more centred now, more focused, and Hart shifted uneasily from foot to foot as Ash just stood there, looking at the Sarcophagus, apparently lost in thought. As though he was . . . waiting for something. Hart spun round sharply as he glimpsed something moving in the mists from the corner of his right eye, and then froze where he was as two dark figures stepped out of the mists to confront him. He knew their faces. He recognized their clothes, and the way they held themselves. Standing before him were another James Hart and another Leonard Ash, wearing casual, easy smiles. The Ash at his side nodded amiably to the two doppelgängers, and his double nodded amiably in return.
‘Time has been known to act strangely around the Sarcophagus,’ said Ash calmly. ‘Not really surprising, given the stone’s many functions and responsibilities, and the fact that many of us suspect it of having a really devious sense of humour. One of the more common manifestations is time doubling back upon itself, so that the future ends up in the past. Or vice versa. Or something. I’m trying to sound like I know what I’m talking about, but like most people who live here, mostly I’m flying by the seat of my pants. Or had you already guessed that?’
The other Ash looked at the other Hart. ‘You’re right. I do talk too much.’
‘Nobody move,’ said Hart. ‘I think I’ve got it. We’re looking at ourselves, leaving the Sarcophagus after having visited Old Father Time. Right?’
‘Got it in one,’ said the future Hart. ‘Time knows you’re coming, so you’d better get a move on. He really hates to be kept waiting.’
Both the Ashes nodded. ‘Is he in a good mood?’ said Ash.
‘Is he ever?’ said his double.
‘Good point,’ said Ash. ‘Let’s go, James.’
‘Wait just a minute,’ said Hart. ‘If you’ve already been through the meeting, can’t you just tell us what happened? Then we wouldn’t have to bother Time at all.’
The two Ashes looked at each other knowingly. ‘Time doesn’t work that way,’ said Ash. ‘Trust me. This is not something you want to think about too much. If you push it I’ll have to explain about differing time-lines, probability maths and fractal theory. Which would not be a good idea because I don’t really understand them either.’ He sighed wistfully. ‘I always thought things would seem so much clearer after I died.’
Hart looked at his future self, who was looking sympathetic. ‘Can’t you at least give us some advice on what to do when we meet Old Father Time?’
The other Ash and the other Hart looked at each other. ‘Don’t touch the saki,’ said the future Hart, and the future Ash nodded firmly.
They both smiled at their earlier selves, and then turned and walked unhurriedly away, disappearing into the mists. Hart looked at Ash.
‘Is this kind of thing going to happen often while I’m in Shadows Fall?’
‘Probably,’ said Ash. ‘It’s that kind of place. It helps if you remember that not everything is necessarily what it seems. Take the Sarcophagus, for example. It looks like a great big slab of stone, but it isn’t. It’s a moment of Time itself, given shape and form. It’s as solid as matter, but more permanent, unchanging and unaffected by the tides and stresses of the material world. You’re looking at a single, rather special moment in Time; the exact moment when the town of Shadows Fall was created, back when the world was young. At this point people usually ask why that moment should have taken on physical form, and my usual answer is, beats the hell out of me. Common belief has it that the moment became solid to protect itself, but no, I don’t know what from.’
‘Do you know anything useful?’ said Hart, just a little more sharply than he’d meant.
Ash raised an eyebrow, and his gaze was briefly cold and thoughtful. ‘I know how to get into the Sarcophagus, and how to get you an audience with Old Father Time. That is what you wanted, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it is,’ said Hart. He took a deep breath and let it out again. ‘I’m sorry. This is all . . . very new to me.’
‘Oh sure, I understand,’ said Ash. ‘I’m dead and buried, and this place still disturbs the hell out of me.’ Ash fished around in his jacket pocket and finally produced a small plastic snowscene, the kind of cheap junk kids lust after for no good reason, and tourists pick up for souvenirs of places they quickly forget. Ash held it up for Hart to look at, but drew back his hand when Hart went to take it. ‘Don’t touch, James. Just look.’ Hart shrugged, and leaned forward to study the snowscene closely. It filled Ash’s hand; a smooth dome of clear but hazy plastic holding within itself a single dark building. Ash shook the snowscene gently, and thick snowflakes whirled around the indistinct building.
‘Not everybody gets in to see Old Father Time,’ said Ash. ‘He’s always busy, and he doesn’t like to be interrupted. But some people, such as myself, cannot be denied access, so he gives us each a key. This is mine. I don’t know what anyone else’s looks like, but this is my invitation to the Galleries of Frost and Bone. Time lives in the Gallery of Bone.’
‘Who lives in the Gallery of Frost?’ said Hart, when Ash hesitated.
‘No one lives there,’ said Ash quietly. ‘That’s where the Forever Door is. The final destination of everyone who comes to Shadows Fall. I came back through the Door because I was needed here, but I can still hear it calling. I always will. That’s why I have this key. Because the Door is waiting for me to go back.’ Ash smiled briefly. ‘It’s got a long wait ahead of it. Now then, we can’t just stand around here all day. Time waits for no man. Particularly when he’s coming to ask a favour. Let’s get going, shall we?’
‘Do we have to?’ said Hart. ‘I’m beginning to get a very bad feeling about all this.’
‘You’re probably right,’ said Ash. ‘The Gallery of Bone is a dangerous and disturbing place, even to visit. But we have to go, because we did. You saw your future self. I can practically see the words Free Will forming in your mind, but forget it. I’ve argued every side of the question there is, and a few I made up specially, and I’m still no wiser. Basically, it’s easier just to go with the flow and not make waves. Try not to think about it. It’ll just make your head ache.’
‘Too late,’ said Hart.
Ash grinned unsympathetically, and held the snowscene up before his eyes. The snowflakes were still whirling, even though it had been some time since Ash had shaken it. Hart studied the snowscene almost in spite of himself. It became somehow more impressive the more he looked at it. The drifting flakes seemed more real, and the building in the centre of the storm began to take on depth and focus. Details formed, and lights glowed at tiny windows. Only they didn’t seem so small any more. The snowscene leapt up to fill his eyes, rushing out to fill the world, and then Hart was falling headlong into the howling blizzard. His stomach lurched as he flailed helplessly about him for something solid to hang on to, but there was nothing there, only the hammering wind and the bitter cold that seared his lungs with every breath.
Hard-packed snow leapt up below him and slammed into his feet. He fell sprawling and lay stretched out, trembling violently in reaction to the fall. The snow was wet and crunchy under his bare hands, but the solidness of it was a comfort, and the tremors left him as his breathing slowed. He got his feet under him and stood up, raising an arm to keep the flying snow out of his face. It was night, and the moon above him was a perfect silver circle, its bright shimmering light punching through the storm. The hard-packed snow supported his weight, but he had no idea how much snow there was between his feet and the ground below. The thought gave him a kind of vertigo, and he decided very firmly not to think about it again. He hugged himself tightly, trying to hold in what warmth he had left, but the bitter cold leached all the strength out of him. The frozen waste stretched away in all directions, disappearing into the swirling snow. Each way looked as futile as any other, and he might have stood there for ever, frozen in indecision, if Ash hadn’t appeared suddenly out of the storm to take him firmly by the arm.
‘First step’s a bastard, isn’t it?’ said Ash, shouting to be heard over the roar of the storm. ‘Sorry about that. Stick with me. It isn’t far now.’
He set off into the swirling snow, half leading and half pulling Hart with him. The cold didn’t seem to be bothering Ash at all, but then, Hart thought crazily, it wouldn’t. They trudged on, slipping and sliding on the uneven snow and battered by the howling wind, but a dark shape soon formed in the white glare ahead. The storm seemed to deepen, as though to deny them this new sanctuary, but Ash and Hart plunged on, fighting the wind for every step. Ash tried to shield Hart with his own body, but the knife-edged wind seemed to blow right through him. Hart hunched his shoulders, narrowed his eyes to slits, and fought on. He hadn’t come this far to be beaten by the weather. Ash had promised him there were answers to be found here, and he was going to have them, no matter what it took.
The building suddenly loomed up before him, vast and overpowering, a great black shape with few details and bright lights shining out of high windows. Ash pulled Hart in close beside the nearest wall, and the battering wind died away, unable to bring its full strength to bear on them any more. Hart panted for breath, wincing as the cold stabbed his lungs. He’d never felt cold like it, and the thought slowly surfaced that they’d better find a way in soon, very soon, or frostbite would start gnawing on his extremities. He’d already lost all feeling in his hands and feet. Ash pulled him along the side of the wall a way, and then stopped and hammered on the wall with his fist. A door swung suddenly inwards, almost as though it had been waiting for them, and a warm golden glow spilled out into the night. Ash hauled Hart inside, and the door slammed shut behind them.
Hart sank to his knees on the bare wooden floor, and groaned aloud as warmth flooded into him, forcing out the cold and bringing feeling back to his frozen extremities. Ash knelt down beside him and rubbed briskly at Hart’s hands, to get the blood moving again. Hart slowly straightened up, grimacing at the agony of returning circulation, and looked around him through watering eyes. He and Ash were kneeling in a huge, old-fashioned Hall, with tall wood-panelled walls, and a raftered ceiling high overhead. So high that Hart wouldn’t have been surprised to find owls nesting up there. Or bats. The Hall itself stretched away into the distance, but Hart’s attention fastened on to the stacked log fire crackling brightly in a great stone fireplace, only a dozen steps from the door. He staggered to his feet with Ash’s help, and moved over to stand directly before it. The warmth sank into him like cup after cup of the very finest coffee, filling him with a wonderful glow that forced out the last chill from his bones. Hart smiled beatifically, quite content to stay where he was indefinitely. Or even longer. But thoughts of the world and its pains returned, and he turned an accusing glare on Ash.
‘The first step’s a bastard?’
‘Ah,’ said Ash. ‘Sorry about that. I would have warned you, but it isn’t usually that bad.’
Hart looked at him sharply. ‘You mean that blizzard was . . . arranged, deliberately, to discourage us from coming here?’
‘It’s possible,’ said Ash. ‘Time really doesn’t like visitors.’ He shrugged and smiled vaguely, and looked around him. ‘The Hall changes sometimes too, though I’ve never worked out why. Time’s a whimsical sort, and his sense of humour often escapes me. Take a moment and get your breath back, James. There’s no need for any hurry here. In here, there’s all the time in the world.’
Hart turned his back to the fire so that his backside could get the full benefit of the warmth. ‘This . . . Hall. Is it really the same building we saw in your snowscene?’
‘Oh yes. Perhaps it’s the same house inside all snow-scenes, if only people knew how to get inside them. This is All Hallows’ Hall, James, the house at the heart of the world. Take the left-hand path, and you’ll come to the Gallery of Frost. The right-hand path leads to the Gallery of Bone, and Old Father Time himself.’
Hart looked at him thoughtfully. ‘The Gallery of Frost. The Forever Door.’
‘That’s right,’ said Ash. ‘I can hear it calling me. It’s very clear here. Don’t ask me to take you there, James. I can’t. It’s too dangerous.’
‘To me, or to you?’
‘Very good, James,’ said Ash approvingly. ‘That combination of common sense and naked paranoia will serve you well in Shadows Fall. And no, I’m not going to answer your question. I only met you today, and already you know far too much about me. You must allow me to keep a few little surprises in reserve. But I’m feeling generous, so I’ll allow you one more question. If you’re quick.’
‘All right,’ said Hart, determined to get some information out of him at least. ‘Why is it called the Gallery of Bone?’
‘Now that is a good question,’ said Ash. ‘I wish I had more of an answer for you. Essentially, the Gallery of Bone is constructed from ancient fossilized bones, from a creature so ancient no one now knows what it was. Legend has it the bones came from a creature set to guard the Forever Door, in the days before Shadows Fall existed, and the world was a hell of a lot younger. No one knows how or why this creature came to die. Time might know, but if he does, he isn’t talking. Speaking of which, we’d do well to get a move on. Time knows we’re here, and the longer we keep him waiting the less likely it is he’ll feel like answering your questions.’
Ash set off down the Hall at a determined pace. Hart glanced wistfully at the crackling fire, sighed once, and then set off after Ash. They walked together for a while in silence, the only sound in that vast Hall the quiet murmuring echoes of their footsteps. Light appeared around them from no readily detectable source, and moved along with them, so that they were always walking in a wide pool of golden light. The panelled walls slid smoothly past, innocent of any decoration or embellishment. Hart had been expecting a fair selection of old and valuable paintings and portraits; it seemed that kind of place. But the walls were bare and characterless, and there weren’t even any other doors or corridors leading off in other directions. There was only the Hall, and the light they moved in. Hart looked back over his shoulder once, but only once. Behind them there was nothing but an impenetrable darkness.
They walked for a long time, or at least it seemed that way. There were no landmarks, and Hart wasn’t really surprised to find his watch no longer worked. He’d actually started to get a bit bored when a tall slim figure stepped suddenly into the light ahead of them. He stopped immediately, and the figure before him stopped too. Ash stood at his side and looked from one figure to the other with a calm knowing smile.
The newcomer was a human form composed almost entirely of clockwork. Wheels turned and ratchets clicked, and there was a general whirring of working machinery and moving parts. The whole figure was a complex structure of interconnecting parts, fashioned in minute and intricate detail. Every bone and muscle and joint had its steel or brass counterpart, but there was no layer of skin to hide the mechanisms from view. The face was a delicate porcelain mask, with exquisite painted features. But the eyes were flat and blank, and the smile never wavered, and the overall effect was more inhuman than any steel mask could have been. The figure stood patiently before them, whirring quietly, as though waiting for some question or command.
‘Is this . . . Time?’ said Hart finally.
‘No,’ said Ash. ‘Just one of his servants. Step aside, and it’ll be on its way.’
Hart did so, and the figure moved gracefully forward, walking with a style and efficiency no human form could ever equal. It quickly stepped out of the light and disappeared back into the gloom. Hart could hear it for a while, walking serenely in the dark, with no need for light or warmth or any other human weakness.
‘Automaton,’ said Ash briskly. ‘Time makes them, piece by piece. Partly as a hobby, partly so he can have agents to walk abroad in the world and do his bidding. You’ll see more of them as we get closer to Time’s lair. Don’t let them worry you. They’re harmless; nothing more than glorified errand boys really.’
‘Are they . . . alive, in any way?’ said Hart, as he and Ash continued on down the Hall.
‘Not really. They’re Time’s eyes and ears outside the Gallery. He rarely enters the real world any more, save for those occasions and ceremonies where it’s expected of him. He gets more and more insular and broody as he gets older, but he’s never been keen on company at the best of times. Still, he’ll want to see you. I think. Come on.’
They continued on their way in their pool of light and more automatons came and went, their sightless eyes staring straight ahead, in the service of some unknown mission or command. And finally, Ash and Hart came to a door at the end of the Hall. It was huge, easily fifteen feet tall, fashioned of polished wood patterned with black iron studs. It towered above them, and Hart felt like a small child unexpectedly summoned to his headmaster’s office. He tried to stand a little taller, and deliberately crushed the feeling within him. He was a supplicant, not a child. Not any more. There was no handle or knob, so he reached out to knock, but the huge door swung smoothly open before he could touch it. Ash smiled briefly, and led Hart into the Gallery of Bone.
The Gallery stretched away before them, with more floors above and below, falling away and rising above for as far as they could see into the warm honeyed light. Hart moved slowly forward after Ash, numbed and awed by the sheer scale of the place. He couldn’t see the end of the corridor he was walking down, and just trying to calculate the overall size of the Gallery made his head ache. Portraits lined both walls, an endless series of scenes and faces captured in delicate filigreed silver frames some six feet tall and three feet wide. He recognized one of the scenes, a slowly changing view of the Sarcophagus in the park. The mists had gone, but masses of crawling ivy covered the stone, as though centuries had passed since Hart last saw it. He looked at the next portrait, and saw people walking unconcernedly down a market street. There was nothing in their attitude to suggest they knew they were being watched. Ash coughed politely, and Hart looked round, startled. He realized he’d come to a complete halt, and hurried on to catch up with Ash, while trying to look as though he’d really meant to stop all the time.
There were portraits without end, and Hart shook his head dazedly as he tried to grasp the scale of the Gallery. The endless prospects flowed past him like scenery viewed from a slow-moving train, and there were always new sights and wonders, places and people seen from far away or in such close-up detail that Hart felt as though he could just reach out and touch them. The scenes in the portraits were silent until he stood before them, and then sounds and voices would whisper in the Gallery, tantalizingly faint, as though they’d had to travel unimaginable distances to reach him.
‘Time doesn’t get out much,’ said Ash easily, ‘But with the Gallery to keep him informed, he doesn’t have to. Every place and every person in Shadows Fall can be seen somewhere in the Gallery of Bone. You’d have to be crazy to keep track of it all, but then, that’s Time for you. If it was an easy job, anybody could do it.’
Hart frowned. ‘Wait a minute. I don’t think I like the sound of that. What about people’s privacy?’
‘What about it?’ said Ash. ‘Given that there are an almost infinite number of places, people and things that Time has to keep track of, what are the odds that he’s going to be watching you? And even if he was, that you’d be doing anything that was (1) interesting, and (2) something he hadn’t seen before? Mostly we all just assume he’s watching someone else, and mostly we’re right. Don’t worry about it.’
‘You keep saying that, but it doesn’t help. This place worries the hell out of me; it’s Big Brother with a vengeance.’
‘I prefer to think of him more as Big Uncle; well-meaning but preoccupied. Let me show you something that’ll take your mind off it. The portraits have other functions too. Take a look at this. You’ll like this.’
Ash stopped before a particular portrait, and Hart stopped with him. The scene was a high-tech latticework of steel corridors jammed together like a honeycomb, with shadowy figures scuttling back and forth, too quickly and too briefly seen to be identified. The lights were painfully bright, too intense to be meant for human eyes, and there were no shadows anywhere. Here and there, intricate machines like living sculptures performed silent, unguessable tasks.
‘What is that place?’ said Hart, his voice low, as though afraid he’d be overheard.
‘The future,’ said Ash. ‘Or possibly the past. It doesn’t matter. Keep watching.’
One of Time’s automatons came striding confidently down the harshly-lit corridor, its steel feet clapping loudly against the steel floor. It walked towards the portrait, already so close its painted eyes and smile could easily be seen. It soon filled the view, and Ash backed away. Hart realized suddenly what was about to happen, and stumbled backwards, his eyes still fixed on the portrait. A slow tension formed on the air, pressure building remorselessly until an uncomfortably warm breeze gusted out of the portrait and into the Gallery. It smelt of ozone and machine oil. The automaton stepped gracefully out of the portrait and down into the Gallery, and walked away without even bothering to glance at Hart and Ash. The warm breeze broke off abruptly, and all that was left was the disappearing automaton, and the last few traces of ozone and machine oil on the air.
‘How’s that for timing?’ said Ash. ‘What were the odds we’d be in just the right place at the right moment to witness that?’
‘Yeah,’ said Hart slowly. ‘What were the odds? They’d have to be astronomical. Much more likely that Time’s watching us, and has been for quite some while.’
He looked quickly about him, as though expecting to see Old Father Time right there in the Gallery with them, but Ash just shrugged and shook his head. ‘Not necessarily,’ he said easily. ‘Coincidence is one of Time’s favourite tools. Come on; we don’t want to keep him waiting.’
‘Will you stop saying that! It took me twenty-five years to get back here; it won’t hurt him to wait a few minutes longer. You’d think he was a King or something, the way you all jump at his name.’
‘You don’t understand,’ said Ash. ‘You will, when you’ve had a chance to meet him. He really is rather special.’
Hart sniffed, and looked after the disappearing automaton. ‘How many of those . . . things, does Time have?’
‘I don’t think anyone knows for sure, except Time himself. It takes him years to make one, but by all accounts his various selves have been making them for centuries. They’re his thoughts and his hands in the outside world, and in a sense they’re his children too. The only children he’ll ever have.’
‘Why’s that?’
Ash looked at him expressionlessly. ‘Think about it, James. Time is immortal, or as near as makes no damn difference. How many children would a man have after a few thousand years? How many children would they have? No, James; there’ve never been any children and there never will be.’
‘Doesn’t he mind?’
Ash shrugged. ‘He’s had a lot of time to get used to the idea. But yes, of course he minds. Why do you think he keeps making automatons?’
Hart looked at the portraits on the walls and then at the Gallery around him. He knew what he wanted to say, but he didn’t know how to say it without sounding naïve. So he said it anyway. ‘Leonard; is Time human?’
‘A fair question,’ said Ash, ‘And one that has been troubling the minds of people in Shadows Fall for a good many centuries. He looks human enough, and he has enough human frailties to more than qualify, but he was never born and death can’t hold him. He appears as a baby, lives a man’s lifetime in one year and dies an old man, only to appear again from his own ashes. Some say he’s the ancient phoenix of legend, others that he is the very concept of Time itself, given shape and form and blood and bone. Everyone has an opinion, but no one knows, and Time isn’t talking. There’s only one thing that everyone agrees on where Old Father Time’s concerned.’
‘What’s that?’
‘He hates to be kept waiting. You walked right into that one, James.’
‘No I didn’t; it mounted the pavement and ran me down.’
‘Whatever,’ said Ash. ‘Let’s go.’
They walked along in silence for a way, their footsteps echoing hollowly in the empty Gallery. Scenes and faces came and went on the walls they passed, and occasionally a quietly whirring automaton would stride gracefully past on its master’s bidding. Hart began to wonder how much further he’d have to walk; it seemed like he’d spent most of the day travelling from one place to another, and his feet were killing him. He’d been walking for some time now, but like the Hall earlier, the Gallery seemed to go on for ever. He looked back the way they’d come, but there was no longer any sign of the door they’d entered through. The Gallery stretched away for as far as he could see in each direction, as though it had no beginning and no ending. The thought disturbed him, and he searched for something else to say that would distract him. He didn’t have to search far.
‘Leonard; you keep saying Old Father Time is important to Shadows Fall, but what does he actually do, apart from spy on people and fiddle with clockwork?’
‘It’s complicated,’ said Ash, in a tone that clearly suggested he didn’t want to talk about it.
‘Then simplify it,’ said Hart remorselessly.
Ash sighed. ‘Basically, you have to understand that Shadows Fall is by its very nature essentially unstable. New time zones are always appearing and disappearing, for a whole variety of reasons. People and creatures of all kinds come and go, some of them extremely powerful and potentially destabilizing. Someone has to hold the reins, or the whole town would fall apart overnight. Time keeps things stable by balancing one zone against another, settling disputes before they can get out of hand, and generally practising preventive maintenance. It helps that he’s so powerful that absolutely no one wants to mess with him, but he generally leaves the dirty work to his agents.’
‘You mean the automatons?’
Hart frowned. ‘I’m missing something here. What makes him so powerful? How does he deal with things that are too tough for his agents?’
‘Trust me,’ said Ash, ‘You really don’t want to know. Mostly he just sends a message via an automaton, and that’s usually all it takes. No one wants Time mad at them. On the few occasions when someone refuses to follow his advice, Time sends Jack Fetch after them. If you’re lucky, you won’t ever have to meet him. He’s . . . rather disturbing.’
‘What does the Sheriff think about all this?’ said Hart slowly. ‘I mean, he’s supposed to enforce the law here, isn’t he?’
‘Time is more important than the law. The law can’t cope with a situation like Shadows Fall; it’s too inflexible. Everyone accepts that, even though some, like our good Sheriff, don’t agree with it. But most people have enough sense not to rock the boat too roughly. Time is conscientious and hard-working, and doesn’t give a damn what people think of him. Or how many toes he has to tread on to get the job done. Mostly the Sheriff and Time are terribly polite to each other, and try very hard to have as little to do with each other as possible.’
He broke off, and they both stopped as an automaton came striding down the corridor and stopped immediately before them. Its painted porcelain face looked first at Ash and then at Hart. The face had a painted moustache and a monocle. It took Hart only a moment to decide that this made the face look even more unreal than usual. He met the painted gaze steadily with his own, and had no doubt that someone else was watching him through the automaton’s flat eyes. It whirred and clicked as though thinking about something, and then words sounded in Hart’s head like the tolling of a leaden bell. The words were clear and distinct and so loud they made him wince with each new syllable. God probably sounded similar when he wanted some Old Testament prophet to pay particular attention.
Leonard Ash. Have you come seeking the Forever Door at last?
‘No,’ said Ash calmly. ‘I’m just taking advantage of your good nature again. I’ve brought someone to meet you. A newcomer called James Hart. Except he’s not really new; he left Shadows Fall with his parents when he was ten. You remember; there was a prophecy . . .’
Yes. I remember. Bring him to me. The puppet will show you the way. Stick to the path. For your own safety.
The voice broke off sharply and Hart shook his head gingerly. His ears were ringing, and his head felt as though he’d been standing too close to the speakers at a rock concert. He looked at Ash, who was smiling understandingly. The voice didn’t seem to have bothered him at all.
‘Don’t let the burning bush act throw you. He’s always this way with strangers. All part of the image, you see. Time’s always been very concerned about projecting the right image. Besides, he likes to be rude to people. It’s one of the few advantages of his job.’
The automaton ticked loudly twice, turned smoothly on its heel and started off down the corridor. Hart and Ash hurried after it. They walked along in silence for a while, and then Hart sighed resignedly.
‘All right, Ash; what are you looking so worried about? This puppet’s taking us where we wanted to go, isn’t it?’
‘Well, yes,’ said Ash. ‘That’s what’s bothering me. I was expecting more of an argument. Time really hates visitors. In fact, the only thing he hates more are strangers. And you’re both. I think we have to assume he knew you were coming.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Hart. ‘Even if he’d seen me in one of his portraits, he couldn’t really know who I am, and who my parents were. Could he?’
Ash sighed, looking thoughtfully at the automaton’s back. ‘Time knows a lot of things he shouldn’t. It’s one of his more disturbing qualities. I’m beginning to wonder if I did the right thing in bringing you here. The prophecy about your family’s connection with the town’s destruction is quite specific, according to everything I’ve heard. He might have decided you’re too dangerous to be left running loose in Shadows Fall. And Time has some very unpleasant ways of dealing with dangerous people.’
Hart glared at him. ‘Now you tell me! Well, don’t just stop there; what does he do to people he thinks are dangerous? Lock them up? Send them back to the Stone Age to play tag with the dinosaurs? What?’
‘Look to your left,’ said Ash.
Hart looked, and came to a sudden stop. Ash stopped with him, and a few steps ahead of them the automaton came to a graceful halt. It didn’t turn round to see what they were doing, but waited patiently for them to continue on their way. It gave the impression of being prepared to wait indefinitely, if necessary. Hart didn’t notice either of them. His gaze was fixed on the portrait before him. At first glance he’d thought it was just another face on the wall, but the moment he met the glaring haunted eyes, staring madly out at the world, he knew that something horrible had happened here. The mouth was twisted in an endless snarl, and the hands at the figure’s sides were clenched into white-knuckled fists, but the figure didn’t move at all, standing very still. Impossibly still, as though caught between one movement and the next, between one moment and the next.
‘He’s been taken out of Time,’ said Ash, his voice carefully level. ‘Trapped in a stolen moment like an insect caught in amber. While he stands here in the Gallery, Time moves on without him. Everyone he ever knew is dead. All his friends, all his family, everyone who ever knew him is gone. Gone to dust and less than dust. And still he stands here in Time’s Gallery, an object lesson to anyone who might think they can stand against Time.’
‘How long will Time keep him here like this?’ said Hart finally.
‘No one knows,’ said Ash. ‘He hasn’t released anyone yet. Let’s go, James. We don’t want to keep Time waiting.’
Hart tore his eyes away from the still figure’s mad gaze, and nodded curtly to Ash. The automaton set off again, without once looking back to see if they were following. Hart strode after it, scowling at its unresponsive back. He didn’t look at Ash, who walked quietly at his side, keeping his own counsel. Hart scowled. He’d trusted Ash. Liked him and trusted him. He’d wanted to believe he had one friend at least in this unnatural town, and who better than someone who’d known him as a child. He’d also wanted to believe that Old Father Time would have answers for his questions, would know the who and why and what he was. But now it seemed the friend had betrayed him, and Time had nothing for him but a frozen eternity in his private Gallery of horrors. He thought briefly about running, but where would he run to? He didn’t even know how to get back to Shadows Fall without Ash’s help. He’d come so far, fought so hard, hoped so much, and all for nothing. He smiled suddenly, and there was little humour in it. He wasn’t beaten yet, and if Time thought he was, he was in for a nasty surprise. Hart didn’t believe in giving up. Ever.
‘How many people does Time have frozen?’ he said finally, still not looking at Ash.
‘No one knows. Well, I assume Time knows, but he’s never felt inclined to discuss the subject.’
‘In other words, he’s judge, jury and executioner, and everyone lets him get away with it.’
‘Who’s going to stop him? This is his reason for existence, to serve and protect Shadows Fall from harm.’
‘But he decides who’s guilty and who’s dangerous. Or potentially dangerous.’
‘Who’s better equipped to know than him? The portraits in his Gallery provide him with all the information there is. At any given moment he knows more about what’s going on in Shadows Fall than anyone else.’
‘And you trust him with that kind of power?’
‘I trust him to do what he thinks is right and best for Shadows Fall,’ Ash said carefully. ‘Please believe me, James; I didn’t bring you here to throw you to the wolves. If anyone can answer your questions, it’s Time. And it’s much better that you should come to him, than that he should send someone to fetch you. Trust me, James; it’s better this way. If he decides to help you, he has access to people and information that no one else has. He’s not a bad sort. Considering he’s not really human.’
Some of Hart’s anger began to die away. It was hard to stay mad at Ash. He had all the open vulnerable honesty of a puppy that keeps falling over himself because his feet are too big. ‘So,’ he said finally, allowing his tone to soften a little, ‘Time just freezes people who annoy him, is that it?’
‘It’s not quite that arbitrary. A lot of the people stored here are those who were supposed to go through the Forever Door, but couldn’t work up the courage. People who were no longer believed in, who no longer served any function in the real world, but refused to admit it. So they hung around Shadows Fall, growing realer and crazier all the time as the world moved on and left them behind, but still unable to face the Door. Eventually they just fell apart and lashed out at who or whatever happened to be handy, and Time brought them here and froze them, for everyone’s safety. It’s a compromise no one’s really happy with, least of all Time, because there are always more of them.’ Ash broke off to stare thoughtfully at a face in a portrait. ‘I could end up here myself, some day. It’s not a comforting thought.’
They turned a corner and came to a sudden halt as the Gallery ended in a closed door. The automaton stood completely still before the door, as though awaiting further instructions. Hart peered over its shoulder. The door looked ordinary, unassuming and everyday, of entirely normal size and proportions. Hart looked at Ash, who was looking expectantly at the door. Hart was about to ask acidly if they could at least try knocking when the door swung suddenly open, smoothly and silently, without anybody touching it. The automaton stepped gracefully to one side and gestured for them to go in. Ash did so, and Hart followed him in, giving the automaton plenty of room. The automaton stepped gracefully to one side and gestured for them to go in. Ash did so, and Hart followed him in, giving the automaton plenty of room. The painted porcelain face seemed more alien and enigmatic than ever. Hart felt even more unhappy when he got inside, and found there was no one there who could have opened the door. It could have been something as simple as an automatic switch, but somehow he didn’t think so. The door closed itself behind him with quiet finality, but Hart refused to give it the satisfaction of looking. He squared his shoulders and looked casually about him as though this sort of thing happened to him all the time.
He didn’t know exactly what he’d been expecting of Time’s private domain, but this definitely wasn’t it. The room might have started out as large and airy, but now it was crammed from wall to wall with clanking, shuddering machinery that looked like something out of Victorian England. There were pipes and gaskets and turning wheels, with more than a hint of building steam pressure. Clock faces and dials sprouted up everywhere there was a space, most of them contradicting each other. Over in a corner a huge counterweight rose and fell with calm, unhurried motions, though what it was connected to was anybody’s guess. From all around came a low continuous murmur of moving parts, and the occasional hiss of vented steam. Oil dripped slowly from the odd seam, but there was always a carefully placed container to catch it. The air was pleasantly warm, and just a little hazy.
A narrow passage led through the bulk of the machinery, and Hart moved slowly along it, Ash drifting along behind him. There was a strong sense of purpose to the room, as though all the clumsily interlocked machinery was busy doing something important and vital. It felt suddenly to Hart as though he’d somehow wandered into the workings of one of Time’s automatons, unable to see the true shape and purpose because of the sheer scale of the thing. He was a mouse inside a grandfather clock, an insect on a computer screen, trying to see things in terms he was used to, but unable to grasp the true concept and reality of where he was because his mind just wasn’t complex enough.
A door slammed open on the far side of the room, and someone came striding through the maze of machinery with the ease of long familiarity. Hart pulled his drifting thoughts together and stood ready to meet Old Father Time. He thought he’d prepared himself for pretty much anything, but he was still taken aback by the slender young woman who finally stood glaring before him, her large tattooed fists resting angrily on her hips. Hart was hard pressed to think what sort of person would have looked suited to the room, but she definitely wasn’t it. She looked to be barely out of her teens, dressed in battered black leather and chains, and going by her face she had a mad on for the whole world. She wore her hair in a spiky mohican, shaved high at the sides, and her face was half hidden behind a garish mask of black and white makeup. She had a safety pin piercing one ear, and a razor blade hanging from the other. Hart didn’t know whether to smile and offer to shake hands, or back slowly away while reaching for a chair and a whip. In the end he smiled briefly, stepped back a pace and looked to Ash for help.
‘This young lady is Madeleine Kresh,’ said Ash easily. ‘Call her Mad for short. Everyone does. She is Time’s companion, assistant, social secretary, and anything else she can think of. She’s not family, whatever else she is. She just turned up on his doorstep one morning, cold and shivering, he brought her in and gave her a bowl of milk, and she’s been here ever since. She’s a sort of combination bodyguard and watchdog, and everyone who wants to see Time has to get past her first. Isn’t that right, Madeleine?’
‘Don’t call me that!’ the young woman snapped in a deep harsh voice, her eyes digging holes in his face. ‘And you can forget about seeing Time. He’s busy. Now piss off.’
‘Don’t be like that, Madeleine,’ said Ash calmly. ‘You know your little heart goes pat pitter pat at the sight of me. I like the chains, by the way; they’ve come up nicely since you polished them. Now be a good girl and tell Time we’re here. He’s expecting us.’
‘I said you can’t see him! Don’t come sniffing around me with your clever mouth, ghostie. I’m on to your game. You think the rules don’t apply to you any more because you’re dead, but that doesn’t cut any ice with me. You’re just another damned shade who didn’t have the balls to go through the Forever Door. You’re not seeing Time today. He’s in the middle of an emergency. Now piss off or I’ll set the dogs on you.’
‘You don’t have any dogs, Madeleine. You’re allergic to them. And as for the emergency, Time is always in the middle of something important, that’s his job. But he’ll see us. Or rather he’ll see James, here. He can’t afford not to. Now then, my dear, your constant over-protectiveness stopped being sweet a long time ago, so stop wasting all our time and tell the old man we’re here.’
Hart hadn’t thought it was possible for Mad to get any angrier, but steam practically poured out of her ears as she advanced on Ash. A flick knife was suddenly in her hand, the blade snapping out with a short, flat sound that seemed unusually clear and distinct. Hart didn’t like the look of her or her knife. They both looked extremely dangerous and equally inflexible. She stopped immediately before Ash and shoved her face into his.
‘Bottom line, Ash, in words of one syllable or less. Get out of here or I’ll cut you and your pretty boyfriend. I don’t like you coming here, Ash. You’ve no business here, and you upset Time by getting him involved in things that are none of his business. I don’t know why you’re here and I don’t care. You’re banned from the Gallery. You’re blacked, null and void, a waste of space. Now turn around and walk back the way you came or I’ll see just how much damage I can do to that dead body of yours.’
Her voice was harsh and deadly and utterly sincere. Hart decided he believed every word she said, and looked urgently at Ash, who hadn’t budged an inch. When he spoke, his voice was calm and even.
‘You’re getting above yourself, Madeleine. You’ve found yourself a nice little niche here, looking after Time, and that’s good; someone has to do it, and most of us haven’t the patience. But don’t make the mistake of thinking you’re in charge here, just because Time is starting to get a little vague as his death gets nearer. You may have the word HATE tattooed on both sets of knuckles, but that doesn’t mean you’re good enough to tangle with someone like me. Now be a good girl, and do as you’re told, Madeleine.’
‘Don’t call me that!’
Mad brandished her knife in Ash’s face, and then stopped and fell back a step. Nothing had happened but everything had changed. Without moving a muscle or saying another word, Ash was suddenly frightening, and very dangerous. Menace blew from him like a cold wind, chilling the heart and stealing its courage. Hart’s flesh crawled, and it took all his self-control not to back away from Ash. He suddenly knew, deep down where it mattered, that Ash was exactly what he’d said he was; a dead man, walking. Death had entered the room, and would not be ignored. Ash reached out and took the knife from Mad’s trembling hand. He smiled at her, and it was not a pleasant smile. Perhaps, Hart thought, it was not entirely sane, either.
‘You speak very freely of death, Madeleine, but you don’t know anything. Shall I show you what it really is, what it really means? Shall I teach you the secrets of the grave, and the comfort of the earth?’
Mad’s face was drained of all colour, her makeup standing out starkly against her staring eyes. She was trembling violently, but even so she wouldn’t retreat a step. Ash’s smile widened, and there was no humour in it at all.
‘All right, that’s enough of that.’
The calm, dry voice broke the mood like a shock of cold water. Ash looked round to see who’d spoken, and Mad ran a shaking hand across her mouth, as though waking from a nightmare. Hart began to breathe more easily, and some of the ice went out of his veins. He looked briefly at Ash with new eyes, and then looked to see who’d spoken. The newcomer walked unhurriedly out of the maze of machinery to join them; a gaunt man in his late fifties or early sixties, dressed to the height of mid-Victorian fashion. His long black coat was of a fine but severe cut, and apart from the gold watch-chain gleaming brightly across his waistcoat, the only flash of colour was the apricot-coloured cravat at his throat. He stood before them, smiling benignly, like a favourite uncle. An air of quiet authority hung about him like a cloak, only slightly undermined by a certain vagueness.
‘You really must stop provoking poor Mad,’ he said sternly to Ash. ‘Just because you’re dead, it doesn’t mean you can forget your manners. Now give her back her knife.’
‘Sorry,’ said Ash, casually handing Mad her knife. ‘It won’t happen again.’
‘No you’re not, and undoubtedly it will, but let that pass for the nonce. It’s good to see you here again, Leonard. Can I hope that you’ve finally decided to do the right thing, and pass through the Forever Door at last?’
‘I can’t go,’ said Ash. ‘Not yet. My parents still need me. It was their need that brought me back, and their refusal to let me go that still holds me.’
Time sniffed dismissively. ‘You’ve told me that before, and I didn’t believe it then. Still, it’s your life, or rather your death, and I can’t tell you what to do with it.’ He turned to Hart, who straightened up and stood a little taller despite himself under the firm but kindly gaze. Time was handsome enough in an old-fashioned way, with a determined chin and a stern brow. He had a thinning mane of long white hair, brushed back from his high forehead and left to lie where it would, but it was his eyes that caught the attention. Time had very old eyes, old and more than a little tired. And very, very knowing. Hart felt six years old, and too impressed by the old man’s sheer presence even to feel annoyed. Time smiled understandingly.
‘So, you’re Jonathon Hart’s boy, are you? Yes, you’ve your father’s face. Never thought to see it here again, though I of all people should know better than to use the word never, hmm? Especially about anything to do with Shadows Fall.’ He sniffed disparagingly and shook his head, and then a nearby dial caught his eye and he reached out to regulate the pressure with a few turns of a handy wheel. He glared at the dial, apparently displeased with what he saw, and rapped imperiously at the glass face with one knuckle. He waited a moment and then sniffed again, only just satisfied by the new reading. He turned back to Hart.
‘Can’t turn your back on anything round here; there’s always something needs doing. Still, don’t take anything you see here too literally, young man; not even me. We all tend to vary somewhat, according to the eye of the beholder. The human mind tends to adjust and tone down things it finds too complex or disturbing. Think of all this as a metaphor, if that makes you feel more comfortable. Now then, young man, we must talk. Things are happening, or will happen soon, and you’re right in the middle of it.’
‘Me?’ said Hart. ‘What did I do? I only just got here.’
‘That was enough,’ said Time. ‘Your return has set in motion a chain of events that will affect us all; a wheel of destiny whose time has come round at last. And whether you like it or not, you are in it up to your lower lip and sinking fast. The prophecy will be fulfilled, no matter what you or I or anyone else can do.’
‘I could leave Shadows Fall,’ said Hart.
‘No, you couldn’t,’ said Time, not unkindly. ‘The town wouldn’t let you.’
‘But you’re supposed to be in charge of everything here . . .’
‘Hah! No, my boy, I’m more of an overseer, an umpire who sees that everyone sticks to the rules. I’m not even human, as you would understand the term. I am the physical incarnation of an abstract concept, both more and less than human. I exist because I’m necessary, but even I, more than anyone else, have to follow the rules. I’m not even immortal, strictly speaking. I live for exactly one year, age from babe to ancient, and then die and rise again from my ashes, which is a lot messier than it sounds. Each time I’m reborn I have access to all my previous memories, but am I the same person, or merely a new being with access to someone else’s memories? It’s an interesting distinction, and one I’ve been pondering for centuries without getting any closer to an answer. Still, that’s Shadows Fall for you. I am the power that holds this town together, but it is the town that decides its future. All I get to do is nudge things in the right direction. Mostly I get the feeling I’m only along for the ride.’
‘Nudge,’ said Ash. ‘Not quite the word I would have used. Speaking of the devil’s henchman; where is Jack Fetch?’
‘About my business,’ said Time. His eyes were suddenly cold, but the smile he turned on Hart was reassuring. ‘You don’t want to believe everything you hear about Jack. He’s my assistant; helps enforce the rules when necessary. Not the easiest of fellows to get along with, but I’ve always found him very loyal. He’s not a bad sort, really, just rather direct in his methods.’
‘Direct,’ said Ash. ‘That’s another good word.’
‘You’re here on sufferance, Leonard,’ said Time. ‘Don’t push your luck. Now then, my dear James, you’re looking at me somewhat strangely. Is something wrong?’
‘No, not really. I was just wondering, well . . . why Victorian?’
‘Don’t ask me,’ said Time. ‘It’s your subconscious. I’ve no doubt Leonard sees me very differently, but then, being dead he’s more able to bear the truth of my reality. I fear my true nature is a little too much for most people. Don’t worry about it too much, my boy. However you see me, it’s real enough. I’m just . . . translated by your mind into something more comfortable to deal with, hmm? You’ll find a lot of things are like that in Shadows Fall.’
‘So I can’t see what you really look like, but Ash can?’
‘The dead have few illusions,’ said Time.
Ash shook his head firmly as Hart looked at him. ‘Don’t ask, James. Trust me on this. You don’t want to know.’
‘Let’s get back to what you actually do,’ said Hart, just a little doggedly. ‘You decide how things should be, or the town does and you pass it on, and then Jack Fetch deals with anyone who disagrees. Right?’
‘Pretty much,’ said Mad, in the tone of someone who’d been left out of the conversation entirely too long, and wasn’t at all pleased about it. ‘Time makes the decisions that matter. He protects the town and the Door.’
‘Protects?’ said Hart. ‘Protects from who?’
‘Shadows Fall has its enemies,’ said Mad flatly. ‘And whoever controls the Forever Door controls the town. Time keeps us all safe. There’s always some sneaky bastard ready to plunder the various times and realities, and to hell with the consequences. Thieves, conspirators and general ratbags. Time sniffs them out and sends Jack Fetch to fix their wagon. Jack kicks ass.’ She smiled unpleasantly at Hart. ‘You have to meet Jack before you go. He’s dead interesting, is Jack.’
‘That’s enough, my dear,’ said Time. ‘Just because Jack isn’t real, it doesn’t mean that at heart he isn’t a nice person. If he had a heart, that is. Jack has many fine and sterling qualities; it’s just that in his line of work, he doesn’t get to show them much. Now James . . . pay attention, young man! I’m not talking for the pleasure of hearing myself speak.’
‘Sorry,’ said Hart quickly, looking away from a clock face that had caught his eye. It was running backwards. ‘I’m listening. Please continue.’
‘Well,’ said Time, a glint in his eye suggesting he was not entirely mollified, ‘suffice to say I oversee and maintain the various times and realities that are attracted to Shadows Fall by its unique nature. People and places are constantly coming and going; it’s that sort of place. I keep track of them all, through my portraits and other methods. I see all and know most, here, there and everywhere, and try not to trip over my own feet too often.’ He broke off, and smiled at Mad. ‘I seem to be getting a little dry. I’m not used to so much talking. Why don’t you make us all a nice cup of tea?’
Mad nodded curtly, and glared at Ash and Hart. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’
‘I’m missing you already,’ said Ash gallantly.
Mad gave him one of her best sniffs, turned on her heel and left. Her back radiated disdain.
Time started to say something admonishing to Ash, and then stopped and looked over Ash’s shoulder. ‘You wanted to see Jack Fetch, James, and it seems you’re in luck. Here he comes now.’
Ash and Hart looked quickly back, and turned round sharply as they heard footsteps approaching outside the closed door. The footfalls were slow and steady and somehow . . . soft, as though whoever was approaching was wearing padded slippers. The thought disturbed Hart on some deep level, though he couldn’t say why. The soft sounds were somehow too diffuse, not solid enough. They finally stopped outside the door, and in the long pause that followed, everyone seemed to be holding their breath. Hart could feel the hackles rising on the back of his neck, and was suddenly very sure he didn’t want to see what was on the other side of the door.
And then the handle turned and the door opened, and Jack Fetch walked in on springy legs. He was a scarecrow, a thing of rags and sticks and straw. He should have looked quaint and old-fashioned, charming in a traditional rural way, but there was nothing reassuring or comforting about Jack Fetch. He was a human figure formed entirely of unliving, inanimate details, from his straw-stuffed shirt to his twiggy feet to the grotesquely carved turnip that was his head. He reminded Hart of a toy he’d once had, grown vague and frightening in his bedroom after the light had been turned off. Jack Fetch was made of things that did not live, and never should have lived, but moved now by the workings of some unnatural will. He wasn’t a puppet or a tool, like Time’s automatons; Jack was alive and aware and not in the least human. Hart could sense it, in his bones and in his water. The great turnip face turned slowly on its wooden neck, looking from Hart to Ash to Old Father Time, and of them all Time was the only one who met the dark, unblinking gaze. The scarecrow slowly advanced on them, the bound twigs of his feet making light scratchy sounds on the bare wooden floor, like rats scuffling across a barn’s floor, and then he came to a halt before Time, bowed jerkily once, and was still. Hart looked at the unmoving creature and didn’t know whether he wanted most to hit it or run away.
‘Jack Fetch,’ Ash said softly. ‘In Shadows Fall mothers tell their children to be good, or Jack Fetch will come for them. And sometimes he does. How many have you killed today, Jack? There’s blood on your hands.’
Hart looked automatically at the battered leather gloves that were the scarecrow’s hands, and his heart jumped in his chest as he saw the dark stains that speckled the gloves. Time made a soft tutting noise.
‘Jack, you know you’re supposed to clean yourself up before you come to see me. What will our guests think, hmm? Even so, Leonard, I’ve told you before; you’re not to be rude to him. His feelings are easily bruised, and you know how hard it is to get good help these days. Jack is my good right hand, and I rely on him to see that things are run as they should be run, for the town’s sake. Even the most indulgent father must be stern on occasion.’
‘Who did you send your dog after today?’ said Ash flatly.
Time shrugged. ‘The Lords of Order and the Dukes of Chaos have been arguing over fractals again and breaking up the furniture. This new science of Chaos Theory has caused more trouble on the aetheric planes than you’d think possible. I don’t know why they can’t just agree to disagree. Be that as it may, Jack quietened them down easily enough. He’s a persuasive fellow, when he wants to be. Well done, Jack. Return to the Gallery of Frost, and I’ll see you later.’
The scarecrow stood unmoving for a long moment, and then slowly turned his turnip head to stare at Hart. The carved smile and empty eyesockets held no warmth or sign of emotion, but there was a thoughtful deliberation to the stare that Hart found chilling. It was as though he was being studied and weighed and found wanting, in some silent Court from which there was no appeal. He fell back a step involuntarily, and the scarecrow moved after him. Time called sharply for Jack to stop, but the scarecrow went silently after Hart as he continued to back away. He made no sound, save for the scratching of his twiggy feet on the wooden floor, but still Hart could read purpose in his slow, unhurried advance.
Time came up behind him, calling the scarecrow’s name with increasing anger, and finally took him by the arm. Jack Fetch shrugged him off without even looking round. There was an unnatural strength in the unliving body, and Hart knew on some deep primal level that if Fetch caught him, he could tear him apart as easily as a child might pull apart a stuffed toy. Hart’s back slammed up against a wall, and there was nowhere left to go. His breathing was fast and shallow, like a bird in a cage being menaced by a cat, but still it never occurred to him to fight. He somehow knew there was no point, that Jack Fetch was not something that could be stopped by human strengths.
And then there was a cry and a scream and a black-clad figure threw itself furiously at the scarecrow, sending him staggering to one side. Madeleine Kresh rode the scarecrow’s back like a jockey, her legs wrapped round his upper arms, her hands tearing at his turnip face. He quickly regained his balance, and reached up with his gloved hands. Mad spat at them, and cut at the nearest hand with her knife. Jack Fetch ignored her attacks, grasped her firmly by the arms and removed her easily from his person. He set her down, and pushed her firmly to one side. Mad stabbed him in his stuffed belly, her blade ramming home three times in swift succession, but no blood ran from the ragged cuts in his shirt. Mad stood there stupidly, and the scarecrow turned his attention back to Hart.
Ash stepped forward and stood between the two of them, his pale disquieting eyes fixed on the scarecrow’s empty stare. And in that moment he drew his true nature about him again, and became terrifying. Mad felt its power and fell back despite herself. Even Hart could feel some of it, though it wasn’t directed at him, and his blood chilled in his veins. Jack Fetch stood staring at the dead man, and then reached out with his gloved hands, took him by the arms and moved him gently but firmly to one side. Ash stumbled and almost fell, as though just the touch of the scarecrow’s hands had drained the strength right out of him. Jack Fetch looked again at Hart, and stepped deliberately forward so that he was standing right in front of him. There was sawdust on his breath, stale and scratchy in Hart’s throat as he breathed it in.
It’s come for me, was all he could think. It came for my parents, but they were already gone. So now at last it’s come for me.
The room had grown quiet, as Time and Mad and Ash watched helplessly to see what the scarecrow would do. Of them all, only Time had made no real move to stop him, presumably because he knew Fetch couldn’t be stopped once he had been set in motion, that whatever was about to occur had the weight of destiny behind it. And as Hart watched with wide and staring eyes, Jack Fetch dropped jerkily to one knee and bowed his turnip head to him. And then he got to his feet, turned away and walked off, disappearing back through the door he had left ajar earlier. There was an almost explosive sigh of relief from those who’d been holding their breath, and Time looked strangely at Hart.
‘In all the time I’ve known Jack, he’s never done that to anyone. Not even me.’
‘So what does it mean?’ said Mad, reluctantly putting her knife away.
‘I don’t know,’ said Time abruptly. ‘But it is extremely interesting. I’m going to have to think about it.’
Hart had to swallow hard to clear his throat, but when he finally spoke his voice was cool and even. ‘Did you send . . . that after my parents, when they decided to leave Shadows Fall? Is that why they never dared come back?’
Time pursed his lips thoughtfully before answering. ‘The prophecy concerning you and your family was annoyingly vague, as most oracles are, but the sense seemed clear enough. The fate of the Forever Door, and that of the whole town, is linked in some way to you. You would not have been harmed, had you stayed. Only watched, and considered. We could have stopped you leaving, but we chose not to. For all our human and inhuman natures, Shadows Fall has always done its best to behave in a civilized manner.’
‘Yeah,’ said Ash. ‘Jack Fetch is really civilized.’
‘Well,’ said Hart, meeting Time’s gaze steadily, ‘Now I’m back, what are you going to do?’
‘Watch and observe,’ said Time calmly. ‘Please understand, James; Shadows Fall is important. The world needs a place like this, where the boundaries of the real can relax, and all lost souls can find their way home at last. The Forever Door is a pressure valve, where the world can let off steam safely, and let go those things that no longer fit. And you threaten all that, my boy, just by being here. If the Door were ever destroyed, or this town obliterated, the psychic shock would throw the whole world into madness and violence. Fires would be started that would burn for eternities, and the long night would never end. There are forces in the universe that will not be denied, James, both inside and outside Shadows Fall.’
‘So what do you think I should do?’ said Hart.
‘I don’t know,’ said Old Father Time. ‘But it seems to me that if there are answers to be found, they lie in your past, when the prophecy was made. Why don’t you go and visit your old family home? Leonard can show you where it is.’
‘Yes,’ said Hart. ‘I think I’d like that. Can we go now?’
‘Of course, my boy, of course. Though do have a little something before you go, to warm the blood and keep the cold out.’
He gestured to Mad, who produced from somewhere a tray with four small porcelain cups on it. Time took one, sipped carefully, and smiled. Ash and Hart took a cup each, and Mad took the last. She was smiling suspiciously innocently, so Hart waited for her to sip hers first, which she did with great aplomb. Hart took a healthy gulp from his cup, and his eyes bulged as a small nuke went off in his throat. His tongue curled up and died and his eyes squeezed shut like they were never going to open again.
‘What is this stuff?’ he gasped, eventually.
‘Saki,’ said Mad, grinning. ‘Powerful stuff, if you’re not used to it.’
Ash looked wistfully at his cup, and smiled at Hart. ‘Well, you can’t say you weren’t warned, James. Next time your future self tells you something, I really think you should pay attention . . .’
Hart glared at him through tear-filled eyes. ‘You talk too much, Ash.’