Mr Petrie’s thin red lips pursed, making them almost invisible as his eyes sunk back into the sockets above his raised, ruddy cheeks; the pained expression created an exaggerated effect of someone in extreme discomfort.
Salar, the enigmatic head of the Council of Anam Cara, had offered him an apprentice, someone who he could work with on the missions he was expected to carry out for ‘the greater good’. But exactly who could fill the role and, indeed, could Mr Petrie work closely alongside someone he would need to trust hundred per cent?
He looked anxiously at Salar and thanked him for the offer but added: "I’m not sure. I’ve never worked alongside anyone before nor shared the secrets of the Council of Anam Cara, not even with my late wife.
“Allow me to percolate the idea in my mind; it is a huge ask and sacrifice to make and while I was only fourteen years old when I leapt at the chance of becoming a Guardian, I never fully appreciated the true cost of agreeing to undertake such an appointment,” said Mr Petrie.
“And, of course, much as I respect the wisdom of the Council of Anam Cara, I would prefer to choose my own man,” he added. “Or woman, Mr Petrie. You should know by now there is no gender discrimination here. We do not assign anyone on something as primitive or base as gender. Until the human being is above such matters, it will continue to dwell in a primitive condition.”
With that, Salar beckoned a diminutive figure from the shadows who had stood by patiently. A pale blue-skinned, almost skeletal creature stepped forward taking instruction before being dismissed. Although almost human in shape, the creature, no more than four foot high, moved silently across the room.
Having large round eyes but no mouth or nostrils, one might wonder how the skelwarks, as they were known, managed to communicate, eat or breathe. The heavy fragrance of Parma Violets seemed to linger in the air after they’d exited a room.
Turning to Mr Petrie, Salar said: "We have always trusted you to use your knowledge wisely but you must remember your oath to the Council and remember your duty is to protect the Council first and foremost.
“I cannot pretend to understand the human condition of love but I’ve watched you over the years sink into a swamp of despondency following the demise of your wife, Clara. I know you couldn’t understand why we failed to give her the gift of immortality, but we must all make sacrifices for the greater good.”
Mr Petrie gripped his thumbs and held them tightly within the palms of his hands until the pain almost made him wince. The love he felt for his wife was as deep and as sharp as the day she had died many centuries earlier. No one had come close to replacing her in his heart, not that he had ever allowed anyone to get close to him again.
He sighed inwardly as Salar added: "Know that you are valued and your work is important. Changing someone’s life may seem small in the grand scheme of things but the satisfaction it brings others can be dramatic and meaningful.
"There are dark forces at play and the task of wiping out all evil is an impossible one. However, we can but try and get some to see the folly of their ways. Despite all our efforts, and those of The Guardians, wars continue to erupt and famine and hunger move forward relentlessly in a world where some humans are obese and others are starving.
“Your initiative over the fate of Dr William Brydon was indeed a valiant effort but we cannot legislate for the stupidity of man nor his refusal to learn from history,” added Salar. Mr Petrie nodded sagely as Salar touched upon what he regarded as one of his biggest personal failures and a period in which history would record the greatest defeat ever inflicted upon the British Army by an Asian enemy.
The year was 1842 and on January 6th, a 4,500 strong army of soldiers plus another 12,000 in support marched from the Afghan capital Kabul in the belief they would be given safe passage to the city of Jalalabad, but one week later all were dead having been wiped out by merciless Afghan warriors.
It was Mr Petrie’s idea to go back in time and save the life of one man who could then recount the tale of what would turn out to be incompetent military leadership combined with a mix of Afghan intrigue and complex politics on the ground. “Just one cautionary tale would have, I believed, stopped military forces and foreign powers from ever invading Afghanistan again and meddling with their politics,” he said.
Posing as an administrator from the British East India Company which had a huge presence in the region, Mr Petrie appeared in the military quarters or cantonment where Dr William Brydon was preparing for the British retreat from Kabul. There was a state of general confusion as senior officers supervised the packing of goods, valuables, clothes and food on to horses, camels and anything else with four legs.
“This is a fine chestnut,” said Mr Petrie as he stroked one of the ponies near where Dr Brydon was standing. The assistant surgeon, sporting a magnificent bushy moustache, looked over to the stranger and said: “Aye. He’s one of six ponies I’ve managed to assemble to carry me and my servants out of here. I’m afraid they’re all spoken for,” he added, anticipating that Mr Petrie was about to make him an offer.
“Don’t concern yourself, sir. I have my own plans in place for tomorrow’s departure. I just heard your voice and it’s always heartening to hear a fellow Scot. Progress will be slow tomorrow as more snow is expected and it’s already a foot deep on the ground.”
Once Dr Brydon realised he was in the company of another Scot who was not after anything but good conversation, he relaxed. He was even more delighted when his new friend offered him some food for supper that evening. “I’ve a little business to do and then I will return with a good, hearty meal which will already have been prepared and cooked by my own servants,” said Mr Petrie.
The two met up later that evening after Dr Brydon had tended to his patients. “We are going to have to leave some behind in the cantonments because they are too sick to travel. We’ve been assured of a safe passage and that the men will be cared for but there are ugly rumours circulating that we have neither protection nor friends here.”
Mr Petrie leaned forward in earnest and said: "William, we’re both Company men, so may I talk frankly? The moment you leave this cantonment, you will come under fire and the Afghans are in no mood for anything but slaughter. It is their intention to kill everyone and there are thousands waiting in the hills for the entire route.
“The military command is incompetent and Shah Shoojah is a man who stands alone, a king without an army but an army of enemies waiting to cut down every last British soldier on the road to Jalalabad. Keep your wits about you and take this.” Mr Petrie handed him a large sheepskin coat, warning him that the freezing weather conditions would prove treacherous, if not fatal for those exposed to the elements.
Dr Brydon looked at his fellow Scot and said: “What of you? You’ll need this coat more than me. I can’t accept this gift. We barely know each other.”
Mr Petrie smiled and responded: "Promise me one thing, William. Promise me you will write an account, leaving out no blame and names, when you arrive in Jalalabad.
“It is vital the world beyond Afghanistan gets to know the truth so that no other men in uniforms will follow into the folly of military misadventures in this godforsaken land. Alexander the Great could not conquer these people and neither could the Mongol hoards, and we must not let history repeat itself again.”
As the two men stood up and bade farewell to each other, Dr Brydon shouted back: “Mr Petrie…you left this behind in the pocket. It’s a magazine…”
But before he could finish the sentence, his new acquaintance responded: “Read it, enjoy it and then put it in your helmet for insulation. It will prevent your head from feeling the cold.” With that, he walked away as the surgeon shouted back: “See you in Jalalabad!”
Mr Petrie’s warning proved to be right, for only moments after the Kabul to Jalalabad, retreat began shots were fired and men were killed even before they’d left the cantonment. The long, painfully slow convoy was looted, animals slaughtered and thousands died on foot over the next seven days. If they were not killed by the Afghan warriors, they succumbed to the sub-zero temperatures and atrocious blizzards which caused snow blindness.
There were times when Dr Brydon feared for his own life and a week in to his terrifying ordeal his fears were realised when a scimitar wielding Afghan tried to kill him. He would later record in his journal: “I was pulled off my horse and knocked down by a blow on the head from an Afghan knife, which must have killed me, had I not had a portion of a Blackwood’s magazine in my forage cap.”
Two days after that attack, and having endured several more equally violent encounters, he did reach the fort in Jalalabad with wounds to his head, shoulder, arms and leg. He also survived to tell the story and fulfilled his promise to Mr Petrie to write a full and frank report. The contents made chilling reading as he regaled, in detail, the many ambushes and massacres by a formidable enemy.
He submitted the report to superior officers in Jalalabad but it would be more than thirty years before its contents were ever published, and even then they only appeared as an appendix in a retired general’s account of his own forty-three years serving in India.
“There was a cover up by the British Establishment and the East India Company. That whole exercise proved to be futile. Even now I feel angry and frustrated,” recalled Mr Petrie.
Salar sighed: “The intentions were good, if not a little naïve, although I’m sure the family of Dr William Brydon and his descendants will be forever grateful.”
A half-hearted, half-exasperated smile crossed Mr Petrie’s face. "He was a very clever man, as skilled in writing as he was in medicine and I thought if he could just record events as they unfolded then any army would think twice about the folly of going in to Afghanistan.
"He did survive. He did write a report; it was a truly graphic account not only exposing military incompetence but the terrifying, unpredictable and brutal nature of the Afghan warrior. Sadly the powers in force at the time made every effort to stifle its contents.
“All that effort and today, even now in the 21st century, foreign forces are still waging a losing battle in Afghanistan. All that innocent blood wasted, lives lost and sacrificed…it’s all such a tragedy,” reflected Mr Petrie. “They say the pen is mightier than the sword and, indeed, if only Dr Brydon’s journal and notes had been published immediately, who knows the good it could have done?”
“What was the title of that magazine?” asked Salar, almost baiting Mr Petrie but the old man just ‘harrumphed’ and bemoaned ‘man’s inhumanity to man’ referencing a Robert Burns quote. "I did visit Dr Brydon at his family home in Fortrose on the Black Isle to find out why his manuscript never saw the light of day.
“Of course he was too loyal to say anything or genuinely did not know; either way he could enlighten me no further. The man was worthy of a medal for the courage he displayed and with, or without my help, it was still a miracle he survived but dark forces were at play,” concluded Mr Petrie.
"If only humans could learn from the follies of the past. However, Mr Petrie we must keep trying, and without our small efforts, please know that this world would certainly be a much darker place. Being a Guardian does not guarantee success even with your prowess and the special powers we give you.
“Without your intervention, Dr Brydon might not have survived and, although his report has yet to be given the full recognition it deserves, you did not fail in your mission that day. You saved a man’s life and that is a priceless gift. Let’s meet soon and further discuss the issue of an apprentice.”
Mr Petrie nodded and bowed his head respectfully towards Salar before walking backwards to the door but before exiting, he said: “Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine.”
Salar smiled and said: “Ah yes, of course it would be, wouldn’t it?” The history master looked over his half-moon glasses and raised his eyebrows, giving the hint of a smile at the same time, before exiting.
He trudged wearily through the long passage and emerged from the tunnel which led him back into his vast library. Feeling slightly less despondent, he turned to close the sliding panel and gently placed the portrait to its original position.
The old man paused as he lifted his hand falteringly towards the painting. “Oh, Clara, how I miss you, my love,” he whispered in an uncharacteristically, hesitant voice. She was indeed the love of his life and his love for her never did ebb even as the years passed.
Saying goodbye to the woman who had grown old while he remained immortal was one of the most heartbreaking episodes of his life and the pain was as sharp as ever nearly five hundred years later. It was a cruel blow to watch the ravages of time transform his beautiful bride into middle and old age while he remained a robust and healthy figure of a man.
Petrie returned to his small study and began to ponder the offer Salar had made. A young apprentice, he mused, but who could he trust and also, more importantly, who could he burden with the status of Guardian?
Expecting a youthful aid to keep such a burdensome secret as the work of a Guardian would, indeed, be a heavy load to bear, but if he could find the right person, then it would make his job much more bearable. ‘When there’s no one to trust or confide in, that’s when you realise how lonely life can be,’ he reflected.
After pouring himself a modest glass of whisky, he picked up a half open book of poems by Robert Burns on his side table and, by the dim light of his table lamp, he flicked through the book, searching for a particular prose.
“Aha, yes Robert Burns, my friend. You knew all about the power of loneliness, didn’t you, lad?” As he mulled over the words of one lament, Mr Petrie drifted off to sleep in his armchair and began dreaming of his wife, Clara. Soon his arm dropped along with the book of poems and he was fast sleep. The frown on his face melted away and there was almost an uncharacteristic smile threatening to lift the permanent gloomy look which usually weighed so heavily on his visage.
The next morning, Mr Petrie was annoyed to discover the entire third form history class had been diverted to the school clinic for their MMR vaccination jabs against the diseases measles, mumps and rubella. “I’m really sorry. It was my fault. I simply forgot to inform matron and then the vaccines arrived this morning, Mr Petrie,” said Jennifer Hunter. I also forgot to book additional nursing staff, so I’m going to have to roll up my sleeves and help out in the clinic," she added, smoothing down her neat auburn fringe.
Miss Hunter, the normally super-efficient headmaster’s PA seemed unusually flustered, so Mr Petrie decided not to make matters worse by complaining to Dr Collins. “Well, just send them back to my class and we’ll do some revision today instead,” he said.
The boys stood in a queue with the right sleeve rolled up as the matron prepared to administer the vaccine. Miss Hunter told the matron: “I’ll take down their details in the adjoining room, so if there’s anything else you need Matron, just ask.”
The school matron Alice McDonald was irritated and flustered. She liked everything to be orderly and was both puzzled and annoyed that the normally efficient Miss Hunter had forgotten to inform her about the vaccines arriving. As each boy received his injection, he then went and submitted his personal details to Miss Hunter.
“It’s Duncan Dewar, isn’t it?” said Miss Hunter as he entered the room. She closed the door behind him and asked how he was. “Yes, Miss Hunter. I’m fine, thank you.” She enquired if anything else was troubling him and he responded: “Well, I do have a pain in the back of my neck just here,” he said, pointing his finger to a reddish spot.
“Oh, we’ll let matron see that,” she said. The boy waited outside until the last third-year pupil had been vaccinated and then matron called him back in to her room. “Okay, young Dewar, what am I supposed to be looking at? Get that ginger mop out of the way so I can see this teenage plook, then.”
Miss Hunter busied herself putting the vaccination paperwork in order while the matron inspected Dewar’s neck. “Ha-ha! My Timmy has a raised pimple just like that,” she said as she prodded and poked the inflamed piece of skin. “Is that your son, Matron?” he asked.
Again she laughed and said: “Goodness sakes, no! He’s my wee sausage dog and I had an implant tracker put in the back of his neck in case he went wandering off. Dewar, you are a teenager and teenagers get all sorts of spots and pimples. Don’t be such a baby. Now be off with you.”
“I didn’t realise you had a dog, Matron,” said Miss Hunter. “How long have you had him? I’ve always wanted a little dog. Tell me more about him.” The two women talked for about half an hour after the clinic which surprised the matron as the headmaster’s PA seemed unusually chatty. She’d always thought of her as quiet and reserved and quite aloof.