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  ‘Aargh!’ gargled Briel, letting go of the net and throwing the book into the air. As instantly as it had appeared, the scene evaporated in a cloud of coloured dust with just a small puddle of water at his feet as evidence of the brief struggle.

  ‘What was that?’ enquired Owl. ‘And what is that?’ he asked with a nod of his beak towards the water on the floor.

  Briel, having caught the book as gravity behaved true to form, made an indistinct shrug. His eyebrows twitched, which usually indicated thought, and he stroked the book’s cover.

  ‘Something tells me we have a visitor, but there again,’ he mused, ‘be that the case, I’m not quite sure where our visitor is at this precise moment.’

  Owl allowed his head to tilt slightly as he thought about Briel’s words. Deciding that some things were just not worth asking for an explanation, he shook his beak and nodded at the floor.

  ‘Well,’ muttered Owl, ‘What I do know is that you’ve made a right mess on my floor and what I want to know,’ he asked, tapping Briel on the chest with the tip of his wing. ‘Is who is going to clear it up?’

  Briel smiled.

  ‘I am but a humble Sage,’ he answered. ‘Tutored in many arts but not, I sadly admit, in the art of cleaning, for which,’ he made a mock bow at Owl. ‘You are renowned as being a maestro of the mop, a genius with the duster, a…’

  ‘Stop,’ demanded Owl, with a flutter of his wing feathers. ‘A sarcastic Sage I don’t want, thank you very much.’ He began to stomp off along the corridor. ‘A maestro of the mop, I ask you,’ he grumbled. ‘A dusting genius?’ he groaned. Turning to Briel, Owl crouched down and covered himself with his wings. ‘Tarrah,’ he trumpeted, his wings flung to either side. ‘I give you Owl, Champion of Cleaning, Defender of the Dustpan, Scourge of the Scouring pad, Terror of the…’

  ‘Enough,’ laughed Briel. Without another word, he carefully slipped the book into a dark green silk pouch and placed the whole thing into one of his pockets. ‘Much as I would love to hear more, I have things to do. Must dash.’ Briel turned and began to walk off along the corridor.

  ‘Just you wait a damn moment,’ squawked Owl angrily. ‘You can’t just go taking books out of the library like that. I have to keep an account of everything and…’

  Briel stopped. Making an impatient noise with his tongue, he walked back towards Owl and jabbed the air in front of Owl’s face.

  ‘Well, keep an account of this.’ Briel clasped Owl’s beak with his hand. ‘I’ll keep quiet about what doesn’t go on in this dust depository if you’ll keep your beak shut about a certain book that hasn’t seen the light of day for centuries.’

  Owl snatched his beak away from Briel’s grasp. ‘No idea what you’re talking about,’ he rasped angrily. ‘Besides, dusting takes forever and the dust plays havoc with my sinuses and…’

  Briel ruffled Owl’s head feathers.

  ‘Least said eh?’ He paused and looked along the corridor as if expecting someone to come along. ‘What did I come in here for?’ he asked himself, pulling at the earflap of his Deerstalker. ‘Or have I already been here and need to go somewhere else,’ he pondered.

  Owl shook his head and sighed. It was always the same. Most of the time, Briel had forgotten where he’d been, where he was and where he was supposed to go. Without commenting, Owl reached up towards a shelf and removed a large brown book.

  ‘This might help,’ he suggested.

  ‘Thank you, Owl,’ replied Briel. He tapped the front of the book and placed the recently discovered object on its cover. ‘Any idea what I’m supposed to be looking for?’

  Without waiting for a reply, Owl scooped up the object that Briel had brought into the library earlier and which now lay on the floor where it had fallen from Briel’s pocket.

  ‘Here we go,’ screeched Owl. ‘Here’s a lens for one-eyed people. Look, there’s a strap on either side of it to hold it on.’

  Placing the object on his beak, Owl pulled the two straps around his head. ‘Pprrf,’ muttered Owl, ‘it’s for one eyed people with extremely small heads.’

  Briel snatched the object from Owl and peered at it closely.

  ‘I remember now,’ he grinned. ‘Anyway, don’t be daft. You can’t see through the lens, it’s got markings on it.’

  Owl and Briel each stared at the markings and then began to leaf through the book. After comparing several images to the object, Owl began to tap one particular page excitedly.

  ‘Look! This is something like that object for people with extremely small heads’.

  Both Owl and Briel studied the picture and compared it with the object that Briel had now wrapped around his wrist, as a precautionary measure to avoid misplacing the item.

  ‘Well,’ murmured Briel. ‘It does look similar, but it’s not exactly the same.’

  ‘Don’t be unimaginative. So, the lens is a bit of a different shape and the strap things are a different colour and the markings on the lens aren’t the same. But apart from that it’s identical.’

  Briel looked at Owl but decided that any comment he made might not be worth the effort of applying breath to the words.

  ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right. They’re almost identical different.’ He nodded at the book. ‘What does it say?’

  Owl adjusted his glasses and began to read, his wing tip stroking the page as his beak formed the words.

  ‘It’s a device that measures or marks the passage of time in units. Available in a variety of colours and comes complete with a matching nervous tick,’ mouthed Owl slowly.

  ‘You mean to say,’ snorted Briel. ‘That people would attach this to their body and constantly watch it measuring time? Ridiculous. I can’t think of anything more stupid. Just imagine people doing nothing all day but stare at this time measuring object and, at some appointed moment, move more quickly than they had done previously.’

  Owl snapped the book shut.

  ‘I’m only repeating what it says in here.’

  Briel sniffed.

  ‘It sounds daft to me. Just think of a society where everything you do is measured in units of time. Nothing is allowed to exist out of time.’ He shook his head incredulously.

  Owl just shrugged his wings and said nothing.

  ‘And, another thing,’ continued Briel. ‘If everyone depended on the device to rule their movements, wouldn’t it become a sort of tyrant?’ Briel tutted. ‘As I said, ridiculous.’

  Owl shook his head and made a clicking sound with his beak.

  ‘I agree. Absolutely ridiculous.’

  Briel put the device for measuring time into pocket number 37.

  ‘It’d never catch on you know. People aren’t that stupid.’ Hitching up his trousers, he took a piece of seaweed out of the same pocket he’d just placed the device into. Holding it in front of his nose, he sniffed the seaweed. ‘Can’t hang around here all day. It’s time for breakfast.’

  Chapter 4

  The small figure slowly opened its eyes. Its head felt muzzy and a sense of nausea crept over its entire body. Barely able to move, the figure tried to work out where it was, to try and make some sense of its surroundings. It didn’t take long. Apart from finding the effort exhausting, everywhere was dark and the air seemed stale, as if exhaled by a crowd of exhausted beings. The figure let its head sink back into what appeared to be straw.

  Drifting in and out of consciousness, the figure was vaguely aware of muffled sounds above its head and a cool, damp cloth being brushed gently across its face. Sometime, in another brief period of semi-consciousness, the figure felt its arm being carefully lifted and a gentle pressure being applied. The figure let the comforting darkness envelope it once more.

  At some point, in another momentary glimpse of consciousness, the figure could just about recall something about a tall building, a feeling of exhilaration and then a sharp, tearing pain in its arm. After that images became a blur of bright light and a sense of being hauled through the air and then nothing. Everything now appeared out of
reach, on the edge of wakefulness, which seemed too far away.

  Struggling to make sense of its surroundings, the figure wondered why there was a feeling of safety and being cared for rather than a sense danger and betrayal. Once again the effort proved too much and a fitful sleep engulfed its body.

  Chapter 5

  Ben paused briefly before the door. His mind was racing. Previous experience had taught him that anything could be lurking behind a closed door. He could feel his heart pounding, the blood coursing through his veins like a torrent. Taking a deep, calming breath, he placed his hand on the door handle.

  The door gradually opened upon a darkened room. Ben could just about make out the various bits of furniture dimly outlined by the feeble glow of a fire in a grate opposite the door. Pushing the door wide open, he entered into the murky interior.

  Standing in the room, Ben became aware of the repetitive ticking of a wall clock somewhere above his head and the distant crackle of the fire attempting to consume a few sparse twigs. Turning his head slowly from side to side, he examined the shadows hoping to detect any threat before it formed. A slight musty smell hung in the air and, even though there was a poor excuse for a fire in the room, Ben felt a creeping coldness begin to embrace him. Eventually, satisfied that nothing was about to materialize out of the darkness, he was just about to take a step forward when, without a hint of warning, the door creaked on its hinges and began to close rapidly. Unable to move in time, Ben half turned his body and braced himself for the impact. Nothing. Slowly raising his head he took a quick look in front of him. Everything remained just as it had been when he first entered. Looking behind him he was amazed to see that the door now sat firmly in its place, seized by the wall and shielding the contents of the room from any unwanted attention from the corridor. Ben looked at the door once again and then at his body. Somehow the door had passed through his body and continued on its arc towards the wall. There was no other explanation for it. Ben knew he hadn’t moved but the door had. One solid object had passed through a slightly less solid object without any noticeable impact.

  ‘Greetings, young sir,’ said a voice.

  Ben yelped in fright. Quickly he scanned the room for a body belonging to the voice but nothing had changed. There was nobody there. Nervously, he moved towards the fire. Immediately in front of the hearth sat a large armchair, its age obvious from the number of ragged holes sprouting bits of grey padding. A number of shapeless cushions were scattered over the armchair. Ben shook his head and shivered involuntary.

  ‘Inclement weather for the time of year,’ observed the voice. Before Ben could make a sound or movement, the cushions began to fidget as if rearranged by some unseen hand. After a few moments, the cushions seemed satisfied with their position and, giving one last shake, filled out to form the outline of a figure. Ben stared in disbelief as the cushions settled into the armchair. Without warning, the fire suddenly roared into life, flames leaping merrily towards the chimney where before they’d struggled to flicker. A garishly decorated arm emerged from the newly created figure.

  “Blow, blow, thou winter wind. Thou art not so unkind as man’s ingratitude,” quoted the figure theatrically.

  He looked at the figure in front of him. It looked uncannily like a picture of Shakespeare that he’d seen in a book somewhere. The figure was dressed in an odd sort of costume with a patterned jacket with frilly pants and what looked suspiciously like a pair of coloured stockings. Around its neck, the figure had a huge, stiff collar holding its chin in the air. As Ben looked closely, he could see that the head of the figure had an extremely wide hair parting with wavy tufts of hair neatly combed over its ears. Shakespeare or whoever it was smiled broadly.

  The whole thing puzzled Ben. It was bizarre. He’d never met a playwright before.

  ‘I haven’t a clue what’s going on,’ muttered Ben aloud.

  ‘Hardly surprising, my dear fellow, considering your level of incomprehension,’ replied the figure.

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Ben, hovering between anger and confusion.

  “As you like it,” replied the figure.

  ‘Like what?’ asked Ben, feeling definitely confused.

  ‘Nothing, nothing,’ said the figure dismissively, the back of its hand touching its forehead momentarily. ‘Wasted,’ moaned the figure. ‘Utterly wasted.’

  ‘Shakespeare?’ enquired Ben, eager to steer the conversation towards something he could understand. The figure bowed its head.

  ‘At your service sir,’ he quipped.

  Ben scratched the tip of his nose.

  ‘Weird,’ he said to himself.

  Shakespeare sniffed haughtily.

  ‘Completely normal, I assure you my good man. And, if I might make so bold, you are not entirely without a certain strangeness yourself,’ he sniffed again. ‘You seem to be of the opinion that…’

  Ben interrupted what seemed to be the start of a long monologue.

  ‘Where am I?’ asked Ben. ‘What am I supposed to find here?’

  Shakespeare frowned.

  ‘I am not accustomed to interacting with my audience in such a manner,’ he replied. ‘Tis I who normally pose the questions.’

  Having said that, Shakespeare adopted a theatrical pose, with one arm extended towards Ben, while the other rested on his hip.

  “To be, or not to be,” intoned Shakespeare. “That,” he glared at Ben, “is the question.”

  ‘I know, yeah, yeah’ sighed Ben heavily. He too adopted a theatrical pose, with one hand on his waist and the other waving small circles in the air. “Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him well” and all that.’

  Shakespeare’s face began to turn a violent shade of red.

  ‘No, no, no,’ he fumed. ‘Those are not the words that did flow from my noble hand. You should have said “Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy …” and so on,’ quoted Shakespeare.

  It was Ben’s turn to frown.

  ‘Was Hamlet supposed to be at the Battle of Trafalgar then?’ he asked, slightly puzzled.

  Shakespeare blew angrily through his nostrils.

  “The questions of the ill-educated are as the life of a May fly, seemingly important one day, but forgotten the next.”

  Ben wrinkled his nose.

  ‘Whatever,’ he shrugged. ‘I suppose, “It’s all Greek to me” anyway.’

  Shakespeare’s mouth gaped open. He spluttered, coughed and pointed a finger angrily at Ben.

  ‘Misquote!’ he yelled. ‘After all the care and dedication… Despite the anger in Shakespeare’s voice, Ben found himself ignoring the playwright’s words and looking around to see what to do next.

  Shakespeare flushed angrily.

  ‘I am not accustomed to being so rudely ignored,’ he snapped.

  Ben shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly.

  ‘Whatever,’ he replied again. ‘Do you have something for me or should I explore another room?’

  Shakespeare closed his eyes and breathed deeply. “Come what come may, time and the hour runs through the roughest day,” he replied and, before Ben could make any comment, he continued. ‘Macbeth, for your information,’ he turned to face the fire. ‘Though no doubt you will forget that before the day is out,’ he muttered to himself.

  Ben leaned forward, his eyes busily scanned Shakespeare’s face.

  ‘That’s it?’ asked Ben, with a frown beginning to form. ‘Nothing more?’

  Shakespeare nodded. “And it is great. To do that thing that ends all other deeds, which shackles accidents, and bolts up change.” ‘A mere snippet from Antony and Cleopatra, which, if I might be so bold, is goodly advice for one so young yet charged with accomplishing such deeds as to bring to an end a change in suffering.’ Shakespeare looked thoughtfully at Ben. ‘Heed my words young man, for that which is about to transpire will be arduous in the extreme.’ He closed his eyes and sighed. ‘You have challenging times ahead where the presence of others will prove both a help and
a hindrance.’

  ‘That’s gibberish,’ said Ben shaking his head.

  ‘That,’ said Shakespeare solemnly, ‘is the only thing of importance in this room. Time, my dear friend, time.’ To emphasise his point, Shakespeare began to wag his finger from side to side. ‘Tick, tock, tick, tock,’ he repeated, his head moving to the rhythm of his finger.

  Ben felt the room begin to spin. His head seemed to be moving independently from his body. Still he could hear Shakespeare’s voice chanting: ‘Tick, tock, tick, tock.’

  The fire appeared to sway with the intonation of Shakespeare’s voice, moving from side to side, up and down and then swirling like a mini tornado before settling back down to repeat the movements, side to side, up and down. Ben began to feel giddy.

  Shakespeare’s outline began to move in and out of focus as his figure alternated between a human outline and a pile of cushions. As the room spun, Ben felt the darkness begin to envelope him. The room seemed to be suffocating him, choking the breath from him. Panic gripped his whole body. He needed to get out of the room, to run away from the madness. He ran towards the door. Grasping hold of the handle, Ben threw the door open and fell in a heap onto the floor of the corridor. The door to the room slammed shut with a loud bang that echoed in the stillness. Ben peered into the impenetrable gloom of the corridor. An icy chill crept over his body. He couldn’t see or hear anything but the hairs on the back of his neck suggested that something menacing was close by. Instinctively Ben began to crouch down, but it was too late. A hand clasped his shoulder and everything around him went black.