Chapter VI – The Order of Vulcan

     There are those who state that to genuinely appreciate real or cask ale, it must be served at “cellar temperature,” so between 12 to 14˚ Celsius, which is colder than room temperature, but not what I would call chilled. However, and I may be scorned for this opinion, I cannot drink and enjoy beer unless it is served at what I consider “fridge temperature” which ranges between 3 to 7˚ Celsius.

     Not having a fridge (or icebox) in my room, how could I chill the beer I had acquired to bring it to an acceptable drinking temperature? Furthermore, as I was physically only 16 years old, whilst technically I could consume alcohol in the privacy of my own room, according to the Oakdene Students Handbook, “students found in the possession of or consuming alcohol on school premises will be subject to disciplinary action.”

     Now, it may seem on the surface that the solution to both these issues were unrelated and would have to be resolved separately, but this failed to take into account the ingenuity of a friend of mine called Matt.

     Matt and I attended many house parties in my early twenties (which from my current temporal point of view was my future, but from my mental point of view, was actually my past – due to time travel, see previous notes) and it was expected that you didn’t turn up on someone’s doorstep empty-handed. Generally speaking, any alcohol you showed up with would be put on the side in the kitchen, as the fridge was usually already full, and you’d break off a can and mingle with the other guests.

     The disadvantage to this was twofold – firstly, even if you’d brought pre-chilled beer with you, after sitting on the side for a couple of hours, it would be room temperature. Secondly, if, like Matt, you’d bought high-end beer, rather than cheap lager, some other bugger would have decided to help themselves to it, so when you went back, all that would be left would be the cheap stuff that no-one wanted to drink.

     Matt’s solution to this was to conceal his beer in the toilet cistern, as water straight from the cold-water tank is, on average, about 7˚ Celsius, and who in their right mind would think to look in there for beer?

     As the bathroom I had access to was generally not used by anyone else and the ceramic toilet cistern was not boxed in, that was where the two bottles I had acquired earlier were currently chilling, floating next to the ballcock.

     Two birds, one stone.

     Whilst that was one minor problem resolved, I still had the greater problem of the impending catastrophe that I believed I had been sent back to avert. Thanks to the Cat, I now had a definitive date of when this was supposed to happen, but other than that, I had nothing.

     However, I had a feeling that the recurring dream of armed men bursting into a room and me falling away from the light was more than just a dream – it was an incomplete memory. If I could somehow recall greater detail, ideally what I had been told prior to the interruption, this might shed additional light on whatever it was I was here to prevent.

     Helena was key to this, as not only was there some kind of connection between us, she was also a talented scryer, as had been shown during our final lesson of the day.

     As had been explained by Dr Bell during our lesson, Scrying was the ability to mentally discern certain information at a distance. A talented scryer could, for example, tell the contents of a sealed box by extending their senses beyond the normal five. It could also be used to skim the surface thoughts of another, but as Helena had pointed out on our first meeting, this was generally frowned upon in polite society.

     Unsurprisingly, I had proved to be absolutely rubbish at this.

     Helena, however, was really, really good. Given that she been able to tell that the personal information I knew about her had not been the result of me scrying on her, this came as no great surprise. Prior to our arranged meeting this evening, I’d gone through my copy of The History and Practical Applications of Scrying in Great Britain, as I’d had a hunch that her talent for scrying may be able to help me clarify this suppressed memory. According to the textbook, this was a process known as “verum mormoria” and required the willing cooperation and trust of the subject, as well as the agreement of the person attempting it.

     I was hoping that Helena would at least be willing to give it a try.

     ‘So, Alex,’ said Helena, after I’d ushered her in to my room, checking the corridor and antechamber leading to my room for prying eyes, ‘why are you acting so mysteriously?’

     ‘Okay,’ I began, ‘let’s say that, hypothetically, you discovered something about a certain member of staff that, if revealed to those in charge, would result in the person concerned possibly being dismissed from their position…’

     I let Helena absorb this information.

     ‘Would you feel obligated to report them?’ I finished.

     ‘That depends,’ said Helena. ‘If what you’ve found out…’

     ‘Hypothetically, remember.’ I interrupted.

     ‘Right, what you’ve “hypothetically” found out… is it something could endanger the students?’

     I gave this some considered thought.

     ‘No,’ I said, ‘I’d say it falls more into the category of “naughty,” rather than dangerous.’         

‘Then I’d say No.’

     ‘In that case, can I interest you in a beer?’

     Helena paused, then leaned forward.

     ‘You’ve got some beer?’ she whispered, ‘You do know if we get caught, we’ll be in serious trouble?’

     ‘You do realise that you just said “we,” don’t you?’ I said laughing. I watched as the realisation of what she’d just said dawned on her. She opened her mouth to issue a retort, paused, then scowled at me. I noticed that there was hint of smile at the corner of her mouth.

     ‘You are a bad influence, Alex,’ she growled, ‘If we get caught…’

     I chuckled as I went to retrieve the beer from its hiding place, directing Helena to the glasses and bottle opener I’d liberated from the Dining Hall earlier.

     When I returned, I made sure the door was locked, as we definitely didn’t want to be interrupted.

     ‘So, what sort of beer is it?’ she asked, eyeing the bottle with interest.

     ‘No idea,’ I said, ‘But we’ll soon find out…’

     I cracked open the bottle and poured a generous measure into each glass, happy to note that it appeared to be either a stout or a porter, my preferred tipple, judging from the colour.

     I handed a glass to Helena, and we retired to the chairs in front of the fire. I had managed to “borrow” another armchair from our common room earlier, although manhandling it up the stairs had been a bit of a chore. This meant we could both relax in comfort, cold beer in hand and the fire warming our toes.

     ‘I’m impressed,’ said Helena, after she’d taken her first sip. ‘Not only with the beer itself, but also that you’ve managed to get hold of some and make it cold. Does this mean you’ve managed to attune your hoarstone?’

     ‘No,’ I said frowning, ‘No joy on that front. Any luck with yours?’

     Helena tucked her legs under her in the chair, making herself more comfortable.

     ‘Not yet,’ she said, ‘but I’m sure it’s just a matter of time.’

     We sat in companiable silence for a while before I decided to broach the subject of my memory.

     ‘You know you said you were willing to help me with my memory?’ I asked. Helena nodded. ‘Do you think that you could attempt a verum mormoria on me?’

     Helena looked startled, then gave it some thought.

     ‘I guess I could try…’ she said warily, ‘I’ve not tried it before, but do know the theory. There’s no guarantee it will work, though, and unless you trust me implicitly, your mind will fight against the intrusion.’

     ‘Given that I’ve trusted you not to report the illicit beer we’re currently drinking AND that I really do need to recover this particular memory, I think we’ll be okay.’

     ‘Alright, I’ll give it a go, but I think you’ll need to lay down, just in case…’

     ‘Are you trying to get me into bed, Miss Morgan?’ I asked in mock surprise.

     ‘Do you want my help or not?’

     ‘Sorry.’

     Helena got me to lay down on my bed, with my head at the foot of the bed, as she needed to be able to place her fingers on my temples, and headboard was against the wall.

     ‘Now, you need to focus on the memory you are trying to recover,’ said Helena, placing the tips of her fingers on my temples, ‘and close your eyes – you staring at me will put me off.’ I stuck my tongue out at her, then closed my eyes. I felt a slight tingling, then warmth spread from Helena’s fingertips, infusing my head.

     And I was back there…

     The woman opposite leans forward, looking me intently in the eye.

     ‘I know you’re finding it hard to believe, but everything I’ve told you is true,’ she says, ‘If you don’t save her, then the world we knew will never have existed, replaced by this false shadow.’

     ‘Why me?’ I ask.

     ‘You’re the only one left. They’ve already got to everyone else.’

     ‘Wonderful. Last choice, as usual.’

     ‘You’ve always been a suspicious and stubborn bastard, Alex, I’m hoping that will help.’

     Shadowy figures in suits, their faces obscured, burst into the room, hands filled with guns and a glint of sliver on their lapels. I focus on the pin they wear, knowing instinctively that it is important – it is an inverted triangle, with what looks like a capital T inside.

     The woman opposite me reacts, throwing out her left hand and somehow pinning the figures in place.

     ‘We’re out of time!’ She shouts, ‘Time for you to go!’

     She thrusts her right hand towards me, and, with a jolt, I am suddenly falling backwards, away from the light…

     ‘Whoa…’ I said, ‘That was intense.’

     Helena stumbled backwards, dazed. I quickly jumped up and guided her back to the chair by the fire.

     ‘Are you alright?’ I asked.

     ‘Uh…yes, I think so.’ she said, ‘That took a lot out of me…’ She sipped her drink, the looked up at me.

     ‘Did it work?’ She asked.

     ‘Kind of…’ I said, ‘it didn’t restore the entire memory, but it did give me more details I previously couldn’t recall. There were people wearing a symbol I didn’t recognise though, an inverted triangle with what looked like a capital T in the centre.’

     Helena looked up sharply.

     ‘Could it have been a hammer?’ she asked.

     ‘Possibly…’ I answered, ‘It wasn’t very clear.’

     ‘Where’s your copy of Magic Through the Ages?’

     I indicated the bookshelves. Helena started to get up, wobbled slightly and sat heavily back down.

     ‘Think I need to rest for a bit more…’

     I retrieved the book and handed it to her. She referred to the index and then turned to the relevant page, flicking back and forth until she found what she was looking for. She turned the book towards me.

     ‘Is this the symbol?’ She asked. I took the book from her and examined the illustration – it was the same as those worn by the men from my memory, a hammer enclosed within an inverted triangle.

     ‘Yes, that’s it,’ I said, looking back at the book, ‘it says here it’s the symbol of “The Order of Vulcan.” Who are they?’

     Helena rolled her eyes and sighed.

     ‘You really are quite exasperating,’ she said, ‘This is stuff you should know. The Order of Vulcan started off as a cult in Roman times, promoting technological advances in the place of magic. They believed that magic should not be practiced by mortals, as magic belonged to the Gods alone, and man should reject magic and embrace technology instead.’

     She paused to take another drink, then continued.

     ‘Whilst it apparently died out nearing the end of the Roman Empire, it actually just went underground and regularly resurfaced over the years. James I was a member of the Order of Vulcan, as was Oliver Cromwell, which was one of the main causes of the English Witch War. Fortunately, this was the last major conflict involving them. They still exist as a fanatical anti-magic organisation, but their last terrorist act was two years ago, when they tried to assassinate the Prime Magister in Brighton.’ She looked at me speculatively, ‘Why would they be interested in you?’

     ‘I don’t think it was me they were interested in,’ I said, ‘I think I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time…’

     Helena had finished her beer and was looking a little sleepy, so I thought it best to call it a night.

     ‘I think it’s time for bed.’ I said. Helena giggled. ‘And I think you’ve had enough excitement for this evening. Let’s get you back to your room.’

     Now, some may think, given that I had an attractive and slightly tipsy girl in my room, that this would be an ideal opportunity for me to make a move on Helena. However, there were two reasons that I didn’t.

     Firstly, as I needed her help, should I have tried it on and been rebuffed, it was unlikely she would continue to help me. This would not be a good thing.

     Secondly, and more importantly, this was morally questionable ground. Yes, I may appear to be a reasonably good-looking 16-year-old, but behind my eyes was the soul of someone old enough to be her dad. Yes, I’ll admit that I was probably the only person to ever be in this kind of situation and therefore, there were no specific rules to govern my behaviour, but it just seemed…wrong.

     Besides, whilst I may be a bit of a flirt, I do consider myself a Gentleman, old-fashioned as this may be, so I helped her up from her chair and walked her back to her room.

     She was a bit unsteady on her feet, but that was understandable, given her expenditure of Vitae combined with the alcohol she’d had.

     As she was fumbling with her key, I gently took it off her and unlocked her door, then handed her the key. Her hand lingered on mine and she stepped in closer.

     ‘You know what, Alex,’ she murmured, ‘I’m beginning to see what Ashleigh sees in you.’

     She then leaned in and kissed me on the cheek, then stepped back quickly with a look of surprise on her face, which swiftly reddened.

     ‘Um…good night, Alex,’ she said and quickly retreated into her room, closing the door behind her.

     I stood still in astonishment, tentatively raising my hand to my cheek.            

This was getting complicated, as what I’d failed to tell her was that the woman from my memory, the one who’d sent me back in time, was actually a future version of Helena herself…

Chapter V – Practical Magic

     The following morning, I was sitting talking with Yarrow at breakfast, when Helena came over carrying her tray.

     ‘Shift up,’ she said, nudging me in the back with her knee. I shuffled down the bench to give her enough room to sit down.

     ‘Seems you two had an eventful evening, from the gossip going around…’ she said, frowning at the contents of her tray, then examining mine.

     ‘Are you going to eat that?’ she asked pointing at a bacon sandwich sitting untouched on my plate. ‘Only, they’d run out when I got there.’

     ‘Help yourself,’ I said, then paused. ‘It’s got brown sauce on it, though…’

     Helena’s eyes lit up.

     ‘Even better,’ she said, snatching it off my plate and taking a bite.

     Now, usually a bacon sandwich wouldn’t have lain untouched on my plate, but bacon in this world came from a breed of pig called a rath – which looked exactly like the pigs I was used to, except they were green. Which meant that their meat was green as well, even after it was cooked.

     Generally speaking, if meat is green, this is Nature’s way of telling you not to eat it. So, whilst I had intended to at least try it, when it came down to it, my mind refused. Green ham was also on offer – but no green eggs, so Dr Seuss would have been very disappointed.

     Helena seemed to be enjoying it though, so at least it wouldn’t be wasted.

     ‘What were you talking about?’ she said, mouth full.

     I looked at her in mock disgust.

     ‘You are an animal.’ I stated, which caused Yarrow to burst out laughing. Helena looked mortified and quickly finished up the sandwich, colour suffusing her cheeks. She then smiled sweetly at me, leaned in, whispered ‘Git’ in my ear and punched me hard in the leg, numbing it.

     Which was probably deserved…

     ‘Anyway, before you so rudely interrupted…’ I said, flinching as Helena growled at me, ‘Yarrow was just explaining what will happen when they transition…’

     Yarrow paused to gather their thoughts and continued where they’d left off.

     ‘Once I have received enough stimulus for a decision to be made, the transition to my final gender will begin and I will start to manifest both the physical attributes and the traits of that gender. I will also start to gain the standard abilities of an adult Geist, such as the ability to see in the dark and being able to sense mícheart…’

     When Yarrow noticed that we both looked blank regarding this, they elaborated.

     ‘I think you would call it…wrongness,’ they said, ‘It’s when something natural has become corrupted by dark magic.’

     I almost asked whether they would also be able to detect secret or concealed doors on a roll of 1-2 on a d6, but wisely decided not to.

     As we were due at our first lesson in less than twenty minutes, we finished up and returned to our rooms to collect our books.

     I have to admit that I was in two minds about this – excited to see what a magical lesson actually looked like, but in equal measure, extremely worried that I was going to look like a complete and utter fool.

     Lessons in the first year at Oakdene were taken with the other members of your House, and Dee House’s first lesson of the day was double Lithometry, which was taught by Dr Noyce, a particularly energetic Scotsman. As the textbook for this was An Introduction to Basic Lithometry, I was fairly relieved, as this should mean that I’d be on an equal footing with the rest of the class.

     Dr Noyce man-handled a carved block of what looked like Preseli Spotted Dolerite onto his desk at the front of the class.

     Now, that might sound like I know my rocks, but I only recognised what it was due to the fact that it’s the same as some of the stones that were used to construct Stonehenge. And the reason I knew that was because I had an Archaeology O level and we’d studied Stonehenge in exhaustive detail.

     Although, because of the whole false history/time travel thing, whilst I had this knowledge in my head, this was due to reality being overwritten which hadn’t actually happened yet from my current temporal position, so how AND when did I learn this?

     Time travel really fucks with your head, so it’s best not to think about it too much.

     Dr Noyce looked around at the expectant faces of the class and grinned.

     ‘Now,’ he said, ‘who knows what this is?’

     This was followed by the standard response to any question raised by a teacher, or any public speaker for that matter – a shuffling of feet and people shooting glances at each other, to see if anyone else was going to answer.

     I sighed, then put my hand up, as this kind of thing is painful to sit through and I DID actually know the answer. I would, of course, be hated by the rest of the class for being a know-it-all, but sometimes you have to take one for the team.

     ‘Yes…’ Dr Noyce glanced at his register, ‘Alexander, isn’t it?’

     ‘I prefer Alex, Sir,’ I said, ‘I believe it’s a piece of Preseli Spotted Dolerite, more commonly known as bluestone.’

     ‘Very impressive, Alex.’ Said Dr Noyce, ‘You are indeed correct. Does anyone else know why it’s called bluestone?’

     Aubrey, who was sitting behind me, and didn’t want to be upstaged, put up his hand.

     ‘Because it’s blue, Sir.’ He said. Dr Noyce looked at the rock on his desk, which was more grey than blue, then looked back at Aubrey.

     ‘Umm…not quite, Aubrey.’ Said Dr Noyce, ‘Anyone else? No?’ He turned to me.

     ‘Alex?’

     ‘Bluestone is a generic term used to describe rock types not intrinsic to the area in which they are found. Generally, they’ve been quarried elsewhere and then transported to their current location.’

     Yes, they would all despise me…

     ‘Very good, Alex,’ He grinned, ‘You’ll be after my job next…’

     Aubrey kicked the back of my chair, which was not unexpected.

     ‘Now, you may be wondering why I am showing you a lump of rock and wondering what this has to do with Lithometry.’ Said Dr Royce. ‘Lithometry concerns the study of and practical utilisation of specific forms of stone. Almost all of you will have an icebox at home, but how many of you know how these work?’

     Over the next hour and a half, we learnt that a fully trained Lithometrist could attune certain naturally occurring forms of stone to achieve specific effects.

     For example, hoarstone naturally generated cold and was generally found at the tops of mountains, which was why mountain tops were snow-capped. I always thought this was due to the altitude, but as the Cat had pointed out, the fundamental laws of physics differed here.

     Once attuned by a Lithometrist, the degree of cold was enhanced and attuned hoarstone could then be used to line a cabinet and chill its contents, creating what was known here as an icebox, but which was essentially what I would call a fridge.

     Historically, hoarstone had been mined from mountain tops, which was as dangerous as it sounds. Then some bright spark realised that it was a combination of the ambient temperature and the initial structure of the stone which caused hoarstone to spontaneously form, so if you exposed stone with right attributes to the correct temperature, such as in a large room lined with attuned hoarstone, you could create it without losing half your workforce when they took a slight misstep in a blizzard.

     At the end of the lesson, Dr Noyce assigned each student a small cube of raw hoarstone, a grey granite-like stone, cool to the touch. The idea was that each student would attempt to attune the raw hoarstone before the next lesson, referring to their textbook for guidance on this. He did stress that only a small percentage of students would be able to attune their hoarstone on the first attempt.

     I looked dubiously at the small cube of stone, sitting in the insulated container we had been supplied with. After the successful activation of the lifter the previous day, I knew that I was capable of channelling magic, but this seemed a bit more advanced.

     However, it would have to wait until later, as after morning break, we were off into the Arboretum for double Unnaturalism with Dr Tweed.

     Dr Tweed was a stocky, solid-looking woman, dressed in hard-wearing tweed and sensible boots. The resemblance to her brother was obvious, although luckily she wasn’t bald, having chestnut curls streaked with grey, which were fastened into a rough ponytail.

     We had assembled on the rear terrace, after changing into a variety of footwear more suited to tramping across the fields than the traversing the school corridors. Unsurprisingly, Aubrey had on a pair of Hunter wellingtons and a Barbour jacket, because if you’ve got it, you have to flaunt it in front of the peasants.

     ‘Good morning, Class!’ said Dr Tweed cheerfully. ‘Today we will be venturing into the Arboretum, as whilst we could study this particular creature in the classroom, there is a degree of risk involved with mature specimens and the Headmistress doesn’t want the gym burnt down again. Everyone got their Farrow’s guide? Yes? Good – follow me.’

     With that, Dr Tweed turned and marched down the steps and started across the lawn towards the treeline.

     I fell into step with Helena and Yarrow, who were discussing possible options for the subject of our first lesson.

      ‘It’s got to be salamanders,’ said Helena, ‘They’re the only creature that I’m aware of that can generate heat.’

     ‘Do not most human dwellings have salamanders as part of their heating systems?’ asked Yarrow. ‘If they can be as dangerous as Dr Tweed suggested, surely they would not be used? Might we be studying something else instead?’

     ‘I suppose it’s possible,’ said Helena reluctantly, ‘But I still reckon it’ll be salamanders…’

     By this time, we had entered the Arboretum, following a well-worn path through the trees. The woodland was quite dense, with very little light filtering through the canopy. I could imagine that at night it would be pitch black, because unlike all those Hollywood movies featuring the protagonists being able to see where they were going, in reality, unless the tree canopy was quite sparse, there would be very little in the way of ambient light once the sun had set.

     After a short walk, we entered a clearing, in the centre of which was a bonfire merrily blazing away. To the back of the clearing, just within the treeline, was a low stone structure, with steps leading down into it. Standing just in front of this was Mr Beamish, holding what looked like a fire extinguisher. He smiled when he saw me and nodded a greeting.

     Dr Tweed stopped and turned to the class, who formed a semi-circle around her, with their backs to the fire. As I took my place with them, I noted movement within the fire, as though something was crawling amongst the logs.

     ‘As some of you may have already surmised,’ started Dr Tweed, ‘today we will we studying the common salamander. Domesticated salamanders are used in heating systems, as this proved to be a more cost-effective way of generating heat than by the use of coal or wood burning boilers, because as long as the salamander is regularly fed, they will maintain a constant temperature without having to replace the consumed fuel. The older and larger the salamander, the more heat it generates. Does anyone know the name of units we use to measure the amount of heat generated by a salamander?’

     Mason Stone tentatively put up his hand.

     ‘Is it Efts, Miss?’ He asked.

     ‘Correct, Mr Stone,’ answered Dr Tweed. ‘A juvenile salamander will generate 1-2 efts worth of heat, and this will increase as it grows.’

     She pointed at the fire behind us.

     ‘Lurking amongst the logs is a mature wild salamander, approximately 15 years old, which is currently generating around 17-18 efts of heat. Whilst we will be taking a closer look at this specimen, please do not get too close, as it is not domesticated. Salamanders are quite territorial and their defence against intruders is to spray a viscous flammable liquid towards them, which can reach up to 3 feet with a specimen this size. Hence why Mr Beamish is standing by, with an extinguisher.’

     After this announcement, those of us who had stepped forward for a closer look immediately took a couple of steps backwards.

     I retreated back next to Mr Beamish, who grinned at me.

     ‘Enjoying your first full day of lessons, Alex?’ he asked.

     ‘It’s been…interesting’ I said.

     I then noticed a familiar scent, which seemed to be coming from the low building behind me. Was that…malt? Mr Beamish noticed my shift of attention, as I turned and cautiously approached the building.

     ‘Er…you’re not allowed in there, Alex.’ He said.

     Mr Beamish looked a little shifty, so I stepped closer to him and whispered.

     ‘Unless I’m very much mistaken, I can detect the specific smells that would be associated with the brewing of beer. If I were to enter that building, I wonder what I would find…’

     Mr Beamish drew me to one side, out of the earshot of the other members of the class, whose attention was fixed on the fire.

     ‘Keep your voice down, lad,’ he said, looking suitably uncomfortable. ‘If you were to enter the Icehouse, which of course you’re not allowed to do, it is possible that you may discover certain things that, upon the surface, may resemble the kind of equipment that you might find in a small-scale brewing operation. However, as this sort of thing would be frowned upon by the Headmistress and could result is the dismissal of those involved, it is, of course, merely a storage shed for…uh…alchemical supplies.’ He then tipped me a slow wink.

     ‘Well,’ I said, slowly smiling, ‘As I’m only sixteen and have never drunk beer in any shape or form, I’m sure that I must have been mistaken. If a couple of bottles of “alchemical elixir,” preferable of the darker type, ended up in my bag by the end of the lesson…’ I placed my bag on the ground, ‘I’m sure this conversation and everything leading up to it would completely vanish from my memory.’

     ‘And if that were to happen,’ he asked, looking at me shrewdly, ‘would further requests of a similar nature occur?’

     ‘No,’ I said simply. ‘I may be a bit cheeky, but I know when not to take the piss. Do we have an agreement?’ I stuck out my hand. Mr Beamish took it and gave it a quick and firm shake.

     ‘Agreed.’ He looked slightly puzzled. ‘There’s more to you than meets the eye, young Alex.’

     If only you knew, Mr Beamish, I thought.

     As the mature salamander was purely for show, Dr Tweed had arranged several long trestle tables around the perimeter of the clearing, with ten small glass tanks containing juvenile salamanders, enough for each member of the class.

     I’d retrieved my exercise book and copy of Farrow’s guide and was referring to it whilst making notes on my salamander.

     It was a small lizard with a blunt head, about two inches long, glossy black in colouration with several blotches in bright orange running along its back. This, according to Farrow’s, meant that it was a male, as females generally had yellow blotches. I had decided to call him Errol, as it seemed appropriate, a name that would go over the heads of everyone else, as Terry Pratchett wouldn’t publish Guards! Guards! for another three years – if he actually existed in this reality, that is.

     ‘Right, Class,’ announced Dr Tweed, ‘Time to pack up. The salamanders you have been studying are now your responsibility, so take these vivariums back to your rooms. Using Farrow’s, I expect you to study and care for these creatures, with a full report on how your salamander has developed before our next lesson. As salamanders are relatively easy to look after, I will be disappointed if any of you fail to have a healthy, living creature by next week.’ She looked pointedly as Aubrey, who had been poking at his with a pencil. ‘That especially goes for you, Mr Bond.’

     Aubrey started guiltily, dropping the pencil, which his salamander immediately pounced on, grasped it in its mouth and then, in a flash of incandescence, incinerated. Aubrey scowled at it.

     I walked back over to my bag and nudged it with my toe. It clinked. Smiling, I opened it and carefully packed my schoolbooks around the two crown-capped brown bottles nestling in my bag. It wouldn’t do for them to announce their presence on the way back to my room. I nodded an acknowledgement at Mr Beamish, who pretended to ignore me, then went back to collect Errol.

     Helena was still packing her bag when I got there and glanced across at me.

     ‘And what was that all about?’ she asked.

     ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ I said innocently.

     ‘Alex,’ said Helena, ‘You’re hiding something – I know it. If you don’t tell me, I won’t help you with your problem.’

     Bugger.

     ‘Okay,’ I said quietly, ‘come and see me this evening and I’ll explain.’            

Now all I needed was a bottle opener…

Chapter IV – Night Visitors

     I was sitting in my room after dinner, gazing thoughtfully into the flickering flames of the fire, when there was a knock at my door.

     Rising, I carefully made my way to the door, as the fire did not shed a great deal of light and I‘d already tripped over the edge of the rug at least twice, painfully banging my shin on my trunk.

     Opening the door, I was surprised to see Yarrow standing there. I had been expecting either Helena or Ashleigh, as I didn’t think anyone else knew which room I was in.

     ‘Are you Alexander Crowe?’ they asked, blinking owlishly.

     ‘Yes, I am,’ I said, ‘please, come in…’

     Yarrow walked in and gazed around my room.

     ‘Why are you sitting in the dark?’ They asked.

     This was sore point with me and the reason my room was currently only illuminated by the fire, which I’d luckily been able to fumble around in the dark to get lit. There was a glass globe hanging from the ceiling, which I’d assumed was a light fitting, but could I find a switch to turn it on? Of course I bloody couldn’t…

     ‘Um… I can’t get the light on…’ I said lamely.

     Yarrow looked up.

     ‘Solas…’ they murmured, smiling as the light flickered, then began to increase in luminescence. ‘It is an older model of sprite globe, before they trained the sprites to understand English. Say solas to wake the sprite, and dorcha to render it dormant.’ As Yarrow uttered the second word, the light began to dim again.

     ‘Solas.’ I said, trying the word out, and grinning as the light started to increase again.

     ‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘I wouldn’t have worked that out for myself and would have been sitting in the dark for ages. Now, what can I do for you, as I’m assuming you’re here for a reason?’

     Yarrow looked a little nervous, so I offered them the chair by the fire, closing the door and then carrying over the folding chair from my desk. If I was going to have regular guests in my room, I would need to find another chair from somewhere, as the folding chair wasn’t particular comfortable.

     ‘My parents advised me before coming here…’ they started, ‘that the best way to integrate myself into human society was to find the most popular student in the year and offer them my friendship.’

     I had a feeling I knew where this was going, but let Yarrow continue.

     ‘I noted at dinner that Aubrey Bond was surrounded by a large group of people, so I visited his room afterwards to… to…’ Yarrow faltered, eyes tearing up. I leant forward and gently took their hand, looking them in the eye.

     ‘Let me guess,’ I said quietly, ‘Aubrey not only rebuffed your offer, but also made some kind of hurtful comment.’

     ‘He called me a freak!’ Cried Yarrow, furiously wiping their eyes. I sighed – Aubrey never failed to disappoint.

     ‘And then sent you to see me, right?’ I asked wearily. Yarrow nodded.

     ‘He said that “all you freaks should stick together” …’

     During my early school years, my dad was in the Army, so we moved around a fair bit. This meant that I was always the new kid at school – the one who didn’t know anyone and was wearing the wrong uniform for at least the first couple of weeks.

     School bullies are like wolves – they can sense and single out the weakest member of the herd, so I naturally garnered a lot of attention. Usually, you only have to deal with this once or twice during your school years, but I experienced this at least half a dozen times, so learned from experience what was the best way to deal with and deflect this unwanted attention.

     Which is why I wasn’t overly bothered by Aubrey’s attitude towards me, as I knew that I could shut him down if necessary.

     Yarrow, coming from a completely different society, had probably never experienced this kind of behaviour and was therefore ill-equipped to deal with it. Having been in Yarrow’s shoes, I knew exactly how they were feeling – isolated, weak, and powerless – and we couldn’t be having that.

     ‘Right,’ I said, ‘Up you get, Yarrow. We’re going to go and see Aubrey and get you an apology.’

     ‘Is that a good idea?’ they asked nervously.

     ‘It’s an excellent idea,’ I said grinning, ‘but first we’re going to take a little detour…’

     Aubrey had been assigned Room 3, which was first on the left after you passed the back stairs and entered the Nursery Corridor. As I stood in front of his door, Yarrow hovering at my shoulder, I could hear the sound of music coming from within. I guessed there was nothing better after a strenuous evening of narrow-minded bullying than relaxing to the sound of your favourite band.

     Raising my fist, I pounded on the door, only ceasing when the door was flung open by Aubrey himself, looking suitably annoyed. He started when he saw me, as obviously I was not who he was expecting to be visiting at this hour.

     ‘Crowe,’ he spat, ‘What the Hell are you playing at?’

     ‘I do have a first name, you know,’ I said, ‘but that’s not why I’m here.’ I indicated the silent form of Yarrow, who stood nervously behind me. ‘I think you owe my friend here an apology.’

     ‘What?! Are you bloody kidding me?’ He asked.

     ‘Did you or did you not refer to my good friend Yarrow as a “freak” and send them to me so, as I believe you stated, they could “stick together” with another freak, namely me?’

     ‘So what if I did?’ Aubrey growled.

     ‘Well, that’s not a particularly open-minded attitude to have towards your fellow students, especially Oakdene’s very first Geist student now is it?’ I said, ‘I believe that you certainly owe Yarrow an apology and, whilst you’re at it, I’ll have one too.’ I smiled brightly.

     Aubrey surged forward, shoving me hard against the opposite wall and pinning me there.

     ‘You must be an idiot if you think I’m going to say sorry to either you…’ he slammed me against the wall again, knocking the breath out of me, ‘or that goddamn freak.’ He released me, and I sank to one knee, coughing.

     ‘That’s where you’re wrong, Aubrey.’ I wheezed. ‘An idiot would have come to your room without any official back-up.’ I rose to my feet, smiling.

     ‘Have you heard enough?’ I asked, turning to the figure who was stepping forward from the shadows, into the halo of light spilling from Aubrey’s door.

     ‘Quite enough,’ said Ashleigh coldly, ‘you were right to come to me with this, Alex. I’ll take it from here.’

     She turned on her brother and grabbed his ear, twisting it. He squealed.

     ‘We are going to see Master Tweed and see what he thinks of this.’ She said furiously. ‘I honestly can’t believe you sometimes…’ She then marched him off down the corridor.

     With some people, all you have to do is give them enough rope…         

     Yarrow was concerned that I may have been injured in my encounter with Aubrey, but I assured them I was fine. We chatted about inconsequential matters as I walked them back to their room, then wished each other a good night.    

     Returning to my room, I activated the light, then looked about. The covered mirror drew my eye and I decided that it was about time I uncovered it, wondering as I did so why it had been covered in the first place.

     Dropping the cover, I examined the mirror. It was an elongated oval of glass in a carved wooden frame, suspended midway in its frame by two wooden knobs, which allowed the mirror to be angled.

     I couldn’t immediately see anything wrong with it, but then noted movement on the bed behind me, reflected in the mirror. I turned and looked at the bed, but there was nothing there. I looked back at the mirror, stepping slightly to one side to get a better view.

     In the mirror there was a tabby cat sitting on the bed, watching me, its ears twitching slightly. I looked back at the bed – nothing. In the mirror – cat.

     ‘Now, that’s a bit fucking weird…’ I muttered.

     In the mirror, the cat stood up and walked to the end of the bed, rising, and placing its paws on the end of the bedstead, looking at me intently.

     ‘You can see me, can’t you?’ It asked. ‘How curious…’ It cocked its head and looked me up and down. ‘Hmm, there appears to be some tachyon particulate clinging to you, which would explain your ability to discern my projected form. However, given the degree of particulate, it would appear that only a portion of your being is chronally anomalous, which is rather intriguing…’

     ‘A-Ha!’ I exclaimed. ‘I bloody knew it!’ I looked at the cat in the mirror.

     ‘Would I be right in assuming that you are some kind of quantum entity that exists outside of the normal flow of time?’ The Cat nodded. ‘And due to the “tachyon particulate” you referred to, whilst others can sense your presence, I’m the only one who can actually see you?’

     The Cat nodded again. This would explain why other occupants of the room had sensed something off about it, but not been able to work out what it was.

     ‘And when you refer to your “projected form,” what I can see is not your actual form, as this exists in four-dimensional space/time and viewing this would cause my brain to explode and dribble out of my ears?’

     ‘Colourfully put, but in essence, yes.’ Said the Cat. ‘What you perceive is the closest approximation to my actual form that your mind can accept. And no, before you ask, no tentacles are involved.’ It paused.

     ‘That Lovecraft chap has a lot to answer for…’ It muttered.

     So, my theory that some kind of mental time travel was involved had been confirmed. However, given that the reality I existed in seemed to have followed a different history than the one I came from, this would suggest that I had skipped timelines and ended up in a parallel reality. Or did it? I decided to question the Cat further.

     ‘So, my mind is from the future, currently occupying my teenaged body in what is, from my point of view, my past…’ I started. ‘However, as the past I remember is significantly different from the past I am experiencing now, this would suggest that I am in a different timeline than the one I came from… I think.’

     ‘Actually, no.’ said the Cat. ‘At some point in your near future, i.e. from your current temporal point of view, a cataclysmic event occurred which caused the reality in which you currently exist in to be over-written, changing the fundamental laws of physics, and resulting in the reality that you believe you had experienced from that point backwards.’

     ‘So, prior to the event you’re talking about, this was my past?’ I asked incredulously.

     ‘Correct.’ Said the Cat.

     I gave this some thought.

     ‘Does this mean that all the authors from the future I come from, who’ve written about magical schools or universities, may have been subconsciously remembering fragments of their own pasts?’ I asked.

     ‘Hmm,’ said the Cat, ‘I would estimate a 93% probability that that is indeed the case.’

     “Out of nowhere, it just fell from above..,” eh Jo? I thought, I reckon you were just remembering one of your old school mates…

     ‘And what exactly was this event?’ I asked.

     ‘That I cannot tell you,’ said the Cat, ‘but it will occur in approximately 108 of your days…’

     December 17^th, which, according to my diary, was when Saturnalia was apparently celebrated.

     I has a horrible sinking feeling that this was the reason that I had been sent back, to try and prevent whatever this cataclysmic event was from happening.            

So, no pressure then…

Chapter III – Curriculum Magia

     Lunch was an interesting affair, as it appeared that certain breeds that were extinct in my world had not only survived but had been domesticated and become part of the food chain.

     This gave me the options of sampling dodo curry, roast ochs or grice and onions.

     Now, I’m not usually one to balk at trying new dishes, as you cannot claim you don’t like something unless you’ve actually tried it, but the idea of eating a dish derived from dodo just didn’t seem right.

     Ochs was short for aurochs, which I seemed to recall from my well-thumbed copy of Purnell’s Find Out About Prehistoric Animals was the precursor of the modern cow – except here aurochs were the dominant breed. This would explain my conviction that there was something wrong with the cows I’d seen earlier – they were significantly bigger than the cattle I was used to.

     I finally decided on grice and onions, as it turned out that grice were a breed of highland pig, similar to a small wild boar. Having tried and liked boar in the past, I thought it was probably the safest option.

     Having collected my dinner tray, I turned and surveyed the dining room, looking for somewhere to sit.

     Unsurprisingly, Aubrey and Penny had gravitated towards one another and were holding court – literally in Penny’s case – on one of the long trestle tables.

     So, that was a table to definitely avoid.

     ‘You could always go and sit with Ashleigh…’ muttered a familiar voice, as Helena walked past.

     ‘Oh, Ha Bloody Ha,’ I said, as I followed her across the room to a free table, ‘You’re not still going on about that are you? She’s our House Prefect – helping me…us…is her job. I’ve talked to her about as much as I’ve spoken to you. If that’s the criteria you’re using, then that would mean YOU fancy me too.’

     I looked across at Helena, who had paused with her fork halfway to her mouth.

     ‘Which, of course, you don’t…’ I finished lamely.

     ‘Of course I don’t,’ said Helena quickly, ‘but that’s because you’re a weirdo.’

     I gave this some considered thought – she wasn’t wrong. Aspects of my current situation did fall quite firmly into the pigeon-hole marked “weird shit.” However, as I seemed to somehow know Helena, she appeared to be the key to unravelling the mystery of why I was here. I therefore needed her help, so decided to be as honest as I could – bearing in mind that some of the stuff I could tell her would revise her opinion of me from “weirdo” to “crazy as a box of frogs.”

     ‘Fair point,’ I conceded, ‘but there IS a reason for that…’

     I paused, thinking how best to explain. Helena was watching me with guarded interest.

     ‘I have suffered…’ I am suddenly falling backwards, away from the light… ‘a fall. The result of this is that some of the stuff I should know, such as basic magical theory, has gone from my head. This has been replaced by knowledge about YOU – I don’t know how or why, but there must be a reason for this, and I’ve got a feeling that you may be able to help me… get back to normal. That’s if you’re willing to help?’

     I don’t like lying, but omission of certain facts doesn’t really count – at least, that’s what I told myself.

     ‘I suppose that does explain a few things,’ Helena said thoughtfully, ‘and I must admit that you are a bit of an enigma…’ She bit her lip, brow furrowed, then obviously reached a decision.

     ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘I’ll see what I can do to help. But if it gets too weird, you’re on your own.’

     ‘Fair enough,’ I said, ‘… and thank you.’

     I really didn’t think it could get any weirder than it already was – which just goes to show how little I knew…

     We were just finishing our lunch when Helena noticed that Ashleigh was walking over, followed by a sullen Aubrey and a gaggle of other students. I recognised the girl I had borrowed the compact from on the coach earlier that morning, along with a boy who looked so similar to her that he must be related.

     ‘Here comes your girlfriend…’ whispered Helena, grinning. I rolled my eyes – she might have agreed to help me, but this obviously wouldn’t prevent her from winding me up over this whole Ashleigh thing.

     ‘Hi Alex… Helena,’ said Ashleigh, ‘These are the rest of the Dee House students. Master Tweed has asked me to collect you all and take you to our common room, so he can introduce himself and hand out timetables.’

     We rose from our table, briefly stopping on the way out of the Dining Hall to drop off our trays, then followed Ashleigh and the other students.

     The Dee House common room was literally just around the corner. It was a wood panelled chamber, about 20-foot square. A set of three windows looked out onto the main courtyard and the room was furnished with a mismatched selection of chairs and sofas. An open fireplace stood against the right-hand wall, in front of which stood a particularly rotund bald gentleman, dressed in a grey herringbone suit and academic gown. This, I assumed, was Master Tweed.

     ‘Gather round, Ladies and Gentlemen,’ said the man, waiting until we had all filed in before continuing. ‘I am Master Tweed, school librarian and Head of both the Bibliomancy and History departments for this esteemed establishment.’ He smiled kindly, eyes twinkling. ‘More importantly for you, I am your Head of House, so you will be seeing rather a lot of me and, as you can see, there is rather a lot of me to see.’

     This was greeted by a few titters of polite, if somewhat nervous, laughter.

     ‘This sumptuous chamber…’ he opened his arms wide, encompassing the whole room, ‘is your common room, where you may gather to study, relax, and socialise with your peers. Please treat it with respect. You have all been introduced to Miss Bond, who is your House Prefect and your first point of contact, should you have any particular problems during your time here at Oakdene.’

     He clicked his fingers and a slim, red-bound book zipped across the room from a sideboard into his waiting hands. This was greeted by a few gasps of surprise.

     ‘Bibliomancy,’ Master Tweed stated, winking. ‘When you’ve mastered it, every book will do your bidding. Even such boring tomes as this – the House register.’

     He cleared his throat.

     ‘Right, we’d best see that every student who is supposed to be here, IS actually here.’ He peered at the book, ‘Bond, Aubrey?’

     ‘Here.’ said Aubrey.

     Master Tweed looked over the book at Aubrey.

     ‘It is customary to suffix your acknowledgement of your presence with “Sir,” Mr Bond. However, I will overlook it on this occasion, but let’s not make a habit of it, shall we?’

     I stifled a guffaw – Aubrey being taken down a peg or two sat well with me. I think I was going to like Master Tweed.

     Gabrielle Cloche was a petite French girl, Elizabeth and Jack Hart were the twins, Mason Stone was a black American boy, Ian Strange a thin, bespectacled chap and Alice White was a stocky redhead, her face spattered with freckles. With Helena and I, that made nine students.

     ‘That just leaves the final member of our little family, our very first Geist student, Yarrow.’ Said Master Tweed, looking over into the far corner of the room. I turned and noticed a tall, slender figure with long, pale blonde hair, standing quietly there, their features curiously androgynous.

     ‘Here, Sir.’ Said Yarrow, stepping forward.

     At the mention of the word “Geist,” the other students had erupted into frenzied whispering. I edged over to Helena and nudged her.

     ‘What’s a Geist?’ I whispered. She looked at me with exasperation. I tapped the side of my head and made a gesture as though dropping something. Her face cleared and she pulled me to one side.

     ‘This is something that you’ve lost, right?’ She asked. I nodded.

     ‘We call them Geist, but they call themselves the Hidden Folk. They’re a particularly magical race, attuned with nature, who don’t tend to interact with humans very much – other than for trading purposes. They farm pixies, faeries, and sprites, so the majority of the pixie dust, hunny and sprites come from them.’ She looked speculatively at Yarrow, ‘But I’ve never heard of a Geist ever attending a human school…’

     ‘This may be a stupid question,’ I said, ‘but is Yarrow a boy or a girl?’

     ‘Neither…yet.’ Said Helena. I must have looked puzzled, so she elaborated. ‘Geist children don’t choose their sex until puberty. From what I’ve read, their elders expose them to strong role models of both genders – whichever has the strongest influence on the child determines their eventual sex.’ She paused thoughtfully. ‘If Yarrow is at that stage, that means that we might actually see them take their final form – which would be pretty interesting.’

     ‘So, I’m assuming that we use non-gender specific pronouns when referring to them?’ I said.

     Helena looked at me in surprise.

     ‘Um…I guess so…’ She said, hesitantly.

     ‘You are indeed correct, Alexander,’ said Master Tweed, who had caught the end of our conversation. He looked at me with interest. ‘That is a remarkably mature insight for someone of your tender age – I can see that you will be a student to watch.’

     Not too closely, I hoped, as drawing too much attention to myself would underscore my woeful lack of knowledge. I resolved to be more careful in what I said, or at least check who was listening first.

     ‘Righty-ho, ladies and gentlemen,’ announced Master Tweed, ‘I have the dolorous task of handing out your timetables for the rest of term. Or at least Miss Bond does…’ 

     Ashleigh was slowly going around the other students, handing out timetables to everyone.

     ‘As you can see, you have the rest of today free, before your lessons start in earnest tomorrow.’ Said Master Tweed, ‘I would suggest you use this free time to familiarise yourself with the layout of the school. I would prefer that the first time I hear any of your names uttered by members of the faculty will not be because you have arrived late to your first lesson.’

     As Ashleigh approached, she was scribbling something on the back of one of the timetables, which she handed to me, passing another to Helena.

     ‘See you later, Alex.’ She said, smiling.

     Helena frowned and turned over her timetable, which, when she showed it to me, was blank. I turned mine over and saw written there:

If you need anything, I’m in Room 23.

Ashleigh x

     Helena looked over my shoulder, then snorted with laughter.

     ‘Told you so…’ she said, nudging me in the ribs.

     Like I didn’t have enough stuff to worry about already…

     I asked Helena if she wanted to spend the rest of the afternoon exploring the school and its grounds, but she said she’d agreed to call her parents when she got a spare moment, so she said she’d catch up with me later – then slyly suggested I ask Ashleigh to be my tour guide, laughing at my pained expression and then wisely retreating before I thumped her.        It wasn’t until I got back to my room that I realised I’d taken what she’d said at face value. I had just assumed when she said she’d call her parents that this would involve a telephone – but I didn’t even know if that sort of technology existed here and, if it did, what form it would take.

     This then led to thinking about MY parents – or, at least, the parents of the Alex of this reality.

     In the 1986 of my world, my father was working for a satellite communications company based in Farnborough, but what path he would have followed in this world I had no idea – perhaps he was involved in the national crystal ball network or something.

     I resolved to keep my eyes peeled during my exploration of the school, for additional clues that would help me gain a better understanding of to what degree magic had replaced the technology I was used to.

     However, as it was sunny day, I decided to start outside to familiarise myself with the school grounds.

     Exiting the school via what was noted on the map as the Garden Exit, I found myself once again on the rear terrace, but in a frame of mind more conducive to fully appreciating the view.

     The terrace was bordered by a low wall to the South, with a double staircase which swept down to a gravelled path that ran parallel to the wall, known as the Dog Walk. The South Lawn descended in a gentle slope to Oakdene Lake, with the Arboretum encroaching slightly onto this from the left.

     From my vantage point on the terrace, I could just make out the largest of the several islands that dotted the lake, which was marked on the map as Temple Island. Hints of a stone structure could be seen amongst the trees on the island, but I was too far away to see any real detail.

     Turning, I identified the Water Tower to the far right and the South-facing window of my room on the first floor.

     I checked the map, then followed the terrace around the left-hand side of the building, heading for the main courtyard.

     As I passed along the side of the college, I noted a set of stone steps leading down, terminating in a wooden door, the sign on which read “Staff Only.” From what I’d read in The Oakdene Students Handbook, I hazarded a guess that this led to “the extensive storage cellars, which students are forbidden from entering unless accompanied by a member of the faculty.”

     I continued to the corner of the building, then turned into the main courtyard. As this was North facing, the majority of this was in shadow cast by the main building.

     I continued along the front of the building, noting the college theatre to the left and, just beyond that a small building which seemed to be quite popular with the other students, given the number of them gathered outside. A fair few of them were clutching pink and white striped paper bags and quick glance at the map confirmed that this was the Tuck Shop.

     Whilst I had left my wallet in my room, I did have a pocket full of loose change, all bearing the profile of the gentleman I’d met that morning – identified as “Cole II, Dei Gratia Rex” – but did I really need any sweets?

     The decision was taken out of my hands, as a brief glance through the open doorway revealed that Penny was inside, and after our encounter earlier and the warning from the Headmistress, I was trying to avoid her wherever possible.

     I therefore decided to head back inside, as I’d spotted a room on the map that I had a feeling I would be spending rather a lot of time in – namely the Library.

     The Library was on the ground floor, accessed via a large room off the Picture Gallery, which was marked as the Study Hall.

     The Study Hall looked to be housed in what would have originally been the mansion’s drawing room, although rather than leather sofas and armchairs facing the large fireplace, there were a selection of wooden tables surrounded by chairs.

     Given that lessons were not due to start in earnest until the following day, I was surprised to see another student already hard at work, surrounded by books and making copious notes. As I walked in, he scowled at me and covered his notes with his arms, as though I was spying on him. I didn’t recognise him, so assumed he was from another House.

     The library was behind this, looking out onto the back terrace and I stepped through the archway into the library proper, pausing to inhale that particular scent you only get where a lot of books are gathered together in one place. Floor to ceiling bookcases lined the walls, with two rows of freestanding bookcases running parallel down the centre of the room, allowing light from the rear window to illuminate the aisles.

     I walked along one of these aisles, fingers gently gliding across the spines of the books upon the shelves, which all appeared to be bound in the same dark blue leather, their titles picked out in silver script.

     As I exited the aisle, I came across a large desk, situated in front of the rear window, at which sat Master Tweed, perusing a slim volume bound in green leather with gold writing, a frown of concentration on his face.

     Master Tweed notice me standing there, marked his place with a bookmark and put the book down.

     ‘Well, if it isn’t young Master Crowe,’ he said, rising to his feet ‘It’s always gratifying to see a new member of my House gravitating towards the college’s font of knowledge.’

     He glanced over my shoulder.

     ‘Although the fact that Master Levin from Watkins House already appears to be hard at work means that my sister will be crowing about that in the staff room later…’ He noted my puzzled expression. ‘Dr Deidre Tweed is not only the Unnaturalism Master and Head of Watkins House, but also my sibling.’ He smiled brightly.

     ‘Is there anything particular I can help you with, Alexander?’

     Given that I needed some basic knowledge about the world I found myself in but didn’t want to give this away to one of the faculty, I decided that getting a general feel of where each particular subject was shelved and what restrictions there were regarding access would be a good start, so this is what I asked.

     ‘A valid question, Alexander.’ Master Tweed circled the desk and started pointing to the shelves. ‘Starting from the door, the subjects are shelved alphabetically in a clockwise direction, commencing with texts on Alchemy and concluding with those tomes concerned with study of Necromancy. The two central cases contain volumes dedicated to Scrying, Thaumaturgy, Unnaturalism and Warlockery. Generally speaking, all books relating to a specific subject can be found on the relevant shelves, as long as the students have put the book back where they got if from, which, unfortunately, is not always the case.’

     He snapped his fingers and a heavy volume slid from a nearby shelf and floated over, rotating so he could read the spine.

     ‘Case in point,’ he said, indicating the floating book, ‘Farrow’s Guide to the Fauna of Great Britain should not be amongst the Chimestry texts.’ He shooed the book away and it turned, then sedately floated to the relevant shelf, jostling for room, before sliding home.

     ‘Students can access the library from 6am until 10pm every day, outside of these hours the doors are locked. Whilst books may be removed from the library by students, this is generally discouraged, although special dispensation may be granted by myself, should I feel that it would be beneficial to the student concerned.’

     As we had been talking, I had noted a bookcase separate to those Master Tweed had indicated, all bound in green leather, like the volume he had been reading when I’d come in.

     ‘What about the green-bound books, Sir?’ I asked, ‘What subject do they cover?’

     Master Tweed looked at me speculatively.

     ‘You have a good eye, Alexander.’ He said. ‘The green bound volumes cover subjects not on the curriculum, magic that is no longer practised in our more enlightened age – blood magic and the like. These books are not available to the average student and can only be referred to by advanced students with my express permission.’

     I looked at the bookcase with interest, then noted that Master Tweed was watching me.

     ‘You have a question regarding the books, do you not Alexander?’ he asked.

     ‘Yes, Sir, I do.’ I paused, thinking how to frame the question. ‘The contents of these books have no bearing on my studies and therefore I would have no reason to refer to one of these volumes. However, curiosity being what it is, what prevents me from just taking one of the books off the shelf? There doesn’t appear to be anything stopping me from doing so, but I have a feeling that there probably is…’

     ‘Very perceptive, Alexander.’ Said Master Tweed. ‘To prevent unauthorised perusal, a blood-lock enchantment has been placed on each volume. Should any man or woman other than myself touch one of the books, they will be paralysed in place – unharmed, but completely unable to move, until such time as the enchantment is lifted.’ He paused, ‘and before you ask, any form of Bibliomantic manipulation, the wearing of any thickness of gloves or the use of a trained monkey to retrieve the books, would not prevent this. Does that answer all your questions?’

     ‘Yes, Sir.’ I replied. ‘I’m guessing from your response that every year someone still tries to beat the system?’

     Master Tweed summoned the green-bound volume from his desk, then sent it back to its place on the shelf.

     ‘You are correct, Alexander.’ He sighed, ‘There is always someone who thinks the rules either do not apply to them or sees it as a challenge.’

     He looked over my shoulder and raised his eyebrows.

     ‘I’m afraid I must cut short our discussion, as I believe Master Levin requires my assistance..?’ He queried.

     I turned and saw that the student who had been studying earlier next door was quietly waiting to speak to Master Tweed, his arms laden with books. From the expression on his face and the way he kept shooting glances at the restricted bookcase, it was clear he had been standing there for a while.             Whilst I was curious as to what was considered “forbidden lore,” the idea of being fully aware of my surroundings, but completely unable to react or move was a terrifying thought, so I resolved not to go anywhere near those books.

Chapter II – Warnings & Portents

     We entered the cool interior of the main building, our footsteps echoing on the flagstone flooring, then turned left into what was obviously the main reception area for the college. The circular counter was manned by a couple of no-nonsense clerks, who were calmly handing out room keys attached to wooden tags, along with maps of the main building with the relevant student’s accommodation marked in fluorescent pen.

     I noted that both Aubrey and Penny were still awaiting their keys and, unsurprisingly, they both scowled at me as I went past.

     I caught a snippet of conversation as we passed through: ‘Up the main stairs to the first floor, straight on, then turn left down the Nursery corridor. Carry on past the back stairs, then turn left at the next corridor and your room is third on the right…’

     We passed into another hallway, which was illuminated by a series of narrow windows that marched diagonally up the wall, following the course of what I assumed was the main staircase.

     I stood at the base of the enormous square tower I had noted outside, the interior of which was dominated by an equally enormous staircase. This rose three, possibly four storeys, with intricately carved wooden balustrades and newel posts and was wide enough to drive a small car up, should you be that way inclined – such as if you found yourself being chased by the Italian police who were keen on recovering the gold bullion in the boot of your Mini Cooper.

     The Headmistress noted I had paused at the foot of stairs.

     ‘Come along, Mr. Crowe,’ she said, ‘you’ll have plenty of time to sight-see later.’

     ‘Sorry, Miss.’ I said and hurried up the stairs.

     The Headmistress’ office was on the first floor, overlooking the courtyard, just to the right of the main entrance.

     I sat on a wooden chair in front of her desk, on top of a particularly large and slightly worn Persian rug, which covered the majority of the floor. Dr Vayne (as per the polished brass nameplate facing me) appraised me from the other side of her desk, then reached out her right hand towards a set of steel filing cabinets, painted British racing green.

     ‘Crowe, Alexander,’ she commanded.

     The first drawer on the left-hand cabinet slid open, there was the sound of riffling, and a brown manila file rose from the cabinet, then floated across to Dr Vayne, who took it from the air, as the cabinet drawer slid closed.

     She opened the file in front of her, briefly perusing the contents before closing it and placing her fingertips on top of it. She looked directly at me.

     ‘Up until this year, the students who have attended Oakdene have come from private schools, either here or abroad. Whilst this has produced a number of alumni who have gone on to excel in their chosen fields of study, it has excluded students who have just as much talent and the right to a decent education as those of a more privileged upbringing. Hence the scholarship programme and your enrolment.’

     Dr Vayne rose from her chair and circled the desk, stopping in front of me and leaning back on the edge of her desk.

     ‘However,’ she said, ‘We expect ALL our students to maintain a certain level of decorum and behaviour, no matter what their background. Telling the heir to the throne to “bugger off” does not generally fall into this category. You are fortunate that the King found it amusing, otherwise this could have had serious repercussions for both you AND the school.’

     She let this sink in.

     ‘I shall be watching you, Mr. Crowe. Make sure that the next time you find yourself in my office, it is not for a reprimand. Do you understand?’

     ‘Yes, Miss.’ I answered.

     There was knock at the door, to which the Headmistress called ‘Enter.’ The door opened and a pretty blonde female student walked in.     

     ‘You sent for me, Headmistress?’ she asked.

     ‘Ah, Miss Bond. This,’ she pointed at me, ‘is Alexander Crowe, one of our new First Years.’ She then turned to me. ‘This is Ashleigh Bond, one of the Prefects assigned to your House. Mr. Crowe was unable to collect his room key, due to attending this meeting. Could you take him to his room and see that he joins the rest of the students in the Picture Gallery at 11.00am?’

     ‘Of course, Headmistress.’ Ashleigh said, ‘Which room is he in?’

     Dr Vayne handed her a tagged key.

     ‘Room 13.’ She said.

     Ashleigh started, almost dropping the key.

     ‘Ah. Right…okay.’ She muttered. ‘Er…you’d better follow me, Alexander.’

     We walked in silence, until we were out of earshot of Dr Vayne’s office, then Ashleigh asked, ‘So, who did you piss off to get assigned to room 13?’

     ‘As far as I am aware, room 13 was the only one left.’ I said, ‘However, everyone seems to react badly every time it’s mentioned. Is there something wrong with it?’

     Ashleigh stopped and looked up and down the corridor, checking to see if anyone else was about.

     ‘No student who has previously been assigned room 13 has lasted in there for longer than a week.’ Ashleigh explained, ‘They originally thought it might be haunted, but Dr Gaunt gave it a clean bill of health, so whilst there’s no ghost, there’s still something… off about the room.’

     ‘Lovely.’ I said, ‘Who’s Dr Gaunt?’

     ‘School Necromancer. You’ll meet him when you have his class.’

     If Dr Gaunt ended up looking like Peter Cushing and our class project involved furtive field trips to the local graveyard, suturing, and a really big lightning rod, I would be looking to drop this subject pretty sharpish.

     We had traversed what Ashleigh informed me was known as the Nursery corridor, which ended at a large sash window. To the right was an open archway, leading into a narrow room equipped with a Belfast sink and various cupboards. A door to the right led into a bathroom, which Ashleigh advised me was supposed to be communal, but as it was so close to Room 13, no-one used it. So I effectively had my own private bathroom, which was a bonus.

     A second door in the left-hand corner, with tarnished brass numerals affixed to it, led into the dreaded Room 13.

     Ashleigh handed me the key and I apprehensively approached the door, slid the key into the lock, turned it and pushed the door open. I was slightly disappointed that it didn’t creak in approved Horror film fashion.

     A short diagonal corridor led into a high-ceilinged square chamber, with sash windows on the back and left-hand wall. I later found out that my room was within what was known as the Water Tower, a smaller tower at the rear of the college.

     Given all the dire warnings that had been attributed to this room, it was surprisingly… ordinary.

     Also quite cosy, with a wingback chair in dark green velvet sitting on top of a grey shag pile rug, facing an open fireplace. There was also dark wooden wardrobe, a desk and what I assumed to be large free-standing mirror (it was covered with a patterned bedspread) along the left-hand wall. A wooden bed already made up with crisp linen lay beneath the back window, alongside which was a small chest of drawers. My trunk had been deposited against the right-hand wall, under a set of shelves.

     I turned to Ashleigh, who was hovering at the threshold.

     ‘You coming in?’ I asked, ‘Seems safe to me…’

     She hesitated, then tentatively ventured into the room. When nothing untoward happened, she visibly relaxed.

     ‘It’s actually quite nice,’ she said, then frowned. ‘And it’s bigger than my room…’

     ‘If you want to swap, I can ask for you…’

     ‘Um…no, I don’t think so.’

     ‘Okay,’ I said, throwing myself onto the bed. ‘Mmm, comfy.’ I looked over at her.

     ‘So, Ashleigh Bond… any relation to Aubrey?’

     Ashleigh looked surprised.            

     ‘Yeah, he’s my little brother. Do you know him?’

     ‘We’ve met.’ I said, ‘He seems…. nice.’

     Ashleigh cocked her head to one side, a hint of a smile hovering about her lips.

     ‘Really? Is that the impression you got of him?’

     ‘Well, that depends if you want me to be truthful… or diplomatic.’ I said. ‘I mean, not only are you his sister, you’re also a Prefect, so if I say the wrong thing here, you could make my life a living Hell.’

     ‘True,’ she said, smiling.

     ‘So, let’s just say that he needs to work on his people skills.’

     ‘You being an expert on that, I suppose?’

     ‘You’ve spent some time in my company, can’t you tell? I’m great.’ I grinned, then frowned. ‘Although Princess Penny would disagree…’

     ‘You’ve met the Princess?!’ Said Ashleigh excitedly, ‘What’s she like?’

     ‘She’s… a bit of a cow, to be honest.’ Ashleigh looked crestfallen, ‘but she might have just been in a bad mood. First day of school, outside her comfort zone, that sort of thing. I’m sure once you get to know her, she’s perfectly lovely.’

     I stood up and looked at my watch – it was about quarter past ten.

     ‘Looks like I have about 45 minutes before I need to be in the Picture Gallery,’ I said, ‘and I’m sure you’ve got other stuff you need to be doing, do you want to give me directions and I’ll find my own way there later? You know, rather than you hanging around?’

     ‘I was supposed to make sure you got there on time…’ Ashleigh began.

     ‘Well, yes,’ I interrupted, ‘but if you give me clear directions, you’ll have done your job, right?’

     ‘I guess so…’ she said dubiously.

     ‘Plus I need the loo, and I’m sure you don’t want to listen to me doing that.’

     At that, Ashleigh relented and explained how to get to the Picture Gallery, which was actually not that far from the bottom of the main staircase.

     ‘Thank you for all you help, Ashleigh,’ I said, ‘and please… call me Alex. That’s what my friends call me.’

     ‘Oh, is that what we are?’ she asked, a half-smile on her lips.    

     I paused thoughtfully.

     ‘Well, maybe not quite yet’ I said, ‘but we’re getting there.’

     She laughed.

     ‘I’ll see you later… Alex.’

     I looked about my room.

     Yes, I may currently have my adult mind trapped in my teenaged body, attending a magical college in what appeared to be an alternate version of England in which history had not followed the path I was familiar with, but I had a nice, decent sized room (which may or may not have some kind of curse attached to it), my own private bathroom and a pretty girl had smiled at me.

     Small victories…

     I spent the next 45 minutes investigating the contents of my trunk, in the hope that this would shed some further light on my current circumstances.

     As the clothing in my trunk matched my vague recollections of what I would have worn when I was 16 years old, this suggested that not only was I in an alternate reality, but I had also been thrust back in time as well. This was confirmed when I discovered a pocket diary with “1^st day at Oakdene” entered on Monday 1^st September – the year being 1986.

     This came as a bit of a shock, understandably, but did explain why my hairstyle made me look like I belonged in a New Romantic band, complete with blonde highlights. That would need sorting out, as whilst I recall believing at the time it made me look cool, one of the benefits of hindsight was the realisation that it didn’t. I wondered if there was a school barber on site or if I would have to venture out of the school grounds in search of a local hairdresser.

     The rest of the contents of my trunk were standard school supplies, a deck of playing cards and a selection of textbooks for the various subjects that I assumed I would be studying.

     Whilst I was relieved that some of the textbooks were titled A Beginner’s Guide to Offensive & Defensive Magic or An Introduction to Basic Lithometry, which meant I wouldn’t be expected to know anything about the subject, copies of Advanced Alchemy and Enhanced Illusioneering concerned me, as they suggested that I should have some knowledge of the basics, which, of course, I didn’t.

     This was not good, as I had a gut feeling that I was here for a specific reason – currently TBC – and getting thrown out of Oakdene because I didn’t know how to mix up a Potion of Healing or whatever they called it here, would seriously hamper that.

     So, on top of discovering why the Hell I was here in the first place, I now needed to cram approximately 5 years’ worth of basic magical theory.

     Once I got hold of whoever was responsible for my current predicament, we would be having words…

     I made my way downstairs following Ashleigh’s directions, and easily found the Picture Gallery, which was thronged with both students and what I assumed were members of the faculty.

     The Picture Gallery itself was pretty impressive – 70 feet long, polished wooden floors, cream walls rising to decorative mouldings surrounding the entire perimeter. Above this the ceiling curved inwards, painted a delicate shade of duck egg blue, interspersed with white painted “ribs,” terminating in a vast central skylight that ran almost the entire length of the room. This was supported by a substantial iron grid, also painted white, made up of 2-foot diamonds, the points of which aligned with the walls of the room.

     I could see Dr Vayne at the far end of the room, chatting with a bearded man dressed in scruffy tweeds. As his outfit screamed “gamekeeper,” I assumed this was what he was, as the majority of the other staff were wearing academic gowns.

     I spotted Ashleigh standing over by a flipchart crammed with information and started to make my way over, until the crowd shifted, and I saw she was talking to her brother.

     On one hand, Aubrey was unlikely to start anything in a room crowded with students and staff, but on the other, me talking familiarly to his sister could get his back up even further, if that were possible.

     I was still contemplating my options, when the crowd parted, and I saw Her.

     A slim, attractive girl, with pale skin and long black hair, which fell in soft curls over her shoulders. She was watching the other students with a wry smile on her face.

     I was overcome with a feeling of extreme annoyance upon seeing her and my legs marched me over before my brain could raise any objections.

     ‘You!’ I spat, pointing at her, ‘You’re the reason I’m here!’

     ‘As chat-up lines go,’ she said drily, ‘that’s not bad.’

     ‘No! It’s not a chat-up line!’ I said angrily, ‘You’re Helena Morgan, right?’

     ‘Yes, I am.’ She looked at me with puzzlement, ‘How do you know that? Have you been scrying on me?’

     ‘What?! No! I know you, but…’ I faltered, ‘I don’t know how…’

     The sudden realisation that I was causing a scene struck me, and I felt my cheeks flush crimson with embarrassment. I backed away, muttering ‘I’m so sorry…’ before fleeing the room.

     My flight took me down a corridor running perpendicular to the Picture Gallery, through a set of glass-topped double doors and out onto a wide, paved terrace at the rear of the college. As the cooler air hit my face, I began to calm down and cast about for somewhere to sit and take stock.

     A stone bench to my left, backing on to the main building, beckoned and I sat down heavily, putting my head into my hands and groaning.

     ‘Well,’ I muttered sarcastically, ‘THAT went well…’

     ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said a lilting Welsh voice, ‘As first impressions go, that was pretty memorable.’

     I looked up to see that Helena had followed me out and was standing over me, arms crossed, a look of sardonic amusement on her face.

     ‘Oh God…’ I said, ‘Look, I’m really sorry about that, I honestly don’t know what came over me…’

     ‘Well, you certainly piqued my curiosity,’ Helena said, perching on the bench next to me. ‘How exactly do you know all that stuff about me?’

     ‘That’s the weird thing,’ I said, ‘As soon as I saw you, it was though a box had been opened in my brain and it was suddenly flooded with information. For example, I know that you’re Helena Morgan from Builth Wells in Powys, born on 1^st May 1969. You have a younger sister called Bethany, a border collie named Patch and your dad is a farmer.’

     Helena nodded in agreement, so I continued.

     ‘Now, I’m assuming that the majority of this information would be in your school file, so I could have read it in there… I didn’t, but I could have. But if that was the case, how would I know that your favourite place to be alone is the suspension bridge over the River Irfon, behind the Caer Beris hotel?’

     Helena started back, looking shocked. She then leant forward, a look of intense concentration on her face. She raised her hand, made a complicated gesture, and muttered something under her breath.

     I felt a slight tingling at my temples, followed by a warmth suffusing my head. Helena seemed satisfied with whatever she had done, but also puzzled.

     ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I know you’ve not been scrying my mind – which IS generally considered bad manners – but I’m at a loss how you could possibly know all that…’

     ‘Imagine how I feel…’ I said, sighing. ‘Oh God, where are my manners? Here’s me knowing all that stuff about you and I haven’t even introduced myself – I’m Alexander Crowe, Alex for short.’ I offered my hand.

     Helena looked at it for a moment, the tentatively took it. She looked me up and down, then focussed on my face.

     ‘There is something decidedly odd about you, Alexander Crowe.’ She said thoughtfully, as we rose and started to walk back inside.

     You don’t know the half of it, luv, I thought.         

     As we returned to the picture gallery, Dr Vayne was just finishing a series of announcements, which unfortunately we appeared to have missed the salient points of:

     ‘…and Mr Ware,’ Dr Vayne gestured to the man dressed in tweed, ‘has advised that it’s bandersnatch spawning season, so the Arboretum is out of bounds after nightfall to ALL students. Thank you.’

     An excited chattering arose, as both the students and staff began to disperse. Both Helena and I stood to one side, unsure of what we should be doing next.

     Aubrey spotted us standing there and ambled over, a smug expression on his face.

     ‘What’s the matter, Crowe?’ he asked, ‘Bit out of your depth? Is all this…’ he gestured about the room, ‘a bit too much for someone like you?’

     I consider myself a relatively laidback person, but Aubrey’s entitled bullshit was really starting to grate.

     ‘I wonder if you could explain something to me, Aubrey,’ I said, smiling, ‘How come your sister Ashleigh is such a nice person, but you’re such a massive dick?’

     Helena snorted with laughter. Aubrey’s face darkened and he stepped forward, clenching his fists. Apparently, this was his standard response to any kind of retort he was not happy with.

     ‘Everything okay here, Alex?’ Interrupted a voice I recognised. Ashleigh was walking towards us holding a clipboard, a questioning look upon her face.

     ‘Hi Ashleigh,’ I said brightly, ‘I had a bit of a meltdown and Helena kindly came outside to check I was alright, so we missed most of what the Headmistress said. As Aubrey here isn’t being particularly helpful, I was wondering if you could fill us in?’

     Ashleigh glanced at her brother, who was glowering at me.

     ‘Of course, Alex,’ she said, ‘happy to help.’

     She started checking her clipboard, then noticed that Aubrey was still lurking nearby.

     ‘Anything you need, little brother?’ She asked sweetly.

     Aubrey muttered something unintelligible, then turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.

     ‘Sorry about him,’ said Ashleigh, ‘He can be a bit of a handful.’

     ‘That’s one way of putting it,’ said Helena slyly, ‘although Alex used a more colourful term…’

     I shot her a look and mouthed “shut up.” She smirked back at me, eyes crinkled with amusement. I turned back to Ashleigh, an innocent expression on my face. She was eyeing me speculatively over the top of the clipboard.

     ‘You were saying…?’ I said.

     ‘Yes, sorry,’ said Ashleigh, checking her clipboard, ‘Looks like both of you are in Dee House, along with Aubrey…’ I groaned, ‘and myself, of course. I’m your House Prefect, so if you have any problems, you can come and see me. The Dee House common room is opposite the back stairs, next to the Dining Hall. Your head of house is Master Tweed, who you’ll meet after lunch.’ She looked up, ‘I think that’s everything. Any questions?’

     I looked at Helena, who shrugged.

     ‘I guess not,’ I said. ‘When’s lunch?’

     ‘Midday,’ said Ashleigh, looking at her watch, ‘So, in about 10 minutes.’

     ‘Right. And the Dining Hall is where…?’ I said. ‘Sorry, I didn’t get a map earlier, because I had to see the Headmistress…’

     Ashleigh sighed and rolled her eyes. She then checked the papers on her clipboard, pulled a map from amongst them, then leaned in to show me where it was on the map.

     I thanked her and we parted ways. Helena and I started climbing the main stairs, as we had decided to freshen up before lunch.

     ‘She likes you,’ said Helena quietly as we reached the first floor.

     I stopped and looked at her in stunned disbelief. She was smiling, eyes twinkling with amusement.

     ‘Uh…’ I was at a loss for words, which is pretty unusual for me.

     ‘Can’t see it myself,’ she said, breezing past me.            

I stood bemused at the top of the stairs, her fading laughter echoing about me.

Chapter I – Down the Rabbit-Hole

    It always starts the same…

     Shadowy figures in suits, their faces obscured, burst into the room, hands filled with guns and a glint of sliver on their lapels. I try to focus on the pin they wear, knowing instinctively that it is important, but everything is blurred, like looking through a Vaseline-smeared lens.

     The woman opposite me reacts, throwing out her left hand and somehow pinning the figures in place. She speaks in tones of urgency – I can’t make out the words but get the feeling that it is imperative that I leave, for I have something that must be done.

     She thrusts her right hand towards me, and, with a jolt, I am suddenly falling backwards, away from the light…

     I awoke with a start, banging my head on the coach window. Someone sniggered nearby, the sound somewhat jarring in my disorientated state.

     It always takes your mind a few seconds to recalibrate when you wake, as information is gathered from your environment and your memories to fill in the nebulous period when you were wandering in the Land of Nod.

     Certain information is usually a given, unless you’ve been drugged or are suffering from concussion, so you should at least know who you are. Where you are being a slightly more complex matter, as whilst you should be in the same place you fell asleep, this is not always the case. If you wake in familiar surrounding – your own bed in your own home – you will not experience that momentary panic you get when waking in a hotel room on the first day of your holiday.

     I had woken on a coach, which appeared to be travelling down a country road, as I could see cattle in the fields across from me, between the trees.

     As my mind processed this, alarm bells stared going off in my head, as various questions jostled for attention; Why did I think there was something fundamentally wrong with those cows? Why was I viewing what was obviously an Autumnal scene, in shades of red and gold, when it was surely May? And, most importantly, how the fuck had I ended up on what seemed to be, from glancing at the uniformed teens around me, a school bus?

     Furthermore, my body felt…swollen, as though all my insides had been scooped out and then stuffed back into a slightly smaller frame. I looked at my hands, noting that they were slimmer and smoother than I recalled, no rings or liver spots and, from the cuffs of the jumper sheathing my arms, I appeared to be wearing the same uniform as those about me.

     I turned to the girl sitting across the aisle from me and spoke; ‘Excuse me, you wouldn’t happen to have a compact with a mirror, would you?’

     My voice was higher pitched than I remembered and the fear that had been lurking at the back of my mind raged forward.

     The girl frowned, reached into her bag, and pulled out a compact, wordlessly handing it to me. With trembling hands, I opened it, dreading what I was about to see.

     There, staring back at me, was MY face – but a face I hadn’t seen in a mirror for a good 35 years… the face of my 16-year-old self.

     What. The. Fuck…

     Sherlock Holmes is often quoted as stating that “when you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” So, by applying deductive reasoning to the scant evidence that had been presented so far, what possible explanations could there be for my current situation?

     Option 1 – Like the plot of a cheesy family movie, I had been physically regressed to my previous age, but remained in the same chronological year – no doubt to teach me some kind of valuable moral lesson that had so far escaped me in the 50-odd years I had been on the planet.

     However, I currently had no way of discerning the date and no memory of making a wish via battered brass lamp, automated fortune-telling booth or ancient Buddhist skull, so whilst the evidence partially supported this, there was no way of telling for sure.

     Option 2 – My mind had been thrust back in time to occupy my own teenaged body (rather than someone else’s – à la Quantum Leap) to rectify a mistake made in the past. As with option 1, I had yet to find out when I was, so this was another unproven possibility.

     Option 3 – I was currently inside a highly advanced virtual reality simulator, the creators of which had decided I was better suited to experience their creation as a teenage boy, rather than a grey-haired Saganaut. If the technology was advanced enough and I was connected to it physically or by way of a direct neural interface, there would be no way of telling whether this was real or not – at least until Laurence Fishburne showed up to offer me drugs.

     Now, the main problem with all three options was they required certain things – a supernatural artefact in respect of option 1, mental time travel in respect of option 2 and highly advanced &/or alien technology in respect of option 3 – all things that exist within the annals of Science Fiction (emphasis on the last word) rather than in the world in which I was born into.

     All this led to probable Option No. 4 – that I’d been involved in some kind of serious accident, was lying in a coma in a hospital somewhere and all of this was the product of my subconscious mind.

     In which case, DCI Gene Hunt would be along shortly to call me a soft, Southern, lager-drinking twat.

     Of course, that didn’t happen. Instead, I got this:

     ‘You Crowe?’

     I looked up from my reverie, still clutching the compact, to find a blonde, muscular lad, swaying slightly due to the motion of the coach, leaning over me.

     Now, there were a number of responses I could have given to this query, from the factual “Yes, I am Alexander Crowe” to the challenging “Who wants to know?” Due to my mouth not always checking with my brain first and the belief (whether justified or not) that I was a witty person, I chose to respond thus:

     ‘Yes, I AM currently a Crowe, but am hoping that someday soon I will become a beautiful swan…’

     The girl I’d borrowed the compact from snorted with laughter and I glanced across, grinning as I did so. She was stifling her laughter with her hand, and I passed the compact back with a nod of thanks, then looked up at the boy, who was frowning. I decided to give him a break.

     ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I am Alexander Crowe.’

     ‘So…’ he seemed to be having some difficulty marshalling his thoughts, so I took the opportunity to examine him more closely.

     Blonde, muscular, handsome. Jumper sleeves pushed up and shirt cuffs folded back. Tie loose at his throat, top button undone. Nicely cut grey trousers and expensive shoes, so not off the rack. Home counties accent. Probably good at sports.

     I focused on the uniform next – Navy blue V-neck jumper with silver trim on the neckline, embroidered silver tree of some description on the left breast, surrounded by the legend “Oakdene College” also in silver – which probably meant it was supposed to be an oak tree. Striped tie in the corresponding matching colours.

     Oakdene College? Now, why did that sound familiar?

     ‘…you must be the scholarship boy, then.’ The boy eventually finished.

     ‘I…guess so.’ I answered. Scholarship? Interesting…

     ‘So, that means your parents are poor then.’ He said disdainfully.

     And there we had it. Not asking out of genuine interest, but due to ingrained snobbery from hereditary entitlement. Probably flogged his servants too.

     ‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I didn’t catch your name?’

     ‘Bond,’ the boy said, with a touch of pride, ‘Aubrey Bond.’

     ‘Now, scholarships are not only granted to those in financial need, you know…’ I began before my brain caught up with my ears. ‘Hold on, did you really just say Aubrey Bond?’

     ‘Yes, why?’

     ‘Seriously? Aubrey Bond?’ I started laughing. ‘I suppose it could have been worse – your surname could have been Shortcake. Or Jambe. Or Fields.’ I paused for a moment in thought. ‘Actually, that last one wouldn’t have been too bad, especially if you’re a Beatles fan.’

     I looked up at Aubrey, smiling brightly. He did not look happy.

     ‘Are you making fun of me?’ He growled, clenching his fists.

     I was just considering the best response to this, ideally one which not involve one of Aubrey’s fists ending up in my face, when we were fortunately interrupted.

     ‘Oi, you at the back there!’ shouted the coach driver, ‘Get back in your seat!’

     Aubrey shot me a venomous look, muttered ‘This isn’t over, Crowe…’ and made his way back to his seat.

     Whilst this encounter had provided additional information and introduced me to the school bully, I was no closer to fathoming out whatever “this” was. However, I was starting to doubt whether this was all in my head.

     The coach slowed, which caused an excited murmuring amongst the other passengers, then swung to the right, passing between two brick pillars topped with large stone balls. I briefly noted a large sign, which read “Oakdene College – Established 1922 – Omnia Qua”, before the coach entered a green tunnel of trees.

     This soon gave way to bright Autumn sunlight, as the coach began to traverse a long avenue bordered with grass and what I would later discover to be Giant Redwoods, although to my uneducated eyes, they just looked like really big Christmas trees.

     Leaning into the aisle, I could see in the distance another set of brick pillars, through which I could just about make out some kind of large multi-storey structure, as the rest of the view was screened by trees.

     Given the length of the avenue, the size of the grounds surrounding the building we were rapidly approaching, and the vague hints of architecture glimpsed through the gateway, it would appear that Oakdene College was housed in a Victorian/Edwardian mansion. Which meant (based on the date on the sign) that the original owners had fallen upon hard times and sold the property on – mercifully not to a theme park chain, so the original fixtures should remain largely intact, there would be no crowds of screaming children and I was highly unlikely to be accosted by park employees dressed as “humorous” animal mascots.

     Passing through the gateway, the coach turned left then swung in a circle to the right across the tarmacked courtyard, before coming to a stop adjacent to the main building.

     As I was sitting on the right-hand side of the coach, I had not seen very much as we had come through the gates, so was curious to see where I had arrived, but the usual bunfight had started as soon as the coach stopped – everyone had leapt up and was rapidly pulling bags from both under and over their seats, in an effort to be the first one off.

     You see this kind of herd behaviour on trips abroad, as holidaymakers scramble to be the first off the ‘plane, because that additional five minutes head-start might mean you can get to the baggage carousel before everyone else in the vain hope that your suitcase will be the first through the flaps.

     It never is – but hope springs eternal, as they say.

     Being of a more realistic bent, I remained seated as everyone else did the slow shuffle down the aisle, before getting up.

     I stepped off the coach, noting as I did that the majority of the courtyard was in the shadow cast by the main building.

     I looked up. Then up a bit more. Then quite a bit more.

     Oakdene College towered above me, literally, as the main frontage was dominated by an enormous square tower. It was constructed of red bricks (4,477,000 I later found out, fired in the estates own brick kilns) with dressings in Mansfield stone and had a large porte-cochere leading into the entrance hall – which is the architectural term for a covered porch to stop the landed gentry from getting their frockcoats wet.

     Oakdene College is what you’d get if you exposed Downton Abbey to Gamma radiation and then made it angry. And as every card-carrying geek knows, that’s not something you want to do.

      The other students had collected their suitcases and trunks from the coach and were gathering in front of the main entrance, where a bespectacled woman with a clipboard was checking them off a list, then sending them in. Standing to the left of the entrance were three men, dressed in navy waistcoats and bowler hats, which my brain immediately identified as college porters – although there did not seem to be much porterage going on.

     To the right was a low slung, expensive looking car, surrounded by men in suits and sunglasses, who were keeping a close eye on both a middle-aged bearded man in an expensive suit and a slim blonde girl, whose expression suggested that she didn’t want to be here.

     As my mind processed this, I could feel it nudging me, saying “you’re looking, but not seeing…” I re-evaluated the view and then it struck me – the car had no wheels and was hovering a good foot or more above the ground. I turned and looked back at the coach – no wheels and also floating. I crouched down next to the coach and looked underneath. No visible means of support, just a slight heat haze beneath it. I tentatively waved my hand through this, noting that there was some resistance, as though the air was slightly thicker beneath the coach.

     ‘If you’ve quite finished,’ said a voice, ‘do you think you could move your trunk?’ The coach driver stood next to a large metal chest, examining a tag tied to one of the handles. ‘I take it you’re Alexander Crowe?’

     ‘Yes, sorry…’ I blurted, straightening up.

     I walked over, grabbed one of the handles at the end of the chest and lifted it. Or that’s what I intended to do – the bloody thing weighed a ton. God knows what was in it, but there was no chance in Hell that I was going to move it without some help.

     But surely that’s what porters were for?

     I approached the three men standing by the porch.

     ‘Excuse me, you wouldn’t happen to have a sack truck or trolley or something?’ I asked, ‘as my trunk is a bit heavy and I won’t be able to move it otherwise…’

     One of the men stepped forward, smiling kindly.

     ‘Do you know what?’ he said, ‘You’re the first student to actually ask for help. The rest of ‘em just struggled with their stuff.’ He reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a flat disc, about four inches across and one inch thick.

     ‘I think we can do better than a trolley,’ he said, handing me the disc.

     I examined the disc – it was flat on one side, the other side being slightly domed and glittery, like a bike reflector. A ring of brass, incised with symbols, circled the disc and as I was turning it in my hands, came free.

     I looked back at the porter.

     ‘Thanks… I think.’ I said, ‘Um…what’s this?’

     ‘You’ve not seen a lifter before, I take it?’ said the porter. ‘It’s a pretty simple piece of kit and works on the same principles as hover-cars.’ He took the disc from my hands. ‘The main disc is filled with pixoleum, which when magically charged, causes the disc and anything attached to it to float. However, as there’s no motive force in the disc itself, you use this,’ he brandished the ring, ‘to get whatever the disc is attached to, to follow you about. Try it.’ He then handed the disc and ring back to me.

     Pixoleum? Magically charged? There was me expecting some kind of high-tech explanation to the floating cars but no, apparently it was all done via magic…

     Dubiously, I placed the disc on top of my trunk.

     ‘How do I charge it?’ I asked.

     ‘Just put you hand on top of it and imbue it with some of your Vitae. And put the ring around your wrist.’

     I placed my hand on top of the disc, closed my eyes, and tried to imagine that I was somehow powering up the disc. I felt a subtle shift in my head, as though a switch had been flicked, then a warmth under my palm. As I opened my eyes, I could see a golden glow coming from the disc and watched amazed as my trunk rose off the ground.

     I moved away from the trunk and as I did so, it gently floated after me. Stretching out the arm with the control ring on, I moved it back and forth, grinning as the trunk followed its movements.

     ‘That is SO cool…’ I said, then turned to the porter. ‘Thank you so much for your help, Mr…?’

     The porter smiled. ‘My pleasure, Mr. Crowe, and it’s Beamish. Should you need any further help, just come and see myself or one of my colleagues.’ He indicated the two other porters standing by the porch.

     The number of students was thinning by the porch, so I ambled over, my trunk gliding along behind me. As I did so, a strident voice called out,

     ‘You there, boy!’

     I looked about and saw the slim blonde girl bearing down on me. She stopped and gestured over her shoulder.

     ‘Fetch my trunk, boy,’ she said imperiously.

     ‘I’m sorry…?’

     ‘You heard me, boy,’ she said, ‘fetch my trunk.’

     I looked over at the expensive car and saw that several of the suited men were lifting an obviously heavy wooden chest out of the back of the car. The bearded man was watching our exchange with interest, whilst chatting with a severe looking woman in a burgundy two-piece.

     ‘It would appear that your…um…servants?’ I hazarded, ‘are sorting that out for you.’

     ‘They’ll be leaving soon, so YOU will need to see it gets to my room,’ she said.

     I looked at her coolly.

     ‘Unlike your men over there, I am NOT your servant, so that won’t be happening,’ I said, and began to turn away.

     The girl looked incensed, stepped forward and poked me hard in the chest.

     ‘Don’t you know who I AM?!’ She exclaimed. I leaned in and quietly said,

     ‘Of course I know who you are – you’re a spoilt brat with no manners. So, I suggest, and I say this with the utmost respect, that you bugger off.’ I smiled politely and turned my back on her.

     ‘Father! That boy was rude to me!’ She screamed.

     Oh shit…

     The bearded man walked over to me, frowning slightly.

     ‘Is this true, young man?’ He asked, ‘Were you rude to my daughter?’

     As mentioned before, I do have a tendency to speak before thinking, but luckily my survival instinct kicked in on this occasion. This man reeked of power and therefore was not to be trifled with, so I decided that honesty would be my best policy on this occasion.

     ‘Your daughter demanded that I fetch her trunk for her,’ I said.

     ‘Oh, did she now?’ He said, smiling slightly and looking at his daughter, who was looking suitably sheepish. ‘And what was your response to this?’

     ‘I informed her that I was not her servant and that she was a spoilt brat with no manners.’ It was my turn to look sheepish, ‘and I may have told her to bugger off…Sir.’

     ‘Really?’ The man’s eyes crinkled with amusement, ‘Is this true, Penny?’

     The girl was staring intently at her shoes and muttered something under her breath.

     ‘Speak up, Penny,’ said the man, ‘is what this young man said true?’

     ‘Yes…’ Penny muttered resentfully.

     The man turned back to me.

     ‘Thank you for your honesty, young man.’ He turned to his daughter, ‘I think we need to have a talk, young lady…’ He took his daughter’s hand and pulled her away. She glared at me.

     I really did seem to be making friends wherever I went today. If the rest of the students were as insufferable as the two I had encountered so far, this was going to be an interesting experience. And by interesting, I am of course referring to the mythical Chinese curse “may you live in interesting times.”

     And it wasn’t over yet…

     ‘Alexander Crowe!’

     The severe looking woman was staring at me, arms crossed and an expression of annoyance on her face.

     ‘With me.’ She said once she had gained my attention. ‘Now! Mr. Beamish, take Mr. Crowe’s trunk to room 13.’

     The porter looked taken aback.

     ‘Room 13, Headmistress?’ he asked, ‘But I thought we weren’t using that room because of the…’

     ‘It’s the only room we have left. Crowe, with me…’ She turned and walked away.

     I handed the control ring to Mr Beamish and followed.            

It looked like I was definitely in trouble now…

The World of Alexander Crowe

As I have not really utilised this site or posted anything for a while on here, rather than start a new blog for something else, I am going to re-purpose this site for something else.

As noted on my main site – Carrion Crow’s Buffet – I have completed my first novel, but sadly none of the literary agencies I have contacted seem interested.

So, rather than sit on the manuscript waiting for a response that may never come, I have decided to publish the entire novel, chapter by chapter, on here, so at least it can get read by people other than friends, family and those work colleagues I have badgered into take a copy of.

These posts will be semi-regular, so everyone who follows this blog can enjoy (hopefully) the exploits of Alexander Crowe, a man flung back into a past he neither recognises or remembers, tasked with preventing the over-writing of reality by nefarious forces, with no real clue as how to do this.

If people who read it enjoy it as much as I did writing it, then it’s a win-win situation and at least it will get read.

Keep your eyes peeled for the first chapter of The Last Knight, which should appear sometime later today.