The Frost Child (30 page)

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He sat down and, without being aware that he was going to do it, told her the whole story of the Memorator and how he had seen his father as a boy. Her eyes filled with tears.

"Did he ... did he see you?"

"No. I think he was still half asleep. He had the book of
The Frost Child
under his arm."

"Did he now?"

"I wonder if he ever worked out what it was--later on, I mean."

"I wish I knew. Your father could be a bit mysterious at times. And then of course toward the end, after we had been attacked by the Harsh, I wasn't really aware of what was going on around me. All I can remember is him pulling me away from them. They were attacking from all sides ... they ..." Pain darted across her face. "We were both wounded ..."

"Stop," Owen said, seeing that it was torment for her to recall the injury inflicted by the Harsh. He struck the table. "We have to get rid of them!"

"Yes," his mother said gently, "but we must do it the proper way."

Just then there was a whistling sound outside. They ran to the window. A great ball of cold light hung in the air.

"They're here," his mother whispered. In an instant her face turned gray and her breathing became shallow. "Help me, Owen--don't let them come near me again."

Directly in front of the Workhouse, a multitude of Harsh had formed themselves into a shape like a cathedral

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of ice, and at the spire of it stood the Harsh queen. They opened their mouths and a shriek that defied all comprehension came from them, a shriek that might have been heard across all of time. A massive bolt of pure cold flew at the Workhouse. With a roar of falling masonry, a huge rent appeared. The wall crumbled. And from the fortifications below, Johnston led a band of Albions and Specials. The Workhouse was breached, and the enemy was in.

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Chapter 30

As the sounds of combat reached them, Owen started to race toward the door, but Martha grabbed his arm.

"Think! Owen. If you go down there ... if you go down, you'll be able to fight but ... but ... we can't win. You're our only hope! Please don't be so like your father. ..."

Owen brushed past her and bolted out of the door. As he took the stairs two at a time, her voice echoed in his head:
Like your father ... like your father ...
He hated himself for leaving his mother, and the hate turned to anger.

He ran past a mirror and saw his face in it. He stopped dead, and came back, staring at his face in the mirror.
In the mirror, of course!
How could he have missed it?

Down the stairs he went. At the bottom a knot of soldiers fought desperately with a group of Specials. They were outnumbered and almost overwhelmed. Owen

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slowed but forced himself on. He could see no sign of his friends, though he did spy Samual with several of his men, cut off from the other Resisters, fighting hand to hand with Specials while Albions danced about, thrusting with their knives.

He burst out onto the riverbank. On the other side the Harsh cathedral towered above him, but they were quiet, seemingly content with their night's work. The queen gazed on the sight before her with haughty satisfaction.
If she saw me
, Owen thought,
she mightn't look so pleased
. He raced on, grabbed a club from a fallen Special, and ran full tilt at three Albions who stood in his way. They didn't see him until the last minute and he scattered them with the club. Then he was on the path along the river, the trees that he remembered--the ash and rowan and alder--blasted to smithereens. As he ran he had a sudden flash of memory of how the path had looked in the autumn, the reds and the rusts stirred by the wind while the now still and frozen river brimmed over as it raced along.

Almost sobbing with effort, he reached the entrance to the Den. No one had been there. The air was still, as if it had lain undisturbed for a very long time. It felt at once familiar and strange, and the sounds of battle could not be heard. Owen stepped inside. The palms of his hands were moist, but he knew what he had to do. He went straight to the old truck mirror that hung on the wall, the one that had been there for so many years that he had forgotten where it had come from, imagining that

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he had picked it up in Johnston's scrap yard long ago. He breathed on it. For what seemed like an eternity he waited for his breath to clear, then he saw, deep in the mirror, the Den, but the Den as it must have been a long time ago, without his sofa, or the mirror, or the perspex sheet in the roof.

It was a Memorator.

He stood back as the Den of long ago expanded into view. Owen stayed very still. A man stepped through the entrance, a tall man with long limbs and clear blue eyes. A flap of hair fell over his face, and he had to sweep it back with his hand. His father looked weary, hunted. He was pale and his hand kept going to his side. But when he saw Owen standing there a smile that was both tender and wistful flickered on his lips.

"I knew it," he said. "I knew you would grow into a fine boy."

"Dad," Owen whispered. He stepped forward, but the man moved back, raising a warning hand.

"Don't touch. You can't, you know, in a Memorator. There isn't much time. And all the time in the world would not be enough. You found the Mortmain? Of course you did."

"And the
Wayfarer."

"The
Wayfarer!
Wonderful!" The man's eyes lit up, then he grimaced and clutched his side. "What about your mother? Is she ... ?"

"She is very well now."

"Better and better. Listen, Owen, I'm not going to

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beat about the bush. I was pierced by a Harsh dart saving your mother. There is no cure ... but tell me this, the Harsh ... ?"

"Are overrunning the Workhouse."

"Then there is no time. You found
The Frost Child
, the book? I was on my way to get it when we were attacked by the Harsh."

"I should destroy it--"

"No! You will kill the child--could you live with that for the rest of your life? I cannot tell you what to do. It would immediately nullify the Memorator, and this scene would never take place. But think, boy--there really is only one place for it. Think! It must be returned to time."

Owen's father coughed and held his side again.

"I can help you! The Yeati's ring ...," Owen burst out.

"You cannot," his father said sadly. "My fate is sealed. Were you not listening? You cannot change things in my time. It was a good old life, and I will miss you so much, you and your mother."

The scene around them began to stretch and distort. His father sighed.

"Those temporal alternators. Goodbye, son. I love you."

"You can't ... just like that..." Owen reached out for his father, as though he might pull him through time into his world. But the scene was fading fast. His father smiled again.

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"I am so glad we met like this ... and not just like this." He lifted a bundle from behind the Den entrance. It was a baby. Not just any baby, Owen realized. It was him! And dangling from his father's hand were the keys to the Alfa Romeo, the car that had crashed into the harbor the day his father disappeared. A terrible dilemma seized Owen. If he tried to warn him, then surely it would be as if the scene they were in now would never have existed. If he didn't ...

"Dad!" The word burst from him. But it was too late. His father was gone.

Owen did not remember starting to run, but he found himself on the path leading back to the Workhouse. He was dully aware of Albions in his path, but there was something in his face that made them stand aside. One whole section of the Workhouse was ablaze. Owen burst through the front door. He saw his friends fighting at the bottom of the stairwell: Wesley, Dr. Diamond, Cati, and Rosie wielding her hairpin. A great press of Specials stood against them, but Owen pushed through. Up he ran, his lungs about to burst. Everywhere there were screams, cries of triumph and despair.

At last he emerged onto the roof, and ran to the battlements. Down below he could see the battle, his enemies swarming over the riverbank that he had loved, now burning and despoiled. Flames leapt hungrily from the burning building below him. There was the roar of collapsing timber and masonry.

He thought again about the damage that the Harsh had

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done. To his mother and father. To Cati, her heart frozen by them, her father snatched away from her. To the world itself, turned to ice and ruined. In his mind's eye he could see his father wince with pain as the Harsh poison worked on him. Below him the flames crackled. He took
The Frost Child
out from under his jacket, and held it aloft. He would throw it down into the flames and all this would end. Then he remembered that the Harsh child had once saved Wesley and Silkie. But no, it wasn't enough. Too much damage had been done.

He heard a sardonic laugh. Johnston leaned on the battlements ten yards away, leering at him.

"Owen!" A calm, commanding voice rang out from the other side of the battlements.

"It's over, Dr. Diamond."

"If you burn the book, the child will die. If you do the right thing, the Harsh will be destroyed--the child will no longer be frozen and will go on growing up and grow old and live life as was intended."

"Why should he have that? I never had the chance to live life with a mother and a father the way it was meant to be!"

"Only you can answer that," the doctor said.

Owen glanced down. In front of the main gate was a group of terrified Raggie children. A band of braying Specials surrounded them. But there, side by side and fighting like demons to defend the children, stood Cati and Samual. Blood streamed from many wounds on Samual's body, and as Owen looked, an ice lance struck the man. He threw his head back in agony, fell to the

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ground, and lay still. The Specials cheered, but Cati, grim-faced, looked up through the wreathing smoke, and her eyes met Owen's unflinchingly.
I have done my duty
, they were saying;
you must do yours
. And in his head he could hear his father's voice:
Think, boy--there really is only one place for it.... It must be returned to time
.

He ran for the staircase. He cleared a flight of stairs, then ran into a corridor that led into the burning part of the building. Acrid smoke made him cough but he kept going.

His mother's room was empty. Small flames licked across the ceiling beams and the walls were hot to the touch. Owen went to the grandfather clock, opened it, and found himself looking into the cosmos itself, infinite blue-black space that was at once present and far away beyond knowing. Owen held up
The Frost Child
. He looked into the face of the child on the front cover, the eyes faded almost to nothing. His own eyes clouded with tears. He thrust the book into the ingress and closed the door.

A few miles away, the Harsh child found his gaze drawn away from the battlefield to the thin band of light running along the horizon. He felt warmth flow back into his legs and arms. A pink flush spread across his cheeks and he smiled. And then, as if a gentle breeze blew across the deck of the Harsh ship, the Harsh child shimmered and was gone.

At the top of the Harsh pyramid, the queen shrieked. The other Harsh joined their voices to hers. Cracks ran

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across the ice that enclosed them, cracks that then ran through the Harsh themselves and they came apart like shattered crystal. Their voices rose to a crescendo, and all who heard it covered their ears and fell to their knees. Then the pyramid crumbled to icy dust as the Harsh voices faded away to a distant wail and were gone. The ice that bound the Harsh ships together started to melt, and the ships collapsed until all that was left were rotten hulks on the ice.

Owen saw none of this. He went to the door of his mother's room, but the corridor beyond was full of flame. He sat down on the edge of the bed, weary and full of sorrow. It was over. After a while he became aware of smoke all around him and flames licking at the bedsheets. He looked at the fire.
Some air would be nice
, he thought vaguely, and made his way to the window. The air was fresher, but he looked down and saw that there was no escape that way.
Ah well
, he thought.
At least I got to sail on time....
Behind him flames scorched the door, and the bed ignited with a whoosh. He shut his eyes. Far away he thought he could hear the swish of the
Wayfarer's
hull and sails as she crossed the oceans of time.

"Owen! Owen!" an urgent voice called. "Wake up!"

He opened his eyes. The
Wayfarer
hovered, six feet away. Silkie was leaning over the rail.

"Grab the rope!" she shouted.