The Tower of Time

By Rosey Collins.

“There’s nothing here,” grumbled Curran.

They had reached Knightmare Castle. It was sunrise. There was nothing within miles of the fortress but woods and dells and that kind of thing. Curran was singularly unimpressed – and certainly there wasn’t another castle anywhere nearby.

“There is,” argued Laurel. “The castle. We have to go in.”

“That’s not the castle we want.”

“I know that, Curran. The castle we want is around… sort of… down there.”

Curran looked at her. She was pointing at her feet. Reflexively he looked down. There was nothing to be seen but grass and a particularly fat earthworm.

“Look,” Laurel went on. “It’s not quite down there. Not in the strictest sense, I don’t think. It’s bit hard to explain, to be honest with you. Now listen, I didn’t tell you earlier, because I knew there was no point. You wouldn’t have believed it. But the truth is there’s quite bit more to Knightmare Castle than meets the eye.”

Curran raised questioning eyebrows.

“There’s no point trying to explain it to you,” said Laurel. “You’ll see once we get going. Come on.”

“Who challenges my Dungeon?” the bearded man in the antechamber asked in deep, rich tones.

“I’m Laurel,” replied Laurel. “This is my friend Curran.”

“And what brings you to my realm?”

“Curran here is trying to get to the Tower of Time. I’m – er – here for moral support.”

“Hey, Laurel,” Curran hissed furtively. “Is this bloke for real?”

“Then you do not wish to journey as far as most,” the bearded man remarked. “I trust you know who I am…?”

“Treguard of Dunshelm,” Laurel provided.

“Indeed,” Treguard smiled approvingly. “I wish you luck on your journey – but before you go, some advice. My Dungeon is fraught with danger, and if you wish to get out alive you must reach your destination without mishap, for this is no game of numerous lives. And remember that the only way is onward: there is no turning back. Step forth…” and he moved aside with an elaborate gesture indicating the doorway to this mysterious Dungeon of his.

“Thanks,” Laurel smiled gratefully as she passed him.

“Yeah,” mumbled Curran, thinking that this guy was a few sandwiches short of a picnic. “Thanks.”

They found themselves in a dense forest, treading through a myriad of shrivelled fallen leaves. Curran was stupefied for the first two minutes of their journey. Finally, when they came to a clearing dominated by a large oak tree, he grabbed Laurel’s arm and said, “Wait. Where are we?”

“We’re in the Dungeon,” Laurel replied simply. “Beyond that I’m afraid I don’t know. A wood of some kind, I guess.”

“Quite,” Curran deadpanned. “But we were in that nutter’s castle a minute ago. How did we get to a wood of some kind?”

“It’s magic,” Laurel tried to explain. “I don’t really understand it myself. It’s all to do with when a big monster or something called the Gruagach was in the castle… I don’t even know. Just don’t worry about it and go with the flow, ok? Ooh – hang on…”

“Humans!” a gruff voice exclaimed.

Curran jumped, and then turned to face the direction from which the voice had come. “AAH!” he exclaimed, and for a moment Laurel thought he was going to leap into her arms, when he beheld the face that had just appeared on the large oak tree.

“All humans is thieves and despoilers!” the tree remarked angrily.

“That’ll be Oakley,” Laurel whispered to Curran, smiling slightly at his reaction. “Or at least that’s what the stories say. Don’t worry, we’ll get along fine – sounds like he’s from the West Country like us.”

“So?” Curran squeaked nervously.

“You may not take one more step in this forest unless I think you be tree friends,” Oakley proclaimed dramatically. “Now answer me this: harvest time it is, and the berries in full bloom. But on which day is it wisest to gather the fruit of the bramble?”

Curran was stumped. It had sounded like it was going to be a farming question, which he wouldn’t have had a problem with, but then it had just descended into nonsense. There was no one specific day on which to gather berries!

“St. Michael’s Day: October tenth,” Laurel answered at once.

“Truth accepted,” Oakley conceded. “Very well then. Time is precious, but it could be on your side. Take what you need and go – but mind where you tread.”

The face disappeared from the tree, and Curran breathed an audible sigh of relief. He then turned back to face Laurel and said simply, “Wha…?”

“Fruit of the bramble: blackberries,” replied Laurel, as though that explained everything.

Curran continued just to stare at her.

“Don’t you know anything? Satan was kicked out of Heaven on St. Michael’s Day and he landed in a bramble bush. And now, apparently, he goes around spitting on all the blackberries every day except St. Michael’s Day.”

“Who says?” demanded Curran.

“I don’t know – it’s just a myth. It’s almost certainly not true but you never know and I got the riddle right, didn’t I? Look.” Laurel nodded towards a tree stump a little to his left and her right. “Rules say we’re allowed to take some of that stuff.”

“Silver,” declared Curran, sauntering over to the stump and picking up a silver bar. “You can never have enough money.”

“Oh no?” Laurel raised her eyebrows. “We should consider this carefully, you know. We also have a key and an egg timer here. Well, let’s not forget the clue the tree gave us.” She picked up the egg timer. “You really think that stuff will be more useful than the key?”

“Absolutely.”

“We’ve got money. Still, we did spend quite a bit on the journey here.” She fumbled around inside her pocket, which felt surprisingly spacious. “Hmm… all right, you win. Perhaps they wouldn’t accept our money here anyway.”

“Why not?” asked Curran.

“Because life’s like that. This is a strange and mysterious place – I keep telling you.”

She started off into the woods and Curran followed, understandably alarmed by the constant baying of wolves around them. The next clearing they came to hosted a quaint little inn from which wafted an inappropriately jovial sounding melody.

“The Crazed Heifer,” Curran read from the pub sign. “Great name for a pub. Fancy a drink?”

“Yes,” said Laurel, “and it’s not even as though there’s anywhere else to go.”

The moment they entered, they were seated by a curly-haired young maiden.

“Hello,” the maiden smiled pleasantly at them. “Do sit down.” They did, and she helped herself to a seat on top of the table. “Now then, what can I get you? We have three items on the menu here: food, drink and information. If you want food, you need Mollie. The drinks waitress is Millie. And if it’s information you want, you need to talk to me – I’m Mellie.”

“Nice gimmick,” remarked Curran.

“Actually,” Laurel said to the kindly maiden, “we’d like a little of all three. We can pay you silver,” and she nudged Curran, who offered the silver bar to Mellie.

“Oh, thank you,” Mellie beamed delightedly, taking the silver bar and pocketing it. “Mollie! Millie!”

She beckoned the other two waitresses over. Millie, a chaste looking girl in a white dress and bonnet, carried a large jug of less than pristine water, with which she filled two tumblers that were waiting on the table. Mollie, for some reason, looked less presentable, with greasy hair and a ragged brown dress. Still, she smiled pleasantly enough when she offered her breadbasket to Curran and Laurel.

“Thanks,” Laurel smiled back at her, as she and Curran accepted the food.

“So,” ventured Mellie, when they’d had a chance to take the edge off their thirst and hunger. “What is it you want to know?”

“Well,” began Curran, “we’re trying to get to the Tower of Time.”

“The Tower of Time…” mused Mellie. “Well, I’ve never been there, but I’ve heard that it lies deep in level two. To get there, you’ll need to find a wellway. Go through that door” – she pointed – “down the stairs, and you should find your way back to the forest. Follow the path until you get to the ruins of Dungarth. They say that the entrance to level two is hidden there.”

“And how reliable are ‘they’?” Curran asked sceptically.

“Curran!” hissed Laurel, kicking him under the table. Then to Mellie she said, “Thank you, that’s very kind. Come on, Curran – we can’t hang around here all day.”

“Right,” agreed Mellie, getting to her feet to see them out. “And some of these people are giving you two some very funny looks, so you’d best be on your way. Good luck!” she called after them, as they started down the stairs.

“You fancied that Mollie, didn’t you?” teased Laurel, once they were out in the woods again.

“She was all right,” shrugged Curran. “God, Laurel – look at this place! ‘Follow the path’ wasn’t all that helpful if you ask me.”

“Come on.” Laurel grabbed his arm and led him onwards. “See where the leaves are all trodden down? That’s a trail if you ask me.”

“And how are we supposed to recognise this Dungarth of hers?”

“She said it’s in ruins. It’ll just look like a ruin. It’ll be fine – come on!”

Curran felt reluctant, but thoughts of his dead father urged him on as his companion led him deeper and deeper into the sinister forest.

So Curran continues to follow Laurel deep into the heart of the Knightmare realm, but does he really know what he’s letting himself in for? Look out for the next chapter of Rosey’s story in issue 34.