Message from the Future.
“Ouch!” Terry McTrain screwed up his face in agony. The sharp point
of the other boy’s cutlass nicked his shoulder, and blood oozed through
the jagged tear in his shirt. His mum would go crazy!
The boy he was fighting was a good swordsman. If Terry wasn’t careful he would end up with another wound. He swished his own weapon ambitiously through the air, but missed
his opponent by a mile. It gave the strangely familiar boy a chance to
jab him in the belly, and this time it really hurt.
Terry dropped his
own cutlass in shock. More blood, even redder than before, oozed
through his shirt. Shaking, he reached down to unbutton it, but found himself grabbing
the edge of the blanket instead. With a start he sat up in bed and
looked round. He had been dreaming!
Still shaking slightly, he let out a long slow relieved breath and
glanced over at the clock on the desk by his bed. It was nearly seven,
time to get up. Then almost against his will, his eyes came to rest on
the mess of papers next to the computer. Homework! Tons of it and his
form master wanted it handed in today.
But this was simply not possible, unless he did it on the bus.
Unfortunately the journey to school only took twenty minutes, which
was hardly enough time to think about the homework, let alone do
it. Terry got out of bed, his mind pondering. He would just have to
think of an excuse.
“Where is it?” said Mr Ibsen, his form master, after class had been dismissed that afternoon.
“Where’s what, sir?” said Terry playing for time and gaining three more seconds.
His form master grinned humourlessly. “Don’t be cute with me, McTrain. You know what.”
Terry was just going reply but Mr Ibsen interrupted him. “I’m afraid
it will have to be detention for you, young man. This is the third time
this week that you haven’t handed in any homework!”
“But Mr Ibsen, sir,” replied Terry worriedly. “I had to help my
parents clear out a room in our guest house for a new tenant. I was
going to do the essay on the bus this morning, but I was too tired.”
His form master glared at Terry in a most horrible way. “Did you say on the bus?”
Terry face reddened.
Mr Ibsen shook his head. “You’re not supposed to do your homework on
the bus, now are you? Homework is work that you do at
home. Schoolwork is work that you do at school..”
“Yes Mr Ibsen..”
“If we wanted you to do your homework on the bus, we wouldn’t call it homework, now would we?”
“No sir,”
“You had a week to do the essay on Victorian children’s classics,”
continued Mr Ibsen. “And it was easy enough, to compare any two popular
children’s stories of your choice. And I only wanted a page.”
Terry nodded, badly wishing he had done the essay last night, instead of watching that talent show with his best friend Will.
“You’ve got one more chance McTrain,” said Mr Ibsen rising from his
desk and packing his briefcase. “I want the essay on my desk
promptly at nine am tomorrow, or you’ll be kept behind to do it in your
own time.”
“Yes sir, thank you sir,” said Terry.
“And what’s the matter with your left eye?” demanded his form master
giving him a strange look. “You don’t wear mascara, do you?”
“Mascara, sir? No!” said Terry completely bemused by his teacher’s comment.
Mr Ibsen frowned. “It’s your eye, it’s gone a funny colour!”
“Has it?” said Terry rubbing his eyelid.
“Go and wash it off!” said Mr Ibsen striding out of the classroom
with his briefcase. “And read my lips, homework on my desk, nine
o´clock tomorrow, no excuses!”
“Yes sir,” said Terry. He followed Mr Ibsen out of the class room and then went home.
After tea, Terry went up to his bedroom and set his schoolbooks on
the little desk next to his bed. He glanced at his notes and then
yawned. He just wasn’t in the mood to do the homework that night. If
anything, all he wanted to do was get on the chat rooms.
He switched on the computer, which was perched at an angle on the
desk, and logged on. Within moments he was busily chatting with Will
and the crew. The bedroom door suddenly opened. It was his mum.
“Take Tiny out for a tiddle, will you dear,” his mum said.
“Oh, do I have to?” said Terry looking down at their white pet Jack Russell who had followed his mum up the stairs.
“Yes, you do,” his mum replied. “Now get off that computer and take
the dog out. Or I’ll get your father to unplug it and give it to the
dustman.”
Terry reluctantly got to his feet, leaving the computer on standby.
He then went downstairs and took the dog for a very quick walk round
the block. By the time he got back, it was after seven o´clock, time
for the pop chart show.
Terry settled down to watch the programme with his parents. The
programme featured various bands from the seventies, which was
Terry’s
favourite decade.
Before he knew it, it was ten o´clock. He had dozed off! Far too
late to be doing any homework. Perhaps he would spend ten minutes on
the computer before going to bed. But just then the phone rang and his
mother answered it.
“Terry, it’s for you!” she called.
“Who is it?” asked Terry as he reluctantly went out into the hallway to take the call.
His mum shrugged. “It sounds like you,”
“What?” Terry took the old fashion receiver from her. “Hello?”
“Terry? Is that you?” a voice said excitedly down the phone. “It’s me, Terry.”
Terry pulled a face. “Sorry? Did you say your name was Terry?”
“Yes, Terry McTrain, I’m you, phoning from the future!” said the voice.
“Is that you Will?” said Terry with a smirk on his face.
“Listen,” the voice continued. “I know you’ll find it hard to believe, but can you hear this?”
Terry listened and could hear what sounded like explosions and
gunfire in the background. “Come on, who is this?” Terry asked again.
“Did you hear that?” said the voice. “Well, I’m on board this ship in the middle of a battle.”
“Right,” said Terry. “Either tell me who this is, or I’m going to hang up. It’s you Will, isn’t it?”
“No it isn’t, but I’ll give you some proof that I’m you,” said the
voice.
“Mr Ibsen’s going to give you detention if you don’t do your
English homework, isn’t he?”
Terry paused. Now how on earth did Will know that? He wasn’t even in
his class. “Who have you been speaking to?” asked Terry,
intrigued. “Or is that you Graham?” (Graham was the boy who sat next
to him in school.).
There was a sigh on the other end of the phone. “Never mind. But
whatever you do, promise me one thing, Terry? Don’t trust Soupie.”
“Soupie?” said Terry quite baffled. “I haven’t a clue who you’re talking about mate.”
“Look it’s a matter of life and death,” said the voice. “You just have to believe me! And whatever you do, don’t go to Charon!”
“Where?” asked Terry frowning.
“It’s hard to explain,” said the voice sounding very remote.
“Look, I’ve got to go now,” said Terry tiredly. “I’ll speak to you online,”
“Just remember,” said the voice as another bang sounded in the
background. “Don’t trust Soupie. He’s going to try and trick you.”
Terry thoughtfully put down the phone. Not that he was the least
bit fazed by the call. He knew it was Will messing about. But how did
he know about Mr Ibsen’s threat of detention?
He bid his parents goodnight, went up to his room, logged on and
chatted to Will until way past eleven. Terry quizzed him about the
call. Will emphatically denied making it, swearing on his terrapin’s
life. Terry knew what a fibber Will could be, but he didn’t press the
point.
Finally, red eyed, and quite tired, Terry logged off, had a quick
wash and went to bed. As he was drifting off to sleep, he thought
about what he was going to say to Mr Ibsen regarding his homework.
Images of famous children’s characters took shape in his mind and
danced about before his closed eyes. Terry turned over in the darkness
and faced the wall next to his bed. He would have to do the essay
tomorrow on the bus. If he didn’t, Mr Ibsen would definitely make him
stay behind for detention.
Then, with one great big yawn, Terry drifted off, and as he did so,
he had the strangest sensation. He felt like he was on a boat
which
was slowly sailing into space..
Meanwhile, near Pluto..
“Just dig and don’t ask any stupid questions,” commanded the Pyewiz,
a seven foot tall tubby pirate with a posh lispy voice.
“I’ll explain
everything later!”
There were five pirates standing around a hole in the snow in a cold
deserted place that looked like the north pole. A sixth man was doing
the digging.
“Is this deep enough?” asked the man with the spade.
“You’ve barely scratched the surface,” replied the Pyewiz. “Go another two feet down at least,”
“The ice gets harder the further down you go, Cap’n,”
“Just do it,” commanded the Pyewiz.
The Pyewiz was clearly bored and it showed on his terrifying face.
He kept twitching his black moustache and fingering the two long blue
scars on his cheeks. (They were coloured to look like war paint.)
As it was a particularly cold afternoon, he wore a brown fur
overcoat which trailed on the ground behind him. Under this was a
green velvet jacket and a striped green and white shirt on top of a
pair of green breeches.
His men were similarly dressed. A quarter of his head was concealed beneath a dark green Napoleonic
tricorn hat which had been stolen from a Frenchman many years
before. And sticking out from under it were more grey plaits than you
would find on the heads of a pair of old spinsters.
But his hat was more than a mere head covering. Along one side was a
long red feather, and on the other, a copper antenna. Some called it
his thinking cap. In a way it was because it could pick up signals
from half-way across the galaxy.
Sometimes he would wear a cumbersome brass earpiece which would hang
down from the inside over his left ear. It enabled him to keep touch
with his men, no matter where they were.
And if war was in the immediate prospect of breaking out, he was
well prepared. Around his middle were quite a few weapons. These
included pistols, daggers and at least two cutlass’s which adorned his
thick diamond and ruby studded black leather belt.
Two large intertwining silver snakes with green emerald eyes served
as a buckle, and this barely held back his considerable
belly. Another inch of fat would have been the belt’s
undoing. Otherwise, his round face and general height gave him the
impression of being a powerful man. A pair of brown furry mukluks,
like Eskimo boots, set him off. He looked ready for any battle in any
weather.
But of course, being called ‘The Pyewiz’ was just a friendly
nickname. To his men, he was otherwise known as the ‘dark prince’ of
the open seas, or ‘Blackbeard’s worst foe’, or simply ‘Captain
Kork’. All of these names sent shivers down the spines of his enemies.
But it was his cursing and swearing which terrified men the
most. It would turn them into a quivering jelly. However, at this
moment, he was quite calm. In fact he was holding a large yellow book
which had more than a passing resemblance to a phone directory.
The title on the front was: ‘BOOK OF HOURS.’ The Pyewiz flicked
though it one more time and tried to conceal a shudder as he silently
read to himself the following words; “And he with the purple eye shall
smite thee, First lord of the Land of Snow and Ice, not once but three
times. Ye shall not know rest, but the pain of being vanquished by the
one who looks like the other.”
“Cap’n,” interrupted one of the men, apparently reading his mind. “I wouldn’t let it bother you, sir.”
The Pyewiz looked up from the book, affronted by the sailor’s temerity. “What?”
“I don’t mean to be forward, Cap’n sir,” said the man. ” But we all
know the prediction is a nonsense. There’s only one person with the
purple eye and he’s on our side,”
The Pyewiz snapped the book shut. “No, there are two, but did I ask
for your opinion?” he said sharply. “Just get this unsightly tome
buried! If I could burn it I would, but there is a sorcery in its
making which makes it inviolable to fire. Still, burying it is
good. And by the way, you are all sworn to secrecy on pain of death.”
He then tossed the large book into the hole. The pirate with the spade immediately started to cover it with earth and snow.
“Cap’n, shall I put a marker above the ground like a cross or something?” asked the man with the spade.
“No you idiot. We’re trying to dispose of it, not advertise its
whereabouts. But if we need it again, which I doubt, remember that
we’ve buried it near that funny looking tree.”
Everyone stopped what they were doing to gaze at the gnarled old tree nearby.
“But I swear,” said the Pyewiz. “if anyone of you attempts to
retrieve or dig up this worthless book, you will rue the day you were
born. Otherwise, I would not be Captain Kork, the Pyewiz!”
And at these words, the men cheered. Then, after burying the book,
they went back to the ship which was perched on the snow on a giant
pair of skis.
It was just a pity for the Pyewiz that the spade was left behind, marking the very spot where the book was buried.
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