City of Time (31 page)

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what it meant. It was only a small thing. For a moment everyone in the room held their breath, and then they breathed normally again.

Cati went down to her small room deep inside the Workhouse. She lit the fire she had laid and curled up in bed with one of Dr. Diamond's books--a history of the Workhouse. After a few minutes she put it aside. She was glad that everyone was safe again, and was proud of the part that she and Owen and the doctor had taken in bringing back a tempod from Hadima and using the quantity of time it contained to save the world. But, proud and glad as she was, she wished that something would
happen
. She didn't want the moon to come close to the earth again, or anything dangerous like that--just something to break the monotony of the days. She pulled the sheets over her head and tried to sleep.

In a forest far away--the distance measured not so much in space as in time--another girl about the same age as Cati would have given anything for five peaceful minutes in a warm bed. Instead she crouched at the base of a tree in the snow, drawing great shuddering breaths. She had lost her pursuit for the moment, but there was a long way to go and she was cold and hungry. The tree branches had raked at her skin, and her clothes were filthy and torn. Wearily she got to her feet and felt in her pocket for the last of the dry bread and cheese. She wolfed down the food and forced a handful of snow into her mouth to follow it. Then she crammed her battered hat onto her

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head and gathered her torn black shawl around her, a look of determination on her face. It might be too late to save her birthplace, the great city of Hadima, but perhaps her friends Owen, Cati, and Dr. Diamond could do something. And if not, she could at least warn them of the great danger they were in. Moving lightly in her high-heeled shoes, Rosie ducked under a branch and plunged into the trees. In a moment she was gone.

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Chapter 38

Owen walked home from school, signs of the damage caused by the out-of-control moon still visible everywhere. Some shops had reopened--many of them in buildings that were still only half repaired. He went into what used to be a sweetshop on the corner below the bus station. Now the elderly man sold anything he could, from old car batteries to secondhand shoes. But today, the man smiled through his cracked glasses.

"The first delivery this year!" He beamed, indicating a full carton of chocolate bars on the counter. With the little money he had, Owen bought two bars.

As he left the shop he met a group of children coming from the junior school that had been set up in the old town hall after their school had been destroyed. They were chatting happily, but Owen thought that they looked thin, and some didn't have coats to protect them from the cold east wind blowing up from the harbor.

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"Hey!" he called. "Come here." The children ran over and stared at him curiously.

"Sit down on the wall," he said. He distributed the chocolate between them, keeping two pieces for his mother.

They examined the chocolate carefully before putting it in their mouths, and Owen realized that some of them might not have tasted chocolate since before the moon had swung off course.

"You live in that shop out beyond the river," a solemn-looking little boy said.

"That's right," Owen replied.

"Out where Johnston lives," the boy went on.

"Used to live," Owen corrected him. Johnston had been the Watcher for the Harsh, as Cati was the Watcher for the Resisters. He had been the Harsh's ally and spy in the human world, and a formidable foe. On their journey back from Hadima with the tempod Owen had seen Johnston swallowed up by time itself. Since then he hadn't been seen in the town. But the child's next words made his blood run cold.

"Lives," the boy said. "I seen smoke coming from Johnston's chimney." Owen stared at the child. He had kept an eye on Johnston's house and had seen nothing.

"You couldn't have," Owen said at last.

"I did so." The boy stuck out his chin. "Smoke coming from the chimney."

Owen watched the children walk off down the street. Surely the boy was mistaken. For a moment he considered

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going down to the Workhouse and calling Cati from the shadows to talk about it. He was permitted to do that if he thought there was a threat to time. Better, though, if he went to Johnston's and looked first. There had been many times in the past months when he had gone to his private hideaway, the Den on the riverbank, and thought of calling out to Cati so that she would appear and they could talk about everything that had happened. But he knew that she took her position as the Watcher very seriously and would be furious if he broke the rules by calling her just to chat. No. He would go alone and report back to her if he found anything.

He hid his schoolbag in a hedge and went up the hill. It took fifteen minutes to walk to Johnston's gate, the landscape changing as he approached--trees and fields giving way to wasteland where trees had been uprooted and ancient hedges bulldozed. There were oily puddles on each side of the road, and the grass was withered and brown.

The gateway to Johnston's house had once been gracious, but now the railings were caked in rust and the gate hung drunkenly from its hinges. Empty oil drums lay about the place. Looking nervously up and down, Owen stepped onto the pitted drive. Limes and chestnut trees lined the driveway, but they were each and every one lifeless, their bare and crooked branches arching over the drive. Owen could see the outline of the house up ahead, and forced himself on. A solitary raven croaked a single note from the black branches over his head.

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Owen had been to Johnston's house before when it had been an armed camp, and had been held hostage in it, but somehow it was more intimidating in its deserted state. It had once been a great mansion, but now it was surrounded by scrap metal and barren ground. Some of the tall windows were broken, and torn curtains hung from them.

Owen crept closer. Johnston's old scrap truck was parked at the side of the house, one of its tires flat. A door creaked in the breeze. Owen went around the side of the house. Rubbish was piled everywhere. He made his way toward the back door. It was open. He stepped into the rear hallway. An old mattress lay against the wall, and there was some kind of liquid on the floor. A broken light hung crookedly from the ceiling. Owen edged his way around the foul-smelling pool on the floor. He could see the doorway to the cellar where he'd been held prisoner.

That's far enough
, he thought.
The house is deserted
. He had seen Johnston's ship being sucked down into time. The scrap dealer was gone. Relieved, he turned to go, the sunlight at the back door beckoning to him. And then, just as he reached the threshold, he heard a sound that made him feel as if someone had placed a cold finger on his spine: a single piano note from somewhere inside the house.

Owen froze. The note hung in the air, then was followed by another and another, a melody being picked out. A slow and eerie music, as if a ghost hand wandered lightly on the keyboard.

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As suddenly as it had begun, the music stopped. Owen spun around to face the hallway. He remembered that there had been a piano in the front room, Johnston's room, where the scrap dealer would listen to opera. And as he watched, a huge shadow was cast on the hallway wall. Owen shrank back against the stained wallpaper. He hadn't really thought that he would find Johnston alive and in the house, and he felt paralyzed with shock and fear. The shadow grew massive, full of menace. He forced himself to think coolly. No purpose would be served by a confrontation with Johnston. The man was strong and cunning and Owen could not win. Better to retreat and leave Johnston to think that his homecoming was a secret. Steeling himself to move, Owen slipped out of the back door. As he emerged into the daylight, a flock of rooks burst from the dead trees and wheeled into the sky, the air filling with their cries.
They'll give me cover
, Owen thought. He lowered his head and ran. In half a minute he had cleared the gate and was running down the road, while behind him the rooks cawed as though jeering.

Johnston moved slowly down the hallway. He looked older. His massive sideburns had grayed, and he was limping heavily. But the same cunning light still shone in his eyes. He had been sucked into the maelstrom in time, as Owen had seen. But the distortion in the fabric of time that had enabled Owen and his friends to put the moon back into orbit was also enough for him to escape.

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Johnston limped to the back door and knelt slowly to examine the footprints in the dust. A mirthless smile showed his huge yellowing teeth like tombstones.

"The Navigator has run home, has he?" Johnston said softly to himself. "He thinks Johnston is stupid. But winter is coming, little boy, winter is coming."

Martha was peeling potatoes in the kitchen when she saw Owen running down the road. The radio was on in the background--the television networks and satellites had been destroyed and still had not been rebuilt. The presenter's voice was crackly and distant as he talked about expanding ice caps, but Martha was only half listening. The world had been so changed by what had happened that the unusual appeared almost normal.

She went out to the little grocery shop and ran her hand along the dusty counter. The shop had been owned by her neighbor, Mary White. On the surface Mary had appeared to be just a normal countrywoman, but in fact she had been the Resisters' contact in the world of ordinary people, and had been wise and knowing. Martha had been pursued by the Harsh when Owen was only a baby, and her mind frozen by their deadly cold breath. It was Mary who had eased her, had put Martha's mind to sleep to allow it to heal, leaving her just barely able to look after her young son. When Martha was needed, Mary had awakened her. But Mary had died in the end. She had been weakened by age and the effort of waking Martha's mind again, but it had been an attack on her by Johnston that had done the real and final damage.

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There was a crash, and she turned in alarm as Owen burst in through the door.

"What is it?" Martha asked. "Why were you running?"

"Johnston is back," Owen gasped. "Dr. Diamond was right. He wasn't lost."

Martha would have fallen if it was not for the support of the counter. She gripped Owen's arm. Her voice was hoarse.

"No! It can't be starting again so soon."

"It's all right," he said, "it's okay." Martha shook her head. Owen shouldn't be allowed to face this responsibility on his own. She straightened herself.

"It is time to contact Cati." Her voice was firm now. "The Watcher needs to know that Johnston is back."

Owen looked at her. "You're shaking."

"It will pass," she said, "it was just the shock." She gripped his arms and looked into his eyes. "We'll beat him this time as well. Besides," Martha went on, forcing a smile, "I know you're dying to see Cati again! Go and call the Watcher!"

But as she watched him run across the field, her heart was seized with dread. Twice Owen had been the key to defeating Johnston and the Harsh. What burden would fall on him in this new struggle?

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2008 by Eoin McNamee

Illustrations copyright © 2008 by Jon Goodell

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Yearling, an imprint of Random House Children's Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

Yearling and the jumping horse design are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

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The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition of this work as follows: McNamee, Eoin.

City of Time / Eoin McNamee; [interior illustration by Jon Goodell].

p. cm.

Summary: When he receives the cryptic message that "time is running out," Owen, known as "The Navigator," summons Cati and Dr. Diamond and together they journey to the City of Time in order to discover what has gone wrong.

eISBN: 978-0-375-89282-0

[1. Time--Fiction. 2. Fantasy] I. Goodell, Jon, ill. II. Title.

PZ7.M4787933Ci 2008

[Fic]--dc22

2007037131

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