They sat on a grey rock at the side of the path for her to regain her breath. Warren placed the palms of his hands on the cool stone, and as he did so, the air blew cooler and harsher. Leaves skirled above them, red and brown and dry. The sky shone grey. He lowered his eyes from the clouds and saw with a familiar dread that the hedgerows and the buildings were not there. There was only the grass, and the path, and the rock they sat upon.
Gran did not seem to notice, or if she did, she wasn’t bothered by the change. She smiled a wide, guileless smile at her great-grandson.
“This was a marker, back in the old days. You know, a milestone. I forget where it pointed.”
Warren slid off the stone and glanced everywhere, suppressing panic. It was one thing to be lost in a strange place alone, but quite another to be lost and also lose an elderly relative with you in the process.
A low hill waited behind them. A town sprawled on top of it, surrounded by a thick grey wall. The town had a tall building – a castle or perhaps a church – in the centre. It did not look too far away.
“I should ask for help,” he said, pointing. “Up there. Wait here. I’ll be five minutes.”
“Ooh, no. Anything can happen in five minutes. The world could end in five minutes, if it wanted to. I’m coming with you, bach.”
She hooked his arm through hers and they began to climb. The slope wasn’t steep and it was easy to walk. Two men in rusted chain-mail stood on either side of the town gate, motionless. Their bright eyes shone in the darkness beneath their helmets. Warren prepared a story to tell the guards, to let them pass through, but before he could open his mouth, they both bowed.
“Your Highness!” one of them addressed his Gran in a voice like dry sandpaper. “The Duke has been worrying about your whereabouts for nigh on twelve hours. Where the devil have you been?”
“On a walk,” Gran replied.
Warren couldn’t move or speak.
Gran had changed on the climb uphill. Her back was railroad straight. Her hair, which had been a cloud of white like a dandelion clock, had lengthened and darkened into a curtain of red, and she had exchanged wrinkles for teeth and laughing eyes. Her skirt and cardigan and Wellington boots were now a long blue dress that hid her legs completely.
“Gran?” Warren whispered.
“Who is this youth?” the other guard asked.
“I’m Warren,” Warren started to say, “but-“
“This is the boy who helped me find my way home. I must admit, I was a little lost,” the strange lady next to him answered instead, in the same accent. Warren guessed it was Cornish. “Give him a reward before you send him away. An apple, perhaps, or a crust of bread. Anything he desires.”
The woman who had been Gran passed through the gates and was lost to sight.
“All right, son?” the sandpaper-voiced guard croaked. His jowls were peppered with week-old stubble, his brown eyes large and mournful. “That was a selfless act. The Duke will be so relieved. Here.” He handed Warren a hunk of bread. “Those are some, er, interesting garments.”
The other guard, who was taller by a head with pale grey eyes, gestured to Warren’s jeans and T-shirt. “Are you not local?”
“Not exactly.” Warren was intelligent enough to know he was not in his usual time.
It would be suspicious to ask what the year was, so he said, “I’m part of a travelling theatre company. This is my costume. Can I come in? What town is this again?”
“This is T’in-Tagel,” was the reply. “Castle of Duke Gorla. I daresay the Lady Egrayne will be singing your praises as we speak. Why don’t you come along with me, then? I’ll be relieved in half an hour, then I can take you before the Duke.”
Nightwalks 