Thief of Time

He pocketed the little device and strolled off to a nearby cart. He did something that Newgate couldn't see, and came back.

“In a few seconds you will complete your fall,” he said, reaching under him to place something on the ground. “Try to think of it as a new start in life.”

Newgate fell. He hit the ground. The air flashed purple and the laden cart across the street jerked a foot into the air and collapsed heavily. One wheel bounced away.

Soto leaned down and shook Newgate's unresisting hand.

“How do you do?” he said. “Any bruises?”

“It does hurt a bit,” said the shaken Newgate.

“Maybe you're a bit heavier than you look. Allow me…”

Soto grabbed Newgate under the shoulders and began to tug him off into the mists.

“Can I go and—?”

“No.”

“But the Guild—”

“You don't exist at the Guild.”

“That's stupid, I'm in the Guild records.”

“No, you're not. We'll see to that.”

“How? You can't rewrite history!”

“Bet you a dollar?”

“What have I joined?”

“We're the most secret society that you can imagine.”

“Really? Who are you, then?”

“The Monks of History.”

“Huh? I've never heard of you!”

“See? That's how good we are.”

And that was how good they were.

And then the time had just flown past.

And now the present came back.

“Are you all right, lad?”

Lobsang opened his eyes. His arm felt as though it was being wrenched off his body.

He looked up along the length of the arm to Lu-Tze, who was lying flat on the swaying bridge, holding him.

“What happened?”

“I think maybe you were overcome with the excitement, lad. Or vertigo, maybe. Just don't look down.”

There was a roaring below Lobsang, like a swarm of very angry bees. Automatically, he began to turn his head.

“I said don't look down! Just relax.”

Lu-Tze got to his feet. He raised Lobsang, at arm's length, as though he was a feather, until the boy's sandals were over the wood of the bridge. Below, monks were running along the walkways and shouting.

“Now, keep your eyes shut… don't look down!… and I'll just walk us both to the far side, all right?”

“I, er, I remembered… back in the city, when Soto found me… I remembered…” said Lobsang weakly, tottering along behind the monk.

“Only to be expected,” said Lu-Tze, “in the circumstances.”

“But, but I remember that back then I remembered about being here. You and the Mandala!”

“Is it not written in the sacred text, ‘There's a lot goes on we don't know about, in my opinion’?” said Lu- Tze.

“I… have not yet come across that one either, Sweeper,” said Lobsang. He felt cooler air around him, which suggested they had reached the rock tunnel on the far side of the room.

“Sadly, in the writings they have here you probably won't,” said Lu-Tze. “Ah, you can open your eyes now.”

They walked on, with Lobsang rubbing his head to take away the strangeness of his thoughts.

Behind them the livid swirls in the wheel of colour, which had centred on the spot where Lobsang would have fallen, gradually faded and healed.

According to the First Scroll of Wen the Eternally Surprised, Wen and Clodpool reached the green valley between the towering mountains and Wen said: “This is the place. Here there will be a temple dedicated to the folding and unfolding of time. I can see it.”

“I can't, master,” said Clodpool.

Wen said, “It's over there.” He pointed, and his arm vanished.

“Ah,” said Clodpool. “Over there.”

A few cherry blossom petals drifted down onto Wen's head from one of the trees that grew wild along the streamlets.

“And this perfect day will last for ever,” he said. “The air is crisp, the sun is bright, there is ice in the streams. Every day in this valley will be this perfect day.”

“Could get a bit repetitive, master,” said Clodpool.

“That is because you don't yet know how to deal with time,” said Wen. “But I will teach you to deal with time as you would deal with a coat, to be worn when necessary and discarded when not.”

“Will I have to wash it?” said Clodpool.

Wen gave him a long, slow look. “That was either a very complex piece of thinking on your part, Clodpool, or you were just trying to overextend a metaphor in a rather stupid way. Which do you think it was?”

Clodpool looked at his feet. Then he looked at the sky. Then he looked at Wen.

“I think I am stupid, master.”

“Good,” said Wen. “It is fortuitous that you are my apprentice at this time, because if I can teach you, Clodpool, I can teach anyone.”

Clodpool looked relieved, and bowed. “You do me too much honour, master.”

“And there is a second part to my plan,” said Wen.

“Ah,” said Clodpool, with an expression that he thought made him look wise, although in reality it made him look like someone remembering a painful bowel movement. “A plan with a second part is always a good plan, master.”

“Find me sands of all colours, and a flat rock. I will show you a way to make the currents of time visible.”

“Oh, right.”

“And there is a third part to my plan.”

“A third part, eh?”

“I can teach a gifted few to control their time, to slow it and speed it up and store it and direct it like the water in these streams. But most people will not, I fear, let themselves become able to do this. We have to help them. We will have to build… devices that will store and release time to where it is needed, because men cannot progress if they are carried like leaves on a stream. People need to be able to waste time, make time, lose time and buy time. This will be our major task.”

Clodpool's face twisted with the effort of understanding. Then he slowly raised a hand.

Wen sighed.

“You're going to ask what happened to the coat, aren't you?” he said.

Clodpool nodded.

“Forget about the coat, Clodpool. The coat is not important. Just remember that you are the blank paper on which I will write—” Wen held up a hand as Clodpool opened his mouth. “Just another metaphor, just another metaphor. And now, please make some lunch.”