Martin had been interested in ancient places for as long as he could remember. Like many other children he had always been fascinated by history, but for him it had been more much than that. No matter whether he went to visit the ruins of medieval abbeys, or castles, or archaeological sites consisting of a flat field with a few interpretive boards, his sense of connection to the pasts lived out there was a tangible one. His parents thought it was a little odd when he became so caught up in what they thought of as daydreaming about the past. They did not understand it when Martin found himself transfixed; subsumed into a previous version of wherever he happened to be before finding himself just as suddenly back in his humdrum ‘real’ modern life as rather dull Martin.
Now, looking up at the remaining walls and towers, Martin
remembered the last time he’d come to visit this castle. He’d been eleven then
and on a residential school activity trip with his class to mark the end of
their primary school years. He still recalled it clearly.
The other kids had trailed after their guide as they made
their way upwards, mostly looking around them distractedly whilst a few worked
hard to complete the activity sheets they’d been handed on clipboards which had
little stubby pencils attached to them by string. Martin had found himself
mesmerised in the small chamber room on the upper floor of the main castle. The
guide had been describing how the King would have retired for the night into
the distant corner of what seemed now to be an inhospitable bare flint and
stone room but would then have been hung with lavish curtains and warmed from
the chimney of the fire in the great chamber below. Then just outside the
hangings, the guide had explained, two soldiers would have been stationed to
guard the king against an attack.
Without warning, Martin found himself looking not at the
guide, but towards the room entrance with his back to the wall curtains and
peering into a gloom momentarily relieved by the guttering flame of a low
burning candle placed in a niche of the wall. He felt himself to be heavy with
fatigue but also filled with dread and anxiety to the point where he was rigid
with anticipation. His arm ached with the effort of holding his sword prone in
front of him, using two hands, as he recalled the methodically smoothing the
sword’s surface when he had burnished it earlier. Next, he was suddenly aware
of steps coming upwards towards him, of feet being placed ever so lightly onto
the top step of the staircase. And then came the moment when he made out a
silhouetted figure at the top of the stairs and when a sword tip had glinted as
the figure bore down on him swiftly. Instinctively, Martin raised his sword arm
upwards aiming to swipe downwards onto the enemy arm as it extended. He could
see it all as if in slow motion and sensed his own chest contracting with a
deep breath in preparation for the Herculean effort of saving his sovereign.
Then came a momentary judder, as if an old news reel had stuttered in its
movement. After that, in place of his assailant Martin could see only the
jacketed tour guide who was gesturing to him to hurry along and keep up with
the others, as they were moving on.
Thinking about it now of course Martin could understand why
his parents had thought that he was simply prone to make believe when he had
told them later how he had been for a few moments a guard in a fourteenth
century castle. They had been certain that he would grow out of it in time…
only he hadn’t done. If anything, the feelings that had gripped him on that
school visit had become more certain and troubling. The time shifts happened
unpredictably even in apparently modern places which, it turned out, had been
built on much older sites. He had given up trying to explain to his parents
that he was not just daydreaming about the past but becoming a part of it for a
while.
During his teens mum and dad had encouraged him to join a
medieval re-enactment group, but he had only felt faintly ridiculous in his
mock mesh soldier’s chain mail and tabard. As childhood passed, he had accepted
that life in the modern world could be pleasant enough. He knew by then that he
belonged in an earlier epoch, but it troubled him less. He wondered nonetheless
whether there were other people who felt as he did. Presumably, like him, it
was something that they would not dare to talk about once they grew up.
And today he was here again at the castle, but this time
with his new girlfriend, Yolanda, who had hung back briefly to make a quick
call by the entrance booth where the signal was better. As they ambled their
way closer to the castle, Martin casually swung his free arm a little whilst
holding on to Yolanda’s hand lightly with the other. This was early days, he
told himself, and he didn’t want to come across as too needy or too possessive
of her. They had met at work and through chatting about weekend plans had
discovered and gently investigated each other’s love of historical places. And
now here they were on a long day trip to visit the castle he had somehow found
himself enthusiastically describing to her.
As they crossed through the portcullis space into the castle
remains, Yolanda turned to smile at him. ‘There’s so much of it left,’ she said
and squeezed his hand with an almost childish excitement. Martin felt an
unaccustomed surge of happiness and began to lead her carefully towards the
smaller tower’s narrow spiral staircase. They climbed together in near darkness
ready to emerge on top of a narrow section of the flint curtain wall where they
would be able to walk along as far as the next tower. Martin paused close to
the slight widening at the top of the staircase to let Yolanda through so that
she would be the first to step on to the walkway and see the view across the
fields towards the nearby town and beyond to the hazy outline of the hills. He
wanted to hear her exclaim about the wonder of it all. For once he was not
thinking about his own past or about the past world in which the castle had
been painstakingly constructed to shelter and protect some ancient noble. He
was conscious only of the colder feel of the wind on his face after the rather
dank air of the staircase and of the way the breeze had caught Yolanda’s hair
making it fly across her face.
When she moved past him Yolanda seemed suddenly to
stumble. He thought afterwards that she must have caught her foot on the worn
stone of the deep final step in her eagerness to reach the walkway and the
view. Instantly he extended his arm out towards her and caught her, steadying
her upright as she swayed. They were both smiling when they stood hand in hand
looking out on the view.
‘Thank you, Martin, you saved me there,’ she laughed.
Martin laughed too with the exhilaration of the moment. He
thought that later he would dare to tell Yolanda about his childhood visit to
the castle and the years of unease it had led to. For now, he wanted her to
enjoy her encounter with that long ago world. He would be content to keep her
safe from any peril in the present one.
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