Flights of Fancy

What would you do if you had a way of being able to travel, a kind of conduit, if you will, between the past, present, and future? Imagine how much fun you could have. What would you do, and where would you go? Of course, in your initial excitement, would you consider the consequences of any jaunt that you made? Probably not. Maybe, if you sat and thought about it, perhaps caution would be a good byword. Nothing outlandish to begin with. A day forwards or backwards into one or the other realms?

Remember! Before you get carried away, you have to make sure that you can get back. It's all very well going adventuring, but what if you get stuck, with no way of returning to your present time? What then? And so, you maybe take the chance, one day forward or backwards, what could go wrong? It is only one day. In the grand scheme of things, you have gained an extra day in your life, or you have lost one. No major adjustments need to be made; you would be able to slip back into your present life with ease, or so you would hope.

Where would your first foray be? Into the future, the ability to know what tomorrow would bring and manipulate it to your advantage. Or into the past, reliving those joyous moments, meeting the people you knew you would never see again.

Pause for a moment and take a step back from the excitement and anticipation. The future, in a way, could perhaps be the scariest; the chance of discovering your own mortality, a month, a year, twenty years? Longer, shorter? Is it something you would want to know, something that with the knowledge of its coming, you would try and avoid? And for how long could you delay it, is it already foretold, just a futile exercise, your existence continually taken up with trying to cheat death?

The majority of people would maybe choose to visit the past because that is where our memories spring from. But, without giving it considerable thought, it is also the most dangerous destination to visit. You have to understand that you are an anomaly, an object that shouldn't be there. In both the past, present, and future, your presence sends out minute ripples, tiny waves which affect everything and everyone around you.

The ripples in the past, though, multiply faster, becoming larger; their influence is far-reaching. Every meeting, every interaction, is minutely changing something. The future has a way of absorbing and making right those small ripples you cause, as does the present. But it is those larger ripples in the past, the ones that seemed innocuous; that become the problem. You see, they are the ones that affect the present and the future, not only for you but for everyone with whom you come into contact.

Mark's father was an architect, and their home was a mixture of ancient and modern. Originally, it had been a country hall, but as with any building of that size and age, as times changed, its owners and occupants found the upkeep harder and harder to afford. Over the years it had first fallen into disrepair and then eventually, partial collapse. The new main building, which Mark called the "upside-down house" was modern; the lounge, reception rooms, kitchen, and ablutions were on the first floor; its large plate glass windows giving views across the rolling countryside and distant hills at the front, and across the huge gardens at the rear. His parent's bedroom and the guest rooms were on the ground floor along with another shower room and toilet.

A corridor, which his father called "the long gallery," led to a section of the old house which he had been able to salvage. This was where Mark's bedroom, along with that of his older sister, was located. On the ground floor were a large playroom, his father's study, and a storage room full of unused furniture, clothes, and other items the family didn't have the heart to discard. The first floor contained their two bedrooms plus a spare, as well as another bathroom, and toilet. Along the gallery and into the old section of the house, his father had retained the oak beams and the panelling which clad a lot of the bottom half of the walls.

Mark had no memory of what it looked like on the day they moved here, simply because he had not been born at the time. To help finance the rebuild, the family had sold their home and lived on-site in an old static caravan. All he knew about those times were what his parents told him and the many photographs they had taken. This was where he was born, in this new house, years after they had moved here. As he got older, his father explained that back in the day, well over a hundred years previously, it had probably belonged to a wealthy landowner or perhaps a titled family. But by the time he bought the land and the ruins, very little of the main house remained. The roof had started to collapse and then someone had started a fire in the main section. The hall itself was gutted, and after the fire was extinguished, it was just left to collapse in its own good time.

Slowly, the land and fields had been sold off to developers, new houses springing up all around as the place fell into further disrepair. All that was left was an acre or two of land and a pile of crumbling brickwork when his father had snapped it up; a vision in his head of the home he wanted to build for his still-to-be-born family.

Elizabeth had come along, first, her infant years spent in the caravan on the site until a section of the house was completed and which they could move into; and then as she approached her tenth birthday, he had appeared, a complete surprise to his parents, who had accepted that they may never have another child.

There were always going to be problems when one sibling was so much older than the next. Lizbet was ten when he was born, twenty by the time he reached his tenth birthday. They had nothing in common; she saw him as a nuisance, who took attention away from herself and then as an annoying child who was always making noise, getting into mischief, and was, as she put it when their parents were not around. 'A pain in the arse.'

For a young child growing up, the house and gardens were a magical playground. It was the place he had his adventures. He fought off pirates and Indians, battled enemy troops who tried to invade, and searched for buried treasure, though his dad wasn't impressed with him digging holes. The huge garden was where he and his friends would camp out in the summer; a tent on one of the rear lawns. The trees at the far end of the garden were where he would go as a hunter, foraging for food, and gorging himself on the fallen apples, pears, or blackberries. On the other side of the trees, a gate led down a slight incline to a stream at the bottom, Mark once or twice spotting the odd fish in there as the water meandered its way down towards the town.

Overall, it was the perfect place to grow up, as a toddler, as a child, and then as a teenager. Between the ages of eight and fourteen, the house and grounds were large enough for friends to stay over at weekends, or during summer breaks without disturbing the rest of the family. As he got older and when Lizbet left home, he and his mates could play their music as loud as they wanted and do all the things that teenagers are renowned for. When he eventually got his first girlfriend, they would go to his part of the house, allowing them privacy away from the prying eyes of his parents.

Mark's first discovery about his home came when he was aged eight. The long gallery with its smooth polished wooden floor was the ideal spot to practice on his skateboard because of the inclement weather outdoors. He had been scolded before about using it as such, but with his father at work and his mother doing housework, he took the chance to practice without anyone disturbing him.

Trundling along at speed, he'd tried to flip the board around, ready to go back in the opposite direction. But it had gotten away from him, shooting up and off at an angle before crashing into the dado rail and wooden panelling as he tumbled across the floor and scuffed his knees.

'Damn!' When he looked, it seemed a piece of panelling had come adrift; his father was going to go ape shit unless he could push it back into place and disguise the damage. It was only when he got closer that he realised that the panel was actually a door with a large dark space behind it. He examined the opening and the surrounding area, suddenly noticing that one of the carved flower stamens on the dado rail above seemed to be slightly depressed compared to the others.

Mark pushed the panel flush and heard a near-silent "click," the centre of the flower above it now sitting flush with its companions. Gingerly, with one of his small fingers, he pressed the centre, hearing the same soft click as the panel popped open once more. Consumed with excitement, he closed the panel and rushed to his bedroom, searching for his torch, only to find that the batteries were flat.

'Mum! Mum, have we any batteries?' She'd asked what he wanted them for when it was still broad daylight.

'I'm a famous explorer and I'm going on an adventure. I need a torch just in case.'

Her son spent hours in those mysterious realms that his mind inhabited, and if it kept him quiet and from under her feet, she would find him some batteries.

Armed with the torch, he returned to his section of the house, and when he was certain there would be no interruption, pressed the flower and swung the panel open. The torch illuminated the stone steps and the wall on either side of them. 'One, two, three, four.' He counted each one as he descended, twenty-two in all. It smelt musty; cobwebs hanging from above brushed across his face. He rubbed them away as he advanced, only covering about twenty feet before he came to an abrupt stop. The short passage came to an end, and his way forward was blocked by a wall of solid rock.

Mark shone his torch and placed his hand on it. The blockage looked like a rock face, and although it looked to have been chiselled as smooth as possible, beneath his hand, it felt more like metal. Mark was disappointed, he banged his hand against it, but there was no hollow reverberation to suggest there was a space beyond, just a dull thud.

Playing the beam from his torch over the obstruction, there was absolutely nothing to see, the rock reaching from floor to ceiling and from wall to wall. Perhaps the steps and this small passage were the complete construction that the panel hid, somewhere for two or three people to hide. The torch swung left and right, above, and then back to the blockage, the beam suddenly picking out a small spot that seemed darker than the surrounding rock. Studying it closer, it appeared to be an indentation about eighteen inches above his head. It was an odd shape, not round, but with six sides, a hexagon he later discovered, perfectly cut into the rock face. By standing on his tiptoes and stretching, he could just about reach the indentation, or the hole, as it turned out to be. But he discovered nothing, other than it was as smooth as the rock face. It reminded him of something, perhaps a fifty pence coin, somewhere in the back of his mind; he had seen something shaped like that before.

With the adventure brought to an end abruptly, he ascended the steps, playing the torch beam over the panel. On the side where the hinges were placed was a small lever. Hesitantly, he pulled the panel closed until he heard it click and then pushed the lever down, another click, and it popped open once more. Back in the corridor, he closed it again, it would be his secret; and if nothing else, when his friends stayed over and they played hide and seek, he would be able to flummox them by disappearing completely.

When his father arrived home that evening, he was met by his son, full of questions. 'When you bought the house Dad, did you find any secret passages?'

His father laughed, 'Why do you ask Mark?'

'I was reading a book about smugglers, and it said old houses had secret passages. Ours was an old house, wasn't it, dad?'

His father explained that originally, they had been called priest holes and that years later they had been used by smugglers and the like to hide their contraband.

'We did come across a couple, but they were in the main part of the building that we couldn't save and so they were all demolished. I'm afraid there are no more, or not, as I've found.'

With his questions answered and his knowledge improved, Mark disappeared. Tony looked across at his wife preparing their evening meal. 'That lad,' he laughed, 'one day he is going to have to live in the real world.'

And so, for the present, that was the end of the adventure for Mark. He went down the steps and into the dark, often, standing in front of the wall and just staring at it, as though it had somehow, summoned him. The secret place was also used as he imagined, his friends were never able to work out how he could disappear and then reappear, as though by magic.

Nearly three years later, Mark's eleventh birthday was approaching. His parents had arranged a party for the coming weekend and all of his friends were invited. There was to be a bouncy castle, trampolines, and laser tag out in the gardens and grounds, but presently, he stared out of his bedroom window as the heavens opened and thunder boomed overhead. Suddenly the sky lit up and then a bang as his bedroom seemed to vibrate and the windows shook. Mark left his bed in a panic as he dashed down the stairs, along the corridor and into the main house; a look of fear on his face as he explained to his father what had happened.

When his dad returned from outside, soaked through to the bone, he reassured his son, 'it's ok, the lighting must have struck the lightning rod on your end of the house and run to ground. I've had a quick look and there is no damage that I can see, nothing to be worried about.'

Mark wasn't worried, but it did take him a while before he was confident enough to return to his room. The following morning the sun was out, and it stayed like that until the weekend and the day of his party.

Some of his friends had slept over and were not collected until late morning on Sunday, and then there was school on Monday, so he was only allowed an afternoon of freedom before he got stuff ready for the next day. He'd had his bath and was in his pyjamas, allowed to watch a couple of hours of television before bedtime. 'Is it all right if I read for an hour if I go up now?' He asked his mother.

He'd been given her consent and blessing to disappear as he headed for his bedroom; his sister Elizabeth was on her way down as he tried to take the steps two at a time.

'Mark! Can you not do anything slowly and quietly? Let me pass before you bowl me over and cause an accident.' She humphed as he stopped for a second and let her pass before bolting up the final steps once more.

Elizabeth married and moved out of the family home when she was twenty-six. Mark was then sixteen and growing swiftly. 'At last,' she told him on her wedding day. 'The only way I can escape you is by marrying someone.' She had meant it as a joke, but he had just shrugged his shoulders and pulled a face. Mark was immersed in his teenage years and for him, wearing a suit and attending a wedding was just so boring, especially as his parents would be on hand to limit how much he was allowed to drink. He hadn't even been allowed to invite any of his friends and couldn't wait for the day to be over.

His sister was still on her honeymoon when he decided that with her leaving home, there were benefits to be had from the situation. Her bedroom had been vacated, and it was twice the size of his own.

'Mum, can I have Elizabeth's bedroom now that she's gone?'

His mother paused from what she was doing. 'Does it really matter; a bedroom is a bedroom?'

'Yes, but I've got all this studying to do now, and her room has a bigger desk......' Mark ran through all the reasons why it was imperative that he now got his sister's room.

'Ask your father. If he says yes......'

That was exactly what Mark did, trotting out the same excuses and eventually being given permission. 'You'll have to move the stuff yourself, though,' his father had called after him as he darted off. The excuses he'd given were just that, excuses. The main reason, as he saw it, was that people got married and then often, divorced, and if Elizabeth thought she was coming back here, she could have the smaller bedroom. Never in her life had she been considerate to him, no reason now why he shouldn't be the same with her.

His mother hadn't been impressed, because he had taken any clothes or items Elizabeth had left, thrown them into dustbin liners, and then put them in his old room after he had moved furniture around and transferred everything he owned, leaving his mum to sort through the dumped material. His sister had transferred most of her belongings to the house she and her new husband had bought, leaving behind items she didn't want anymore and clothes which she had outgrown.

The only thing of hers that he had kept, was a prism, a large lump of glass which gave off all the colours of the rainbow when sunlight struck it. It stood on her windowsill, and Mark had recollections of playing with it occasionally when he was a toddler, and his mother was tidying the bedrooms. He had forgotten about it for the simple reason that as he got older, he wasn't allowed in Elizabeth's room, and when she wasn't there, she would lock it.

Summer was gone, and the landscape was now in the depths of winter. Mark had just finished for his Christmas break, his schoolwork had been completed, and hopefully, a couple of friends would be coming over later. Sat at his bedroom window looking out at the windswept garden, he twizzled the glass prism between his fingers. It was what only could be described as a lightbulb moment, as he looked at the piece of glass and suddenly remembered the secret passage.

Taking the stairs three at a time with his torch in hand, he pressed the wooden flower and heard the soft click as the panel opened. Twenty-two steps, and then Mark approached the rock face. The hole wasn't way above his head anymore, now no more than shoulder height. Under the beam of light, he looked at the piece of glass and then the hole; they were both the same shape. Slowly and cautiously, he lined the two up and slid the glass into the hole, the prism a perfectly snug fit with just an inch of it now showing.

Mark felt it through the soles of his feet rather than hearing any noise. A faint vibration, and then seconds later, and much to his astonishment, the outline of a door seemed to appear on the face of the rock. There was a few seconds of delay as that section moved backwards several inches and then slid sideways. He stood transfixed, bringing the torch up and shining it inside the room that was now in front of him.

On the one hand, he was elated, and on the other, disappointed. The room was circular, about twelve feet in diameter, and empty except for a chair in its centre. It was made of metal, the size of an armchair, with a footrest extending from its base. The seat was padded, as were the back and headrest. Attached to each arm were screens; all Mark could liken them to were android tablets with blank glass screens.

Gingerly, he took a step forward, the room suddenly coming alive as the ceiling lit up. It wasn't a bright light, but enough for him to walk around it and the chair without the aid of his torch.

On closer inspection, the walls were of the same material as the door and covered by what he could only describe as engravings. Circles that overlapped, wheels and cogs, like those of a watch or clock, and others that reminded him of a circuit board, the lines of the circuits embossed with what appeared to be gold. Walking back to the door, he stepped out, the room going dark as the lights went out. 'That's neat,' he thought, stepping back inside as the lights came to life once more.