The Turnarounders and the Arbuckle Rescue by Lou Heneghan Page A

before and you have a natural affinity with Time. When things are disturbed the way they are at the moment, leaks happen.’
    Seth looked up from his examination of the pages, first at Ralf, then Ambrose. ‘Leaks?’
    ‘Time, as I said, is like a constantly moving body of water, travelling through different channels that diverge and split then merge and split again. I can safely navigate between the streams because of who I am. The tools I have can cut openings between these different timelines, like...like locks in a canal. But sometimes, during times of war and fear the banks of the rivers become weakened. Very occasionally, a timeline will leak and join another, like one tributary bursting its banks to cascade into another.
    ‘That’s what is happening now and you five have to be on your guard. Be careful. Shimmers in the air, patches of light or darkness, objects that look out of place. Anything like that at all. Stay well away.’
    ‘Like we’d jump in for jokes!’ snorted Alfie. He yanked off his hat, wiped his forehead with it and threw it on a cushion. His hair was sweaty and ruffled and he looked oddly incomplete.
    ‘No,’ Ambrose said. ‘I don’t suppose any of you would be stupid enough to go jumping around in history willingly, but the danger is there.’
    A horn sounded in the distance. Three notes – short, long, short – from far away. ‘I really must get that,’ Ambrose said, with an anxious look in his eye. He glanced at the hourglass on the table. Ralf blinked as the first few grains from the top started to trickle through to the bottom.
    ‘Woah!’ cried Alfie, pointing.
    The hourglass wasn’t broken after all.
    Ambrose’s attention snapped back to the shell-shocked faces in front of him.
    ‘Wish I could talk longer,’ he said striding to an alcove at the rear of the tent, ‘but the time stop only lasts an hour. Any longer than that and someone always notices. People are much less stupid than you think, you know.’ There was a dull thud of a chest being opened followed by rustling and clanking noises as he searched for something. He emerged from the shadows in leather armour, strapping on a decorated breastplate. He swirled a blue cloak around his shoulders and grinned at their astonished faces.
    ‘It’s best to try and fit in as much as possible.’ A long, rather bushy looking beard sprouted from his face suddenly and he stroked it with poorly concealed pride.
    ‘Going somewhen ?’ Valen smiled.
    ‘Oh, very good, Valen!’ chortled Ambrose. ‘No time to explain! And if that isn’t ironic, I don’t know what is! Ha!’
    He thrust the hot kettle, teapot and one of the cups into a rough cloth bag. ‘Don’t mind, do you?’ he asked, grabbing the rest of the fruitcake and waving it in Ralf’s direction. Ralf could only shake his head dumbly. He watched as Ambrose flicked a hand in the direction of the hourglass and shimmering sand immediately trickled down into the bottom more rapidly than before. ‘Two minutes.’
    Ambrose briefly consulted the calfskin Book, ran his finger over one of the pages and then tapped decisively on a spot somewhere in the middle of the fourth century. It was only when he picked up his scythe that Ralf began to panic. Ambrose couldn’t go yet! There was so much he wanted to know. It was too late to say anything though, because Ambrose had walked over to the side of the tent and, with the scythe’s tip, sliced a hole in the fabric of the universe.
    An iridescent line glimmered there in the middle of the fabric. Resting the scythe against the desk, Ambrose stepped forward and, eyes closed, felt along the length of the shimmering line with his fingertips. He pulled. Delicately, as if separating a grape from its skin, he inched back the covering to reveal a swirling mass of lightness beyond.
    Ambrose opened his eyes and, with a look of satisfaction at the hole he’d created, turned to face them.
    ‘Do finish the scones, Valen. No one eats them except