A Witness of the Past

  Museums are boring. Maybe it’s the monotonous quietude clinging to the air, or the tedious trudging of tourists desperate to set eyes upon old bits of pottery, but there’s no doubt about it- Museums are boring. My sister Lizzy doesn’t share the sentiment. It fathoms me how I could share blood with someone who considers parading up and down poorly lit corridors as something fun to do, but we’re yet to unearth any adoption papers with her name on, so she must be my legitimate sibling.

I watch her bespectacled face marvel at the mundane curiosities she finds so interesting, willing myself to ignore the inviting aroma of the museum cafe. Overpriced stale carrot cake has never smelled so good!

“Go on,” she smiles. “Find us a good table and I’ll be along in a minute. There’s something in the Victorian exhibition that caught my eye.” She saunters off, cast adrift on a sea of shuffling sightseers.

Liberated at last, I seek the reassuring dazzle of LED bulbs in the cafeteria. The cake is as dry and expensive as I’d anticipated, but that doesn’t stop me from devouring a slice in Lizzy’s absence.

Twenty minutes later, and Lizzy hasn’t returned. Despite my reservations, I venture back into the drab labyrinth. My eyes struggle to adjust to the lack of lighting as I stumble through the passages.

Tall pillars of black marble mark my entrance into the almost deserted Victorian exhibition. Aristocratic women sneer at me from the luxury of their picture frames, haughty poses betraying their disdain. I suppress a shiver. Lizzy is nowhere to be seen.

I approach a costumed historical interpreter- a lady dressed in a tightly laced ebony bodice with inky skirts swishing about her feet. Dark curls are pinned atop her head in a style reminiscent of a fancy mop.

“Excuse me, have you seen my…”

“You’re looking for your sister,” she nods, as if she’d been expecting me.

An icy hand snaps around my wrist. The Fancy Mop Lady runs down an abandoned hallway, dragging me behind her like a misbehaving child being removed from a family gathering. We sprint through parts of the museum I’ve never seen before, only stopping when we reach a ragged patchwork curtain. The curtain ripples, as if it’s caught on a soft breeze.

She turns around and looks me up and down, while her features contort in disgust at my ripped jeans and beaten up trainers. She lowers her eyelids and shakes her head theatrically, before delving into a cupboard to our left. When she emerges, a frilly crimson dress rests over her arm, and she holds a pair of black ankle boots in her hand.

“Change your clothes,” she shoves the garments towards me.

“Why?”

“Because you want to find your sister,” her tone contains an implicit warning.

“Where is she?”

“Change your clothes.”

I sigh, nod and shrug on the dress and boots.

“Keep to my side at all times. If anyone approaches you, don’t say a word. Only use this in an emergency,” she presses a small pistol into my left hand.

Before a protest escapes my lips, she grips my wrist and pulls me through the tattered curtain. A strong gust steals my breath and knocks me to the ground. Cobblestones pound my back like tiny fists vying for attention. Bright orange light slashes across my eyes- gas lamps.

Disoriented, I pull myself to my feet and survey my surroundings. Dark silhouettes of trees and lampposts stand guard either side of a secluded path. The Lady is tugging at my sleeve.

“We don’t have long, come on!”

Countless questions zoom around my head like distressed bumblebees, but as I pull The Lady round to face me, something strange occurs to me.

“How did you know I’m left-handed?” I ask, recalling her precise placement of the pistol.

“Many women claim to see the future, but I am a witness of the past. I read it as anyone else would read a book, and soon so will you. Now, hurry- we can’t be late!”

She drags me through narrow side streets, past nary a soul. A cloud of melancholy hangs in the air, thicker than the fog rolling across the nearby river. As we run, the new boots slice open my heels. When I feel like my feet can’t carry me any further, we come to a halt in front of an abandoned warehouse. Relinquishing her grasp on my wrist, The Lady shoulders open a heavy looking wooden door.

“Ah, you’ve returned at last,” a male voice greets us. “Lovely to see you, ma’am.” The voice belongs to a tall, well dressed, dark haired gentleman, not much older than me. He kisses The Lady on both cheeks before turning his attention to me. “Who is your companion, may I ask?”

“No, you may not, Wilfred. Notify Madam Madria of our arrival and send for tea to be brought to the Gallery.”

He bows and hurries down an oak panelled entry hall. We follow him after removing our shoes.

“He’s awfully nosy for a butler, Wilfred,” The Lady says to me over her shoulder.

I nod, distracted by the brilliant crimson wallpaper. We reach the end of the hall and turn left into a vast room occupied by a small table and an even smaller lady.

“I brought the futureling you requested, Madam Madria,” The Lady leaves my side and curtsies before the older woman.

“Bring her to me,” Madam Madria speaks with a thick accent I can’t place.

The lady snatches my elbow and drags me forward. On closer inspection, Madam Maria is blind. Her hands reach out, trying to locate my face. She takes my head in her wrinkled hands and mutters a foreign prayer. My patience snaps: I pull my head back and address the two women in a frenzy.

“Who are you? Where am I? What do you want from me? Where is my sister?” The questions are bullets firing from my mouth.

“I’m Madam Madria, you’re in the past, I want to bestow a gift on you, and your sister, well, that’s for you to discover,” she speaks in a tone one might use to soothe an upset child.

“How do I get back to the museum?”

“You will be returned within the hour, if you conform to our standards.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Take it as you will,” she smiles, knowing I haven’t a choice.

“What do I have to do?”

“Sit.” She gestures to a velvet embroidered stool at her feet.

Once I’m sat, she places her hands on either side of my head and searches my face as if those sightless eyes can decipher the inner depths of my soul. If my experience so far is anything to go on, that’s probably exactly what she’s doing. When her lips press against my forehead, a sharp pain begins between my eyebrows. Attempting to remain conscious, I bite down hard on my tongue, but it’s useless- I can feel myself slipping into a dark abyss of nothing.

Sheets of scarlet silk cocoon me. The Lady sits in a high-backed chair next to my bed. I can see her past. All of it- her childhood as an orphan, meeting Madam Madria in a foreign place, kissing Wilfred on a park bench in a downpour of rain…

“You’re awake.”

“You kissed Wilfred!?” I exclaim, reeling from my discovery.

“Madam Madria’s worked her magic, I see.” Her voice is strained.

“Ah. Plenty more fish, darling.”

“Darling?” she scoffs. “You’ve never said that in your life!”

“I’ve never seen inside someone’s head before, either,” I remind her.

“You get used to it.”

“Why? Why has this happened?”

“Follow me. Madam Madria will want to speak with you.”

Dizziness dances through my head as I rise from the bed, but I follow her. Madam Madria sits perched behind the same table and gestures to the same foot stool for me to seat myself. Eager to test my new ability, I study the older woman.

“Don’t bother. I am shielded.”

“What do you want from me?”

“You’re one of us now. A witness of the past; a student of the present. We’re currently in The House of Red.”

I should have guessed.

“This house exists out of time. You’ll report back to us, via the museum curtain, to reveal how you use your new gift. If this trial is successful, we’ll provide you with missions. Do you understand?”

“Not really.”

“Of course you don’t,” she sighs. “You futurelings are always hopeless. I’ll have it written out for you.”

“Where’s my sister?”

“You know where she is.”

Focusing on Lizzy’s name, I envision her standing in the museum cafeteria- approximately three minutes ago.

“Take her back,” she gestures to The Lady, who I follow out the room to a scrappy looking red curtain.

“We’ll meet again,” she smiles.

Overwhelmed and intrigued, I push aside the curtain and take a step forward. Standing with one foot in the present, the rest of my body in the past. Maybe not all museums are boring.