120
1540, London, England
Being a protestant is a hard job in my time.
Firstly, everywhere people are trying to find us.
Secondly, when they find you they burn you.
But this is where my story starts-in a protestant meeting in a very much protestant place with some very protestant people.
And, regrettably, some protestant ale.
I don’t remember much about the end of that meeting except for the fact that my head was spinning considerably and so was everyone else’s.
As I opened up my baking business, I spotted my hourglass. An old family heirloom.
Then some horses’ shadows against the sunrise.
Henry VIII’s men.
I hid in my cellar, bringing my hourglass and a torch with me, promising myself that I would not come out until the hour was over.
The thundering of a horse’s feet.
Fifty minutes.
The hooves clatter to halt.
Forty minutes.
The men disembark.
Thirty minutes.
My possessions are shuffled around.
Twenty minutes.
They find the cellar.
Ten minutes.
They prise it open.
Five minutes.
“You protestants, come out. We’ve got you at last.”
Four minutes.
Stairs creaking with the weight of five men.
Three minutes.
I blow out my torch.
Two minutes.
I hear people shuffle around in the dark.
One minute.
A hand reaches out and grabs me.
Thirty seconds.
I clutch my hourglass as he drags me out of the cellar.
Fifteen seconds.
I stand still and he beats me to keep moving.
Ten seconds.
I get beaten out of my shop.
Five seconds.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
Everyone dissolves into white.
The only thing I still see is the overhanging houses with black beams crossing a white walls.
Some people fade back in.
Where am I?
1660, Pudding Lane, London, England
“Hello?”
A woman holding some bread hears me.
“What do you want?”
“Is there anything wrong with the world?” I asked, very confused.
“Why? It’s 1660, as far as I know.”
“Right.” I walked away.
Wait.
1660?
I ran back to that woman.
“Excuse me, where can I find a baker? I’m looking for work.”
She looked at me and smiles.
“Well, you’re looking at one.”
Six years later
“Thomas, son, please take the bread out for cooling.” I called.
My baking business has become successful, and now I have three children.
“Father, why do we have to do this?” groaned my son Thomas as he dragged a tray of hot bread out of the oven.
“Look, if you don’t want to do it, I’ll do it this time.”
Sigh.
Well, there’s that last piece finished, and tomorrow’s Sunday. Time for church.
Time to go to bed.
I now know that wheat has gluten in it.
I know gluten is bad for some people, but flammable?
“Fire!”
Huh?
“Fire!”
I rubbed my eyes as I sleepwalked out of bed.
Sizzle.
What was that?
Sizzle.
I opened my eyes to see a writhing mass of orange and yellow creeping towards me, devouring wood.
Sigh. I reached for my hourglass and turned it, promising myself that I’ll be out of this fiery mess soon enough.
My maid came rushing toward me.
“Sir, the kitchen is on fire!”
I opened the window and muttered, “Time to take a flight.”
“Dad, are you sure this is safe?”
I didn’t have time to reply. We were making it across.
I led first, clambering onto the windowsill and grasping a back diagonal beam. I swung onto it and made my way to my neighbours house. One by one, my children crossed the beam and made it to the other side.
I looked across to my maid.
“Come on Sarah,” I called. “Come across.”
I saw my maid’s face, stricken with terror.
“I can’t…”
“Come on now,”
My maid was whimpering and shivering, and I could only look as the flames swallowed her. Everything dissolved into black and the last thing I heard was the cries of my maid.
1786, Guildhall Library, London, England
I find myself in an ornate hall with mahogany shelves arcing across the walls of the room. This was clearly a library. I looked around, and one book caught my eye: Thomas Farriner and the Great Fire.
Hands trembling, I picked up the book.
It started:
In this book is an account of the Great Fire of London in 1666, which claimed thousands of lives and tore down Old London and St. Paul’s Cathedral.
I do not know if there was ever one sentence that changed your life, but this was mine. Thousands of lives… tore down Old London…Great Fire… I kept on reading.
It said there was a foreigner prosecuted for this crime, a Frenchman named Robert Hubert. He was hanged. Someone innocent was persecuted for my crime.
I generally don’t like Frenchmen, but I don’t generally like innocent people prosecuted wrongly.
It was then I noticed an hourglass in my arms.
But how did it survive the fire?
“Daily Telegraph!”
As I walked down the cobbled streets of the new London, people were calling out for their stocks.
When no one was looking, I quickly grabbed a newspaper.
The headline was about someone called Alexander Mannette released from French prison. There was an advertisement looking for an apprentice to become a lawyer.
I saw the pieces of my life fall into place.
I’ll take up a job as a lawyer.
I can help innocent people be free.
A few months later
This is my first trial.
I straightened my tie, put on my wig and took a deep breath.
“Charles Darnay! On trial for treason against the British Crown.”
As the story unfolded, it became clear that England was suspicious of the French and that English spies claimed to see him passing messages.
I saw an opening.
“And your honour, the witnesses claimed to see Mr. Darnay at night.” I spoke up.
“Yes. His face is so distinct.I could see it from anywhere.” One of the spies spoke up.
I took off my wig and everyone could see my clear resemblance to Charles Darnay.
7 years later, Paris
The French Revolution is going on. Charles Darnay has gone back to France. He has been prosecuted as an aristocrat. I now lay, at the guillotine, before the execution. I was out to help those who were innocent, and I have.
I finger my gun in my pocket.
No.
No more innocent people dead because of me.
Now I watch as someone approaches my hourglass and tips it.
Maybe I am not dead after all.
I see the lives for which I lay down my life, peaceful, useful, prosperous and happy, in that England which I shall see no more.
Fifty minutes.
I see Lucie with a child upon her lap, which will bear my name.
Forty minutes.
I see that I hold a sanctuary in their hearts, and in the hearts of their descendants, generations hence.
Thirty minutes.
My possessions are shuffled around.
Twenty minutes.
I see her, an old woman, weeping for me on the anniversary of this day.
Ten minutes.
I see her and her husband, their course done, lying side by side in their last earthly bed, and I know that each was not more honoured and held sacred in the other’s soul than I was in the souls of both.
Five minutes.
I see her father, aged and bent, but otherwise restored, and faithful to all men in his healing office, and at peace.
Four minutes.
I see that child who lay upon her lap and who bore my name, a man winning his way up in that path of life which once was mine.
Three minutes.
I see him winning it so well, that my name is made illustrious there by the light of his.
Two minutes.
I see the blots I threw upon it, faded away.
One minute.
I see him, fore-most of just judges and honoured men, bringing a boy of my name, with a forehead that I know and golden hair, to this place—then fair to look upon, with not a trace of this day’s disfigurement—and I hear him tell the child my story, with a tender and a faltering voice.
Thirty seconds.
I see the evil of this time and of the previous time of which this is the natural birth, gradually making expiation for itself and wearing out.
Fifteen seconds.
I see the good old man , so long their friend, in ten years’ time enriching them with all he has, and passing tranquilly to his reward.
Ten seconds.
It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.
Five seconds.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
The guillotine blade falls.
Everyone dissolves into white.
1914, Austria-Hungary, Sarajevo
Where am I?
There are five huge horseless carriages, made of metal, in a row. I spot a highly polished man sitting on one of them, the third metallic carriage. I see a round bomb fly in the air and bounce off the carriage of the polished man.
Another innocent in this world getting killed.
I turn my hourglass-I’ll be arrested for killing people-then I whip out my gun.
Then a hiss as the bullet escapes the gun.
Whoops.
And lands straight into the polished man’s neck.
I drop everything a break into a run.
Everything gets quiet and black.
2034, Isla Nublar
I relaxed. I had easily got out of a tight spot.
Where am I now?
I see leafy trees, tropical plants and a glass fence with barbed wire.
By dawn, someone had cracked.
The night is dark, with light drizzling rain.
Well, I thought, it seems I’m in a tropical paradise.
As I started to sit down and make myself comfortable, leaning my head against a luscious palm tree, I heard a thump.
I see a clawed foot about the size of a tree stump.
I look up to see a dinosaur.
Turn the hourglass. Then RUN!