Big Ben tolled.
The deep notes sent ripples scudding away over the water, plashing and lapping against the damp glass face of the clock, as if to run away from the booming sound.
Eight times the great clock rang until the entire lake shivered with the force of the noise.
In front of Buckingham Palace…
… nothing happened.
The Changing of the Guard was part of the past, a past of dryness, a past of concrete streets, a past of cars and roads and big booming lorries. It was only a memory now. Because for three years London had been buried in a watery grave.
The Thames Barrier had been growing lower and lower and lower as the sea pressed against it, the waves knock-knocking to be let in. Until eventually, soundlessly, one moonlit night, the sea reared her head, and climbed over to invade the capital of England.
How many had died that night, most people did not want to know. But humans were common enough and the survivors built houses on their houses and some more enterprising people waterproofed their original dwellings, until most people lived in a perpetual aquarium.
Balconies had become very common and grass few and far between. People grew pale and sick for the first months for lack of sunshine. Eventually the boat (and car) companies had woken up and the current King of England had purchased a big, sleek, black Rolls Royce ship to sail around in, waving a graceful white hand at all he saw, and shaking a fist at the gulls and albatrosses that seated themselves on the roof and painted the black steel with little white droplets – almost by accident.
Nobody liked the King of England.
Respected? Yes, he was respected, because kings had to be respected. Loved? No. Not as such. When the flood came it took the Prime Minister with it, and since the people had been too busy with the vital problem of staying alive, King Owen had taken advantage, and now a king once more ruled England. But the starry-eyed-ness was out of it. Owen was, quite frankly, an idiot, a king only by birth and not by bearing.
Sarah McLochlin waved politely as the big Rolls Royce sailed slowly past the balcony she was standing on. King Owen, of course, didn’t spare her a second glance; he spared nobody a second glance.
He doesn’t even look like a king, thought Sarah. Owen was a cruel man with a cruel face; a nose like the beak of a raptor, a low brow, a bald head and piercing grey eyes, cruel and frightening as the clink of a chain in the dark.
“Yip,” said Grymm, as if agreeing. Sarah knelt and rubbed his hair the wrong way. Three years ago she had fished the drowning puppy out of the water, and since then Grymm had never looked back. Now he was a tall, sleek wolfhound with wiry hair, a voracious appetite and a noble gleam to his amber wolfish eyes.
You look more like a king than Owen does, said Sarah in her head.
Grymm shook himself sheepishly and rubbed his nose with his paw.
Sarah smiled. Silly dog, she said.
Grymm rolled over onto his back and yapped at her playfully.
Sometimes Sarah wondered if he understood her…
“Sarah!” shouted Mom. “Lunch!”
Let’s go, said Sarah, and Grymm beat her all the way to the door.
Lunch was a simple affair. They had a salad with wilted lettuce and slightly squishy tomato, fresh cucumber and a precious handful of olives. Coarse, rough bread accompanied it, smeared with marmalade. Animals were few and far between in London; some people, of course, had cats, dogs and birds (and there was an ample supply of fish), but eggs, milk and meat was precious stuff and eaten sparsely in the main meal – a helicopter dropped animal products off once a week.
This also made the larger pets impossible to own.
Pity, thought Sarah to Grymm as she slapped marmalade on her bread. I could ride once. Remember?
Grymm yowled and nibbled her foot affectionately. Carnivorous pets had a hard time of it too, fed mostly on bread, mashed potatoes and boiled vegetables with a spoonful of meat mixed in. Sarah tickled his ears and the wolfhound moaned in pleasure.
After lunch Sarah and Grymm pattered downstairs, pausing to peer at the bright fish who darted to and fro in front of the window, and Sarah hoisted her little canoe over her shoulder. It was just strong enough to bear the girl and Grymm. She picked up her paddle and smiled at Grymm.
“Woof! Woof!” barked the wolfhound in ecstasy, leaping up and down. He loved canoeing.
Yes, yes, yes, wait a moment or I’ll never get this canoe up the steps, Sarah told him in her head.
“Woof!” Grymm bounded up the stairs. Sarah carried the canoe onto the balcony and opened the gate. The water lapped hungrily only centimetres from the concrete.
Sarah turned the boat over and checked it swiftly, fondly running her hands over it. Last summer Dad had painted it brilliant gold with its name on the side; the Storm Horse.
Come on, said Sarah, and shoved the Storm Horse onto the water. Grymm jumped in, steadying himself adeptly with his paws, and Sarah clambered after him. She turned the craft around and shoved the gate closed with her paddle.
Some of the children were canoeing about already. Most children had canoes; they were common as bicycles these days. And you had to learn to swim, or you would rapidly sink.
“Hi, Sarah!” shouted Jyllian Brown, Sarah’s best friend. Sarah smiled and waved. Grymm roared a bark at Jyllian’s pet, an enormous adolescent albatross who refused to leave Jyllian and always found her way home.
“Keep that crazy wolf of yours under control!” Jyllian steadied her canoe with her paddle and slid to a stop beside the Storm Horse.
Grymm bayed a greeting at Jyllian. She ruffled his ears. Jyll, as she was mostly called, was a kindred spirit to Sarah. Her canoe, the Lake Rider, was bright crimson.
Not all the children had named their canoes; it was not a common practice. Only a handful of them had pets. Even less had named boats. It was towards this group that Jyll and Sarah paddled towards, trying to shut their ears to the deafening barking/squawking contest Grymm and Bianca the albatross were having.
As soon as they reached the other children, Deirdre and Rob Greenbush decided on a canoe race – to Big Ben’s spire and back. Sarah and Jyll were very agreeable and held their canoes ready next to the others’. Only five children took part; Deirdre, Rob, Jyll, Sarah and Edward Lankin, a snooty rich boy with a very sleek, very smart canoe called the Crown Jewel (which was typical of Edward).
Sarah eyed the rich boy, sizing him and his craft up. Nobody much liked Edward, but he was rather a lot like Owen: big, strong, and powerful, so he had to be respected. The Crown Jewel was a far swifter canoe than the Storm Horse, but Sarah knew that she was a good deal more skilled in handling it than Edward was; the canoe did all the work for him.
“Woof!” bawled Grymm impatiently.
“Go!” shouted Jyll.
“Caw!” squeaked Bianca, tightening her grip on Jyll’s shoulder.
Sarah’s paddle sliced the water and the Storm Horse leapt like a racehorse from the gate. Soundlessly the paddle cut the great flood, powering the Storm Horse along at a tremendous rate. Soon the canoe had pulled past the Lake Rider and prow to prow with the Crown Jewel.
Grymm barked thunderously at Edward. Look how awfully he handles that canoe, Sarah thought to Grymm. Edward’s paddles slapped the water instead of slicing it. The canoe weaved to and fro like an unsure deer running from a hunter. If he was in a craft as good as the Storm Horse, he would be far behind. But the Crown Jewel was an excellent boat. It skimmed the water like a duck, its prow slicing through it as efficiently as Sarah’s paddle.
Come on, Storm Horse, come on! Sarah willed her canoe along as the rest of the race lagged further and further behind. Bianca’s raucous squawks seemed to be almost words. Come on, Sarah! shouted the albatross, and come on, Sarah! whispered the waves against her canoe’s prow.
The Storm Horse began to move like a Greyhound on the hunt. Steadily its prow drew ahead of the Crown Jewel’s. Now they had reached the spire and Sarah planted her paddle and turned the canoe so swiftly that it half-jumped out of the water and sped away. Paddles clacked together as Edward struggled to bring the Crown Jewel about. Grymm bawled encouragement as they swept past the others. Behind them the frantic slapping of Edward’s paddles grew louder and louder. But too late. The Storm Horse swept over the finish line. Sarah turned it around and stopped it. Edward took a good deal longer slowing the Crown Jewel. Too long. Just as the canoe was beginning to slow, there was a low thrum of engines and the Rolls Royce ship that belonged to King Owen came roaring around the corner.
Look out! Sarah shouted in her head. Jyll echoed her thoughts loudly. Sarah brought the Storm Horse about and dashed it swiftly out of the way as the Rolls Royce headed towards the Crown Jewel. Grymm barked. Get back, you stupid human! Sarah thought she heard him say. In a panic Edward swung the Crown Jewel around to get out of the way and rammed straight into the Storm Horse. When Grymm staggered, the golden canoe capsized.
Sarah was pitched into a murky blue world. Silver scales flashed in front of her eyes. She struck out calmly and paddled for the surface, thinking, oh well, Mum won’t be happy because these are my only jeans. She felt Grymm’s wiry hair and grabbed his ruff, thrusting herself up into the air.
“Woof! Woof! Woof! Woof!” shouted Grymm with his mouth half-full of water.
Sarah spluttered. That was close, she thought. Where’s the Storm Horse?
“You okay?” Jyll asked, carefully stopping the Lake Rider beside the floundering girl and dog.
Sarah nodded.
“The Storm Horse is over there,” said Jyll, pointing. The little canoe was floating about upside down. Sarah swam over to it and righted it. After a few false starts she clambered back in, and Grymm nearly capsized it again when he jumped in. Luckily the paddle hadn’t floated far off, so Sarah pushed him off again and pointed to it.
Go fetch, she thought to him.
Grymm did, and jumped back into the Storm Horse.
Now that everything was back under control, Sarah could take in her surroundings. Rob and Deirdre had safely gotten out of the way, as had Jyll. Bianca was perched on a balcony, preening herself. Edward was cringing in the full force of King Owen’s coarse, rough voice.
“What d’you mean by paddlin’ right in the middle of the street?” roared Owen. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, you young villain! What d’you have to say for yourself, eh?” His face was red with fury. Nobody got in his way!
“S-s-s-sorry, sir,” stammered Edward. He looked very small and deflated. Sarah could almost feel sorry for him. But not quite.
You rammed Storm Horse, she thought at him angrily. When he turned for support, he got none. Sarah might have look a bit like a ragamuffin, sopping wet with her curly brown hair clinging to her back, but there was quiet defiance in her green eyes.
“And what d’you have to say, missy?” snapped Owen, thrusting his hairy face into Sarah’s.
I’ve got nothing to say to you, thought Sarah at him, but said nothing.
“I asked you what you’ve got to say!” roared Owen, purple with rage.
Sarah just glared. Nothing! she told him again.
There was the gentle sound of paddles behind her, and the Lake Rider drew up beside her and Grymm. “Sir, I’m afraid she can’t say anything to you, your Majesty,” managed Jyll.
“What?” roared Owen.
“She’s – ” Jyll hesitated, and glanced at Sarah.
Say it, thought Sarah, and nodded.
“ – dumb.”
For three years now, Sarah mentally added.
“Dumb or no, get outta my way!” roared Owen, and the Rolls Royce roared. The Storm Horse spun around and swiftly paddled away. This time the Crown Jewel passed far away from it and nearly hit a wall. The Rolls Royce bounced and skimmed away.
Brute! thought Sarah at the king’s back.
“Oh well, he’ll die sometime,” said Jyll.
Sometime, thought Sarah, and with his luck he’ll get incredibly old.
Don’t be so gloomy, said a voice in her head.
Sarah started, making the Storm Horse waver slightly off course.
What…? she thought.
It’s me, Grrrrymm, said the voice.
Sarah stared at the dog. He was lashing his tail vigorously. That voice – almost barking and almost laughing – it must be him…
Telepathy… but not quite telepathy…
All get theirrr due sometime, said Grymm in Sarah’s head. Owen not the least.
Wishful thinking, sighed Sarah in her head.
Not so.
Sarah rubbed Grymm’s fur the wrong way in delight. To converse again after three years of dumbness… was magical.
Magic, yes, said Grymm.
I was wondering if magic still existed here, Sarah admitted.
Magic neverrrrr dies. Magic is endless. Everrrrlasting. Magic will win in the end. Magic is magic. Magic is powerrrr itself.
I sure hope so. Sarah grinned. Well, this must be magic! I mean, it’s not telepathy…
Grymm gave the odd yipping yowl that was his way of laughing. Telepathy is a human worrrrd for magic! Grrrownups nearrrrly neverrrr admit that anything is cleverrrerrr than they arrrre.
It happened only two days later. Sarah had gone canoeing alone with Grymm early that morning. She hadn’t told anyone about the magic between them, but she and Jyll had not grown apart.
Grymm? said Sarah.
What?
It’s Owen.
Grymm sighed. It’s always Owen.
He bugs me.
He bugs me as well. Don’t worrrrry about that.
How could he be king?
Because kings are chosen by birrrrrth and not by bearrring.
Bearing? What d’you mean?
Noble by birrrrth. Not in the hearrrt, wherrrre it matterrrrs.
Well, yeah.
For a while there was a thoughtful pause. The Storm Horse slid quietly through the water. It had a slight dent in the side where Edward had rammed it and the paint had been scraped off, leaving naked iron. Sarah was still livid about that, and Edward wouldn’t meet her gaze. Just as well, she thought.
Grymm sat up and sniffed the air. I smell the albatrrrrross-pup.
Albatross-pup? asked Sarah.
Small rrrred boat.
You don’t mean – Jyll?
Ah, is that herrrr name? Strrrrange name.
Grymm is a strange name!
Not forrr a dog. Got a good grrrrr in it.
Sarah smiled.
Then Jyll paddled wildly into view, Bianca squawking and thrashing the air above her head. The Lake Rider had never moved so fast.
“Paddle for your life!” squeaked Jyll. “Here comes Owen!”
Sarah gasped and swung the Storm Horse around. Grymm yelped and just managed to stay on. They were in a little waterway that might once have been a one-way alley, just wide enough for the big Rolls Royce.
What’s he up to now? Sarah wondered. I wish I could ask Jyll!
Paddle! yelped Grymm. Owen’s dangerrrrous! I can smell his rrrrage!
Can’t you always?
Not this strrrongly!
The Rolls Royce thrummed into view. Sarah redoubled her little canoe’s pace. Thank heaven, she thought, for skilful paddling. It was then that the Storm Horse’s hull ground on the spire of a church.
What is it? asked Grymm worriedly as the Rolls Royce bore down on them.
We’ve run aground! screamed Sarah.
Swim forrrr it!
Sarah jumped out of the canoe and ducked underwater. The throbbing of the engine shook her ears. She tugged at the little craft’s stern. She couldn’t bear to leave it in the Royce’s path.
Swim, pup! Leave it!
No!
With that, the Storm Horse came loose. Sarah surfaced, gasped a deep breath and dived, dragging the Storm Horse with her. It was very heavy and there was a hole in its hull, but Sarah was a strong swimmer. She stared at the passing shadow of the Royce, lungs burning. Finally it was past. Struggling, Sarah made for the light, still clinging to her canoe.
Arrre you alrrright, pup? Grymm enquired worriedly.
Help me with this, please!
Grymm paddled closer. Sarah threw an arm around Grymm’s neck and they struck out. At last, half-drowned, Sarah spluttered to the surface.
We did it! she cheered in her head.
Well done, pup.
Sarah hoisted the Storm Horse out of the water and sighed. She was going to have to swim for it; the hull was broken. It could be mended, at least.
That Owen sails like a pig, she thought indignantly to Grymm as they swam for home.
We must follow him.
Sarah stared at him, pulling her canoe behind her. What?
He’s up to no good. We – I – must stop him.
What are you? Sarah wondered. You can talk in other people’s heads. You must be a magic beast…
I am a dog.
They followed the Rolls Royce in desperation. Sarah followed Grymm’s lead unquestioningly. He was a dog.
It ground to a halt just above what once was Windsor Castle. Only the highest turret stuck out of the water. Glad for a rest, Sarah and Grymm and the Storm Horse hid behind it, peering at Owen.
He stood on the deck of his Rolls Royce, hands on hips, cruel grey eyes scanning the horizon. It was flat, except for the occasional house peering out over the water. Only the gentle song of whispering waves broke the silence.
“It was a great city once,” said Owen.
He turned to his pilot. “Is the plane ready?”
“Yes your majesty.”
“Start it up, then, man!”
“Yesyourmajesty,” said the pilot hurriedly.
There was the roar of another engine and a small black seaplane taxied onto the water, sailing from some hidden corner of the huge Rolls Royce.
What’s he up to now? groaned Sarah.
Nothing good, growled Grymm.
Two men lugged something out from the Rolls Royce and heaved it onto the seaplane. It was an enormous safe. Dry-mouthed, Sarah watched them load two more, followed by a black box with a red handle sticking up out of it.
What’s that? she asked her dog.
Don’t know.
Finally Owen jumped into the seaplane. He laid a hand on the handle, staring with his cruel eyes at the lake that had once been a city. He ran a hand over his bald head.
“Is the charge set?” he asked.
“In Buckingham Palace, your Majesty.”
Grymm! screamed Sarah. He’s going to blow up London!
No!
Yes! He’s exactly the sort to do that!
We must stop him!
It’s too late.
But Grymm was already paddling through the water towards the seaplane. Sarah had no option but to follow. She tied the Storm Horse to the turret with the length of rope that always dangled from its prow and swam after the dog.
“What’s that dog doing here?” snapped the pilot.
“Shut up and get ready!” Owen replied.
The pilot shut his mouth.
Owen pushed down the handle.
Sarah’s head went underwater. Somewhere there was a great boom. A wave rushed through the great lake. There was water in her mouth. She struggled to the surface by instinct, felt Grymm’s secure pelt against her body.
No! yelped Grymm.
Grymm! Look! yelped Sarah.
Spray was flung up into the air from where Buckingham Palace once was. Spray tossing and leaping like the mane of a horse…
… followed by a white tower of smoke, churning like muscles under a milk-white skin…
… and above all flashed a sharp tongue of blue fire…
… and below all was a wispy cloud of smoke like the tail of a horse…
… like the tail of a Unicorn.
It galloped across the sky as ripples spread from the place where it had exploded from the water. It looked as big as a house. The very air shuddered with the sound of its hooves. And the seaplane didn’t move fast enough.
The sapphire horn splintered its side and the plane went tumbling down, down, down, tongues of fire leaping from its stricken body. The Unicorn, however, went galloping after it. Parachutes spread as the pilot and his two men sprang to safety. But one black shape continued to fall: the shape of Owen.
Sarah screamed, and it was made worse that no sound came out and the scream remained trapped in her head. It was too terrible to watch. The Unicorn leapt swift as a dream, swift as an arrow after the falling king. And caught his black coat, just nicely, to hook upon his horn.
Sarah stared as the great beast set Owen down, gently as a feather, on the deck of the Rolls Royce. He withdrew his horn and looked the king in the eye as the ruined plane crashed and water boiled where it fell.
Sarah and Grymm both stopped breathing.
The Unicorn stood on the water with the waves lapping at his silver hooves. His mane was long enough to brush his knees. His tail was being splashed by the waves. Power coursed through every line of his body. Muscles stood out on his hide, rippling like clouds in a storm whenever he moved. His horn seemed to crackle with magic, sharp as a barked word in peaceful silence, a gleaming blue like the deepest part of the sea. But instead of the cold glittering blue Sarah had expected his eyes to be, nearly as cruel and terrible as the king’s, they were a deep and kindly green, like the depths of a forest, like the heartbeat of a tree, endless with age, and joy, and sorrow.
And King Owen said nothing, but met the Unicorn’s gaze.
“Now remain silent, cruel king,” said the Unicorn. “Things are about to change.” His voice was a river of gold and silver, deep and beautiful like a rising tide. If the sea could speak in words, then it would speak like this, singing to a melody that nobody could quite catch.
He lowered his sapphire horn.
He touched it to the water.
In the shadow of a second, his hooves were feet above the sea.
Sarah and Grymm found themselves sinking with it, the Rolls Royce sinking with it. They jumped for the castle. Sarah pulled herself onto its battlements and hauled Grymm in after her. Both were silent. There was a crash as the Storm Horse’s hull banged against the turret and it dangled.
The Unicorn calmly floated down after Owen and his Rolls Royce. And as they watched, the Royce began to change as it bobbed on the sinking sea. All Grymm and Sarah could see was the Unicorn, and the ship, and the king. Smoke wreathed the ship for a while. And when the sea was gone, there was the sound of hoofbeats on the pavement.
Sarah’s gaze was wrenched from them. She stared and began to weep and laugh all at once. London was London again! Dry pavements gleamed in the sunlight. Surprised people rushed onto the streets to stare at the Unicorn, at the sad crumpled wreck of the seaplane.
And even the sky seemed to smile.
Sarah looked down again at the Unicorn. Gleaming like a legend in the new, dry sunlight, he still faced the king – who had changed.
The Rolls Royce had transformed to a great black stallion, tall and strong with a forelock longer than his muzzle. He seemed to be almost a Unicorn and almost a melody. On his back King Owen sat, holding braided reins of strong leather, inlaid with gold and silver. The stallion’s back, however, was bare.
Owen’s garb, too, had changed. Now instead of pressed suit and cruel sceptre he wore a scarlet and gold-trimmed tunic, broidered with the Sign of the Dragon. Thigh-length leather boots hid most of his crimson breeches. A red cloak was fastened loosely with a golden clasp at his throat. Best of all, he wore a long straight sword by his side.
Owen was not the same man, either. When he turned slowly, as if in a dream, to meet Grymm and Sarah’s gaze, he was different. His golden hair had grown shoulder-length. A short beard adorned his chin. A thin silver circlet was all that remained of the clumsy, heavy crown. And the cold grey glitter that had once been his eyes was gone. They were now still grey, yes, but a sad, deep, kindly grey, the grey of a wolf.
Owen had always looked like a ruler. He had always looked like a monarch. He had always looked like an overlord.
Now he looked like a king.
The Unicorn spoke.
“Owen of Windsor, I have drained your city,” he said.
“Yes, Lord Unicorn,” said Owen, bowing his head.
“I have reached inside you and brought alive something else, too.”
His voice was the only noise to be heard in the dry and silent street. It washed over the people, filling them up with warmth.
“Can you name your furthest ancestor?” the Unicorn asked softly.
“King William reigned in the twenty-first century,” replied Owen.
“That is as far back as you can remember?”
“Yes, my Lord Unicorn.”
“I will tell you then. Long ago, Owen, in the medieval times that you now call ancient, there reigned a king. And his name was Arthur.”
Owen looked at the Unicorn questioningly.
“Arthur was the greatest king that Britain has ever known. He was a good and kind lord. Arthur was the great one. Alfred was great; William was great; Diana was very, very great, perhaps as great as Arthur – but Arthur was the greatest.
“Can you give William’s full name, Owen?”
“His name was William Arthur, Lord Unicorn.”
The Unicorn smiled.
“There was a legend,” he said softly, “that King Arthur will someday return. And somewhere all legends are true.”
The Unicorn’s voice dropped to the shadow of a whisper.
“Maybe that somewhere is here.”
Owen bowed to the Unicorn.
He turned his big black horse.
“Thank you, Unicorn,” he said.
“Your castle is behind you, Owen,” said the Unicorn with the shadow of a smile in his eyes. “Where are you going?”
King Owen squared his shoulders. “I have done many wrongs,” he said. “Maybe it is time for a right.”
And the King of England rode down the street on his huge black stallion.
And when the people looked back at the Unicorn, he was gone, and they never saw him again.
Sarah and Grymm found themselves on the street before King Owen of Windsor had ridden out of sight. Sarah dashed after him.
Pup, wherrre arrre you going? asked Grymm.
Sarah, for once, did not reply.
Owen rode slowly and Sarah had soon caught up with him. She stopped. He did not notice her. Then his horse stopped and turned his head to Sarah.
“Child,” said Owen in his new kindly tone, “what is it?”
Sarah met his gaze steadily. A warm feeling travelled slowly from her feet to her mouth. She raised a hand.
And she said, in a soft, clear voice, “Good luck.”
Owen smiled for the first time in many, many years and rode off down the street.
In South Africa today security plays a vital part in any business or private home. This book and the volumes to follow, will guide you step by step through the essential precautionary measures to be taken in protecting your family and valuables. From employing security guards, evacuation of your site and security measures to burglar bars and alarms in your private home.
a Book compiled by me from experience gained after 10 years in the security industry as Industrial relations officer with Nosa qualifications, 1st Aid, fire protection and also S.O.B. grade A.
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