Flying High (3 page)

The seniors gave theatrical groans.

He smiled. “We’ll try not to disrupt your studies too much, but until this situation is resolved, you’ll just have to catch up on your school work between shifts. Of course, this is an excellent opportunity for those of you who haven’t previously visited Earth, to experience the, erm, gritty realities of earthly existence,” Michael added mischievously.

All the seniors exchanged world-weary grins. Our headmaster was teasing us about the down-side of time-travel, which is basically mud and poo!

Like everyone else, I complain madly about time field trips, but apart from the icky smells, I secretly adore them and I have learned heaps more than I ever learned from school history books. OK, so it’s not all corsets and castles, not to mention I invariably ruin my best trainers. Plus when we get back, Mr Allbright always makes us write a humungous report! But boy, do we write fabulous essays!

“Anyone here know anything about the Children’s Crusade?” Michael asked in a casual voice.

Now try not to die of shock, but it just so happens that I knew all about this bizarre historical episode since we’d just finished studying it with Mr Allbright. Naturally I had no intention of saying so. I have a complete phobia about speaking in public. Anyway, at my old school, only sad little try-hards like Venetia Rossetti spoke up in class.

To my horror, Michael gave me one of his humorous all-seeing looks, and said, “Melanie, perhaps you’d like to fill us in?”

I stood up gulping with nerves. Everyone stared at me expectantly.

“Um,” I said. “Well, it all started with this shepherd boy. Oh, did I mention he was French?” I quavered. “I didn’t? Well, he was, he was French and he was called Stephen. And he had a vision. At least, that was his story!” I added darkly.

Everyone laughed. Hey, this isn’t so bad, I thought.

I ploughed on bravely. “News of this so-called vision spread like wildfire, and suddenly thousands of other kids were leaving their families, their ploughs, their herds of goats and whatever, to follow Stephen.”

I noticed a new trainee studying her nails and deliberately pitched my voice a little louder.

“Maybe that doesn’t sound like a big deal,” I said. “But what you have to realise is that in those days, kids had absolutely no freedom. Even seriously rich kids were like their parents’ chattels; their property in other words. As for peasant kids, they were basically put to work as soon as they could toddle. So they never had one spare moment to stop and think like, ‘Is this all there is?’ OK, so Stephen’s project was completely insane, but the fact that the kids got as far as they did makes it an incredible achievement.”

“What was Stephen’s project exactly?” someone asked.

To my relief I knew the answer. “They planned to march all the way to Jerusalem where a big holy war was going on.”

All the pure angels looked amazed. “A
holy
war?” said one. “You are kidding, right?”

I sighed. I hated to admit that humans are still murdering each other in my own time on the grounds of religion. “No, I’m not kidding,” I admitted. “These so-called ‘holy wars’ were known as the Crusades. Now, like you guys, Stephen thought all this killing was wrong. He believed a kids’ crusade could win their enemies over with love, a really radical idea back then. Unfortunately,” I told my audience, “the whole thing went totally pear-shaped.”

“Thank you, Melanie,” said Michael in a firm voice. “That was most informative.”

Ow, I thought. I was just getting into it!

Our headmaster launched into the usual pep talk. We were not to attempt to be heroes. We were members of a team, links in a divine chain, blah blah blah.

Then we all had to zoom off to Departures, where we collected our Agency insignia. They’re like little platinum tags you wear round your neck, to show you’re on official business. Tags also help us stay in touch with the Agency, via the Link (that’s sort of like the angel internet).

To my relief, I managed to squeeze into the same portal as Reuben and Lola. I always get massive butterflies before take-off. My worst moment is when that glass door slides shut. Like, EEK! The point of no return!

Then I heard Reuben humming our private theme song. “You’re not alone,” it goes. “You’re not alone…” I instantly felt myself relax. I was going time-travelling with my best mates. What could be better?

“Can you believe we’re going to medieval France!” Lola burbled.

“I can’t believe we’re going to France full stop,” I said truthfully.

She looked shocked. “You’ve never been to France? But it’s so close to England.”

“I know, but Mum never had any money, did she?”

At that moment our portal lit up like a royal firework display and we were blasted into history.

Time-travel, Agency style, is incredibly smooth and speedy. Just a few minutes after take-off, or several centuries earlier, depending on which time system you’re using, I stepped out on to my favourite planet.

We were in a river valley somewhere in the south of France, totally surrounded by rolling hills, making it feel like we were at the bottom of a massive misty blue bowl.

To judge from the position of the sun, it was around midday. The heat was phenomenal and the air was filled with the busy ticking and scraping sounds of zillions of little insects.

It probably sounds sad, but I was totally overexcited at being in a foreign country! And even though this was Earth, not Heaven, the air smelled fabulous as the noonday heat brought out the scent of the wild lavender and herbs growing everywhere.

Lola frowned. “That river looks way too low.”

“Seems like they’re having a major drought,” Amber agreed. “See all the cracks in the dirt?”

I’m a city girl so I don’t pretend to know about stuff like dirt or average rainfalls or whatever. But I had noticed that the valley had a bleached, stone-washed look, as if all its bones were getting a bit too near the surface.

I’d become aware of faint surges of noise drifting down the hillside. Soon, I could make out individual sounds; the dumty-dumty rhythm of drums, the toot of flutes and wave upon wave of sweet young voices singing some kind of medieval hymn.

My mates and I exchanged awed glances. They’re coming! I thought.

Tiny figures appeared over the rise - first a trickle, then a stream and finally a flood of marching children.

We stood totally stunned as the child crusaders straggled over the hill and down into the valley. Tattered blue and gold banners fluttered over their heads, their bright colours wavering in the intense heat.

“There are so
many
,” Lola breathed. “I had no idea.”

Some of them were just little tots and had to be carried by the older ones. None of the kids appeared to own a decent pair of shoes. Their feet were bruised and bleeding. Yet they limped along, singing with heart-rending beauty.

The first kids into the valley instantly spotted the glint of water. Everyone broke ranks and went rushing down to the river to drink, bathe their feet, or simply cool off.

I found the scene deeply disturbing, to be honest. It reminded me too much of refugee camps I’d seen on the news in my own times. Michael’s right, I thought. This crusade is way out of control.

Reuben nudged me. “Lollie’s run into some local personnel.”

I saw her chatting away with an Earth angel in medieval dress.

Eek
, I thought.
I don’t think wimples will ever make a comeback!

I think the Earth angel was equally startled by Lola’s outfit, because I heard Lola say, “
Oh pardon, madame
,” And she started explaining how we’d had to leave Heaven in a hurry.

I couldn’t help smirking to myself. They were speaking in medieval French, yet I understood every word! It’s one of the perks of being an angel, and it always gives me a major buzz. If Miss Rowntree could only see me now, I thought. Then my heart almost stopped beating.

A dreamy-eyed boy was making his way towards us through the crowd. His t-shirt and jeans were so faded by the sun that I could only just make out the familiar angel logo. It had been far too long since he’d had a haircut and he looked completely shattered. But I’d have recognised him anywhere.

It was Orlando.

Chapter Four

N
ow I’m not, repeat
not
, one of those tragic girls who go yearning after boys who don’t even know they exist. But you can’t tell a heart what to feel, and my heart was secretly hoping for a tiny sign that Orlando was pleased to see me.

But he didn’t so much as smile. “What happened to you, Mel?” he demanded rudely. “Get lost on your way to the beach?”

“Actually we’re your back-up,” I mumbled. “The Agency paged us in the middle of Lollie’s birthday party.”

I was shocked. It’s not like Orlando to make hurtful remarks. He’s usually on a totally higher plane. Did I mention that Orlando actually looks like angel? Well, he does; a soulful dark-eyed angel in an old Italian painting. Officially he’s still at school, but he’s such a genius that the Agency is constantly sending him off on major missions. Unfortunately I only tend to run into him when I’m flouting a major cosmic rule or just generally acting like a ditz.

I think Orlando guessed he’d upset me because his expression changed. “Sorry if I overreacted,” he said awkwardly. “It’s great to see you guys. It’s just that we’re quite overstretched as you can see.”

“Tell us what you want us to do,” said Lola.

I’d never seen Orlando look so depressed. “It’s a nightmare,” he sighed. “Stephen has convinced these kids that they’re going to witness a miracle. When they reach Marseilles, the sea will part and they’ll walk across dry land all the way to Jerusalem.”

“But that isn’t going to happen, is it?” Reuben said softly.

Orlando shook his head. “No. And I’m not sure how these kids will handle the disappointment. So I’d appreciate it if you could all keep your eyes and ears open. That way we can nip any trouble in the bud. Apart from that, just do what you can for them, the little ones especially.”

We set to work. The children were in bad shape, soaking up angelic vibes like blotting paper. The pure angels, in particular, couldn’t get their heads round what they were seeing. “Why would a little kid put himself through so much suffering?” one said in horror.

“Most of them probably didn’t get much TLC at home, remember?” I pointed out.

Reuben gave a disbelieving whistle. “They’re on the move again.”

The exhausted children were gathering up their pitiful possessions, getting ready to go back on the road. It seemed as if we’d given them just enough strength to press on to Marseilles. Of course, without food and rest, the effects of their angelic energy transfusion would soon wear off. But even if the kids had understood this, I don’t think they’d have cared. Reaching Jerusalem, that’s all they cared about.

We marched on through the simmering heat. An old man came out of a tumble-down hovel to watch. He shielded his eyes as the never-ending procession tramped past. The sight seemed to upset him. “Go home and help your fathers,” he called.

“We have but one Father,” a girl replied through parched lips. “And he is in Heaven.”

I tried to imagine my mates on Earth getting all steamed up over some weird holy crusade; queuing for tickets for a pop concert maybe, or doing some hilarious fund-raising stunt for Comic Relief. But these kids were putting themselves through hell simply for an
idea
. Not to mention, some of them were literally dying on their feet. Forget Jerusalem. They’d be lucky to make it to the docks.

“Just give me five minutes alone with this Stephen,” I muttered darkly. “I’ll give him a vision he won’t forget in hurry.”

“Be my guest!” Orlando pointed back up the track.

A covered cart was rattling in our direction, stirring up swirling clouds of dust. The cart was painted in the same vivid blue and gold as the banners and hung with fluttering blue and gold pennants.

Three kids shared the driver’s seat, taking it in turn to sip from a leather flask. A posse of teenagers on horseback rode alongside. They wore the wary expressions of professional bodyguards.

From the way all the kids cheered and tossed their dusty caps in the air, it seemed that this mysterious Stephen was the medieval equivalent of a rock star.

Someone yelled, “Tomorrow in Jerusalem!

The cry was immediately taken up in a great roar. “Tomorrow in Jerusalem! Tomorrow in Jerusalem!” Once it had started, the cry went on, wave upon wave of sound crashing on my ears.

“Tomorrow in the cemetery, more like,” said Lola grimly.

I puffed out my cheeks. I’d only been here a few hours but it already felt like a lifetime. Orlando had been coping with this for weeks. I made a secret vow to do everything I could to help him.

I’ll be completely professional, I told myself. Then Orlando might see me in a completely different light.

We were getting closer to the port. The air had acquired a distinctly fishy smell, along with that familiar olden-times pong of sewage and rotting garbage. Except for an occasional horse-drawn cart rumbling along on clunky wooden wheels, there wasn’t much traffic. It was too hot for sensible folk to be out. But the children went marching on.