THE SENTINEL 

By Tessa Harvey

    The boy stood at the very edge of the sheer crag dominating the valley below. He was much closer to the edge than he had ever been allowed before. But tomorrow he was ten years old. His mother had said, her grey eyes flashing with excitement: "You will be ten years old! Think of that, Theodor. Double digits. Ten!"

    Her joy and enthusiasm had propelled her out the door and so she had flown down the long arrow-straight road that led across the valley floor to the far-distant town.

    "Something special!" she had trilled like one of the little wrens clustered in large families in people-high bushes, very mobile and busy birds.

    But the boy had been watching three days. Mum had not come.

    "Sylvie will be home in an hour. You will not be alone long, son." Mum had hugged him and then there was no-one. Sylvia, his big sister, who did not at all like him had also vanished. So he waited and watched - every day after school.

    Tomorrow he would not go to school. His mother would come early with his surprise. The surprise no longer mattered. His mother did.

    Sylvia was eighteen. Sometimes Sylvia stayed with friends. Because she was grown and working she explained carefully, sometimes she did not need to come home. Now she had FRIENDS. His sister glared as she said "friends" because he only had Alice as a friend.

    Alice was small and thin and pale. She also had no friends - only thumps and bruises, because she whispered "I am naughty."

    Her name reminded him of one of the plants he loved so much, Alyssum. Sweet Alice was another name for the flower.

 He was mocked for saying he loved flowers. "Stupid as a door. Theo - door," they laughed.

    Because he was nearly ten, which was special, Theodor looked after Alice. Alice was still little. Only eight years. Perhaps he should go to school, but no, mum would come of course. For one day, Alice would be okay. Surely. Just one day.