There’s no medieval party—no fancy dresses or ornate suits, no clinking glasses or the smell of roasted meat. This new corridor isn’t a corridor at all, or rather, it isn’t a corridor yet. It’s still under construction. Wooden scaffolding, piles of pitch-black bricks, and large tubs filled with a dark, gooey substance are scattered along the length of what will become the corridor to our French classroom. Some walls are only half-finished. A small army of workers—the tough, silent type—is working hard, loudly cracking jokes in a version of English I don’t understand.
The air is so thick with sweat and dust that I almost choke, but despite the stifling atmosphere, the workers don’t wear masks or any other protective gear required by modern regulations. They only wear old-fashioned overalls that expose their muscular upper bodies so overtly it almost makes me blush.
When the man closest to me looks up, my heart skips a beat. But after a brief nod, he resumes his work without giving me another glance. The same happens with the next worker and the one after that. They all seem to see me, but it's as if they don't really register me, like I'm not really there. I don't question how or why; I just count my blessings as I hurry to the end of the not-yet-formed corridor, regularly checking to see if Fred, Wilma, Barney, and Betty are storming around the corner behind me.
Just before I reach the end, my attention is drawn to a large sheet of paper nailed to a wooden scaffold. It appears to be the construction plan for the school. The intricate details are stunning, especially when I realize it wasn’t designed on a computer or printed—it’s hand-drawn. The inscription "Anno Domini 1188" is written above, which I know means "Year of Our Lord 1188," the official way to denote the date of a building’s construction. My stomach churns. Somehow, I had dismissed the medieval scene in the corridor as part of a themed wedding party or something equally mundane, but now my brain can’t escape the inevitable conclusion: this school is a time machine. Was that party also held here in a different era? But... but... if so, why could I see all those people when the Flintstones couldn’t? Does it only work for me? Is this permanent? What if I can’t find my way back?
And then it hits me. Something must have snapped in my head. I’m finally as crazy as many already think I am and strangely enough, it’s a rather soothing idea. No more responsibility, no more guilt or pressure. I only have to wait until someone straps me into a straitjacket and locks me up in an asylum.
No! I shout way too loud, kicking a stack of bricks. “Don’t give up, stupid. Never give up. Save yourself, goddamnit.” The pain clears my head, and shaking off my self-pity, I start moving again. I turn the corner.
The new corridor is so dark that, at first, I can’t discern anything. My ears and nose, however tell me I’m not alone. First I hear one groan, then three, then twelve, until countless voices crescendo into an overwhelming symphony of sighs, grunts, and whimpers, while my nose is assaulted by a sickening blend of rotting flesh, freshly spilled blood, and an overwhelming amount of heavy-duty disinfectant attempting to camouflage the stench. With great difficulty, I manage to avoid throwing up.
As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I finally see what my nose and ears have already told me, and it’s even more unsettling than I could have imagined. The corridor is filled with soldiers—wounded soldiers. Some are on low cots, but most lie unceremoniously on the floor, pressed together like sardines, half stacked on top of each other. Lots of bandages, lots of blood, limbs reduced to stumps, and black holes where eyes or ears should be. Thanks to Scroptz’ lessons, I recognize the uniforms: German soldiers during the Second World War. But how? There was never a battlefield in these parts.
I realize that crossing this corridor may be impossible, even if I manage to ignore my nose and stomach, as only a narrow pathway remains open between the long rows of wounded soldiers, and that path is dominated by two sturdy, decisive-looking nurses who are constantly running up and down with bandages and medicine. I concentrate on an imaginary point in front of me and take the first step forward. "Don’t look down, Tinderstick, don’t look down," I mumble to myself, balancing on the narrow path like a tightrope walker with vertigo, careful not to step on a leg or an arm.
My fear of colliding with the nurses, however, turns out to be unfounded. Like the medieval party guests and builders in the corridors before, they see me but seem to forget about me instantly, skillfully avoiding me as they twist, spin, and turn like professional gymnasts in an Olympic floor exercise.
Once I'm certain they won't bump into me, I dare to speed up. With my eyes fixed ahead and my hand over my nose, I navigate around the wounded soldiers—some eerily silent, others quietly moaning. As I step over one of them, he softly mumbles, "The fire, the fire is coming," before passing out again. I don't even want to think about what that means; I just want to keep moving.
When I finally turn the corner at the end of the corridor, I hear one last, blood-freezing scream, and then it’s all quiet again. The sound cuts off as if someone closed a door behind me.
When I look around, I breathe a sigh of relief. I recognize this corridor—it's the one leading to the entrance of our school, and everything looks normal. I’ve made it back! But as the relief washes over me, the pent-up panic finally hits. My legs start to tremble. I wipe the sweat from my brow and try to control my breathing. It’s okay, I reassure myself, it’s almost over. All I have to do now is walk out the front door, say goodbye to Slug, Gnat, and Shadow—who will hopefully still be waiting for me—and go home. But before I reach the door, it flies open. A large group of students streams inside.
Reflexively, I press myself against the wall. This doesn’t make any sense. Why is everyone coming in after school hours? And why are there so many of them? Happy, laughing, chatting, and energized like they’ve just come back from a holiday.
Only then do I notice the girl wearing torn jeans and a washed-out T-shirt with the barely legible print, “If you mind yours, I’ll mind mine.” She has short, uncombed black hair and exudes utter contempt for... well, everything. I follow myself with wide eyes and watch as I’m violently shoved by an enormous older student.
Damn. I haven’t returned to my own time at all. I’m back on my first day of school.