another story

Strange Happenings at the Market
“. . . and from then on, the market was in ruins and nobody, not even the locals dared to go near it. It is now forgotten, forever and ever. . .”

Bastille Day
Grandpa Joe ended the last part hastily and got up, slowly making his way out. The thin, pale figure was almost bent double, deep, dark wrinkles giving him an expressionless look. “Good night,” he announced as he bent down to reach for the old-fashioned candle stand on the floor. My brother, who was trying to sleep, gave a low, pleading moan and shrugged. This whole thing about the market was so creepy that I was already starting to get nightmares.
I stay in Paris. I had come to grandpa’s wooden house for the summer holidays. It was in the countryside, so there wasn’t any electricity. That meant that I could forget the tons of cd’s I’d brought for entertainment. I wasn’t prepared to deal with these problems. And to add to all this, my brother Daniel was with me. Daniel is a tall, lean fellow. He has hooded eyes and dark eyebrows. Despite him being fifteen, he has a playful mind and a keen sense of humour. I cannot even put up with him for a day, leave alone the whole summer holidays. And to think, he has been assigned to take care of me throughout our stay! Just because he is older than me!
I kept thinking about grandpa’s words- the strange rumbling exactly when the clock struck 12. To get these thoughts off my mind, I started counting sheep. Finally, I drifted off to sleep. The last thing I recalled hearing was my brother snoring. . .
“Wakey wakey!” a voice pierced my ears. Today’s agenda was going to the beach! Alas, a slight drizzle turned into a heavy downpour, and our plan was a flop. That evening, Daniel and I sat chatting in our room. “I was so bored today, staying at home,” I complained. “I think I know what,” muttered under his breath. Then he started whispering. “We will slip out at midnight and go explore the market grandpa was talking about. I bet he was just pulling our leg.” I shivered at the thought, but did well in concealing my embarrassment. Although reluctant, I stammered a yes. The candles were all blown out and grandpa was fast asleep. The front door creaked open but I managed to shut it silently. Darkness had settled in. The street lights were flickering on and off. The market was a mile away. I grew regretful as we trudged along for what seemed like eternity. Just as the market came into sight, my watch gave the alarm for midnight. The rumbling had begun! And that too simultaneously! I was sucked into the market, and the last thing I remembered was a crushing sensation. . .
I opened my eyes. Daniel was lying by my side, apparently unconscious. I looked around. There was a huge commotion all around me. A few paces ahead of me stood a large cutter. Somehow it looked familiar. It was the guillotine! My guess was proved right when I saw tumbrels, carriages that carry people to a guillotine. We were a few hundred years back in time, in France. I recognised Queen Antoinette in one of the tumbrels. What the heck! We were stuck right in the middle of the French revolution. And it was Bastille Day!
I smelt something burning. The smell caused Daniel to bolt upright. I fervently explained our grave situation to him. When we looked back, we saw columns of thick black smoke rising from a building which soon collapsed. The flames consumed a market next. People came rushing with pails of water. Rough hands pulled us off the ground and we were marched to a large stone monument. The dungeons! Our captors threw us into a damp, smelly cell. Daniel wrinkled his nose, but I was lost deep in thought. This seemed to be the same market that we had walked to last night. Suddenly a plan struck me! If only we could choose the time at which we would be executed. I called out to the guard...
‘Clit Clat Clit Clat!’ The trotting of horses was the only sound to be heard in the silent night. We were in our wooden tumbrel, being taken for our trial. It was 11.58pm. We had bribed the guard and he had kept his word. I started the countdown to midnight. Daniel was fully prepared, a large rock in his hand. At the stroke of midnight, he knocked the brains out of the horseman. We leapt out of the tumbrel and dashed to the spot a few paces from the guillotine. The rumbling filled the atmosphere again. Our visit to the eighteenth century France was mere history.
No one fainted, but when I landed, my vision was slightly blurred. “The side effects really do vary,” joked Daniel. Surprisingly, the police believed our story and took immediate action by sending professional archaeologists to excavate the place. Only one artefact was intact – a time machine. That explained everything!
What an adventure it was, and a great summer vacation too!!!