Counting Stars by David Almond

merry-go-rounds. I feel his hand guiding me forward. Little Kitten stands in the walkway wearing a white dress, calling out that she can tell the age of anyone for sixpence. She catches my arm as we pass. She points to Dad. “Forty-two,” she tells him. She holds out her hand. “Give us me sixpence, then.” He laughs and tosses the coin to her.
    She winks at me.
    “Give us an egg,” she squeaks.
    We move on.
    “It’s unbelievable,” he says. “It’s the same Time Machine as in my day. The same woman, the same man. They can’t be.”
    The woman stands on a low stage before the facade. She wears net tights, a bathing costume whose stiff bodice shimmers like a kingfisher’s wing. There is an older man beside her, in black top hat and tails. The beaded curtain is pulled back to expose a cool blue interior. The man leans out toward the gathering crowd. He scans our faces.
    “Who is bold enough to enter the Time Machine?” he calls.
    The woman smiles, so gentle.
    “Who could cope with the journey?” she asks. “Who could understand what will be seen?”
    I gaze up at her. Dad’s hand rests in the small of my back, pushing me forward. She catches my eye, her gaze moves on.
    The man holds a glittering black rock to us.
    He tells us, “Here is a stone brought back from the Moon.”
    He holds a curved piece of brass.
    “The breastplate of a centurion,” he calls.
    He shows a framed indecipherable script.
    “Writing from the ninth millennium,” he whispers.
    He leans closer.
    “What will the next voyager bring back? What wonder will be added to our marvelous museum?”
    She catches my eye again. She leans to me.
    “Who will travel with Corinna in the Time Machine?”
    There is laughter in the crowd. Some kid calls, “Me! Me!” Dad’s hand stretches across my back. “You,” he whispers. “You!”
    Corinna grins, leans down again.
    “You?” she asks. “This bonny boy?”
    She reaches down for me. I find my hand in her own. I find myself stepping upward. I hear Dad behind me laughing and calling: “Remember me!”
    They hold me between them on the stage. The man grips my shoulders, runs his hands over my arms and hips. “Call me Morlock,” he tells me. He peers deep into my eyes. He asks my name, my school, and I answer softly while Corinna holds my hand and tells me to be brave.
    “Are you intelligent?” he asks. “Can you remember what has been shown to you?”
    I nod. My head is reeling. I hear laughter and mockery from the crowd. I see the open curtain of the Time Machine.
    “What are your ambitions?” says Morlock.
    I gulp, reel.
    “To be happy,” I say.
    “Happy! Then what are your dreams?” he says. “What are your visions? What wonders have come in your young life?”
    I stare down at Dad. His eyes burn, they urge me to reply.
    Corinna strokes my cheek.
    “Be brave,” she whispers.
    I see Little Kitten laughing at me from between the stalls. A huge man bound in heavy chains lumbers through the field outside.
    “What are your dreams?” says Morlock.
    “I see God,” I whisper. “I see babies flying. I go to Heaven and Hell. I see the dead come back to life.”
    Morlock laughs. He slaps my back, shakes my hand.
    “We have chosen well, Corinna. Take him inside and make the preparations.”
    She turns me toward the entrance.
    “Who else will come inside?” calls Morlock. “Who will see our voyager set off on his journey through the ages? Who will enter our marvelous museum and learn of the intrepid voyagers from the past? Who will be there when the boy returns with his stories and his souvenirs . . . ?”
    We enter the blue interior, and behind us the people of Felling begin to step up to pay and follow . . .
    Inside: a translucent canopy, straw spread upon the grass, shelves, caskets and cupboards, another low stage, and the machine itself. It’s an upright cylinder, tall and broad as a hawthorn tree, made of timber, heavily varnished. Lights fixed in vertical rows, purple and