Isle of Winds (The Changeling Series Book 1)

by Fahy, James

  This was definitely the tower. The room was sparsely furnished. A large king-sized bed, covered in many white sheets, an ottoman of dark oak, an old-fashioned writing bureau and a huge looming wardrobe, all in dark wood. His battered old suitcase was laid at the foot of the bed.

  Robin crossed quickly to the wardrobe and opened it. Things had been so odd lately it wouldn’t have surprised him to have seen a lamppost lurking behind fur coats. He threw his own coat inside and opened all the windows, peering out in every direction at the rolling green landscape.

  He was above the roofs here in the tower and the views were excellent. Behind the house, the land sloped off, disappearing into dense forest. There was a faint twinkle amongst the trees, sunlight on water.

  He was hanging out of the window, enjoying the cold air on his face, when he heard a noise behind him.

  He pulled his head back in and looked around.

  There was a scruffy-looking boy leaning in the doorframe. He was taller than Robin and looked a little older, with longish messy brown hair that looked as though it would defy any attempts to comb it. He was smiling in a friendly way and wearing old jeans and a brown jumper. It was possibly the most unremarkable sight Robin had seen all day.

  “Hello,” Robin said.

  “Alright?” the boy replied in greeting, coming into the room. “Robin, is it?”

  “Yeah,” said Robin.

  “I’m Henry,” the boy said amiably. He sat on Robin’s bed, which squeaked alarmingly, running his fingers through his unruly hair. “My dad said you were coming today. He picked you up from the train station in our rubbish old banger, didn’t he?” He was looking around the room with unashamed curiosity. “I’ve never been in here before. Been nearly everywhere else in Erlking. Always figured Irene must keep all her dead husbands up here or something like that.”

  Robin suddenly realised who this was. “You’re Mr Drover’s son, aren’t you?”

  Henry nodded. “Yep. My dad looks after the place. We live down in the village.” He grinned lopsidedly. “We’re hardly ever there really. We’re up here more.” He smiled. “Big place, don’t you know. Takes a lot of looking after. Do you play football?”

  Robin shook his head. “No, not really. I’m pretty rubbish at sports to be honest. Do you go to school in the village?”

  Henry nodded. “Yeah, more’s the pity. Are you going to be coming? It’s rubbish. Tiny too. We got a pool put in last year though, finally. It smells like feet. You’re from Manchester, aren’t you? Is it good living in a big city?”

  Robin shrugged. “It’s alright,” he replied. “Living in the city, I mean. That is … it was alright. Busy, noisy, you know.”

  Henry looked a little uncomfortable. “I feel like a country mouse.” He seemed to remember something and suddenly looked a little awkward. “Oh, sorry. I heard about your Gran from Dad. That must have been awful. You know, what happened to her. Bad business.” He swung his legs, banging his heels against the bedpost.

  Robin didn’t really want to talk about it. Especially with someone he’d only just met. “Yeah,” he said bluntly, effectively cutting off that line of conversation. Silence hung between the two boys for a moment.

  “But you’ll like it here,” Henry brightened up. “Erlking’s great, I wish I lived here. I mean, I’m here all the time, like I said, but it’s not the same is it?” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Though I reckon someone should give you the heads up. Irene’s a nutter. Totally off her rocker.”

  Robin laughed. “I just met her,” he said. “She is a bit … weird I suppose.”

  Henry grinned. “She’s not weird, lad, she’s a nutter, I’m telling you. A proper, howl at the moon type, if you know what I mean.” He pushed himself up off the bed. “One time, right, my dad broke a statue. One of those little ones that’s just head and shoulders, and she chased him clean out of the house with a fireside poker. You’d never know she could move so fast on those old lady pins, but she was off like a crack. She’s a wild one, no mistake.”

  Robin laughed again, though he found this hard to believe.

  “It’s true,” the other boy grinned.

  Henry ambled over to Robin. He leaned out of the window next to him, peering down at the treetops beyond the grounds. He was a good head taller than Robin. “She’s a good enough one though,” he conceded gracefully. “A straight arrow … if you don’t mind her temper.”

  “My Gran was a nutter too,” said Robin affectionately. “So I don’t think it’ll be a problem.” He sighed a little. “It’s a lot of change though. Feels weird not knowing anyone here.”

  Henry idly flicked a bit of dried bird poo off the windowsill. “Well, that’s one problem solved already, isn’t it? You know me.”

  His brow furrowed. “Are you sure you don’t play football?”

  Robin, who had never had the slightest interest in sport, shook his head. “Sorry, no.”

  Henry looked a little disappointed.

  “I can show you how rubbish I am, if you want.”

  They spend the remainder of the hour kicked a ball around outside, feeling oddly as though they’d known each other forever.

  * * *

  At lunch, which was taken at a ridiculously long table in a grand dining room, Great Aunt Irene didn’t display any signs of being ‘off her nut’. She seemed, in fact, to be quite on it, asking Robin all manner of normal and polite questions. Mr Drover and Henry had joined them for lunch. The four of them sat up at one end of the table, sharing a mix of pancakes and scones with jam and cream.

  She had announced that their first meal together should not be a time for discussing all those troublesome things that no doubt they would need to discuss eventually. They would have a proper talk later, just the two of them. For now, they were to eat, as she had read somewhere that boys have to eat at least every two hours or they die. Mr Drover had found this very funny. After lunch, Robin would be put under the charge of young Henry, who could show him around and make sure he knew all the places not to go and the things not to mess with. This would save time later, she reasoned, when he was looking for trouble.

  Henry grinned at this, under Great Aunt Irene’s raised eyebrows, but he had the good sense to look slightly abashed as well.

  The boys wandered through the house. Henry showed Robin around proudly. He showed him how the planesphere worked, a large brass model of the universe in a first floor study. Robin pointed out that the planets were all wrong. There were too many of them and they didn’t rotate in the right way. Henry just shrugged at this in his casual, disinterested way.

  Robin learned where the main stairs were, how to get from the tower to the ground floor without a fifteen minute search, and the important fact that sliding on the banisters, whilst incredibly tempting, would result in a severe poker chase.

  “It seems like such a massive house for just one old woman,” Robin remarked as they made their way along a long corridor. “All these rooms … I bet she doesn’t use most of them.”

  “Well, there’s me and my dad too,” Henry shrugged. “We stay here overnight sometimes, if dad’s working late. Or if it’s the holidays. We’ve got a set of rooms in the east wing.” He led Robin up a set of four steps, seemingly set into the middle of the long corridor for no other reason than to liven things up a bit. “And then there’s the housekeeper, Hestia. She lives here too. She’s got rooms on the second floor, though she’s usually poking about in the kitchen. She’s the cook too.” He rolled his eyes at Robin. “You haven’t met her yet, lucky you. She’s an absolute battleaxe.”

  “Really?” Robin asked.

  “Whatever you do, don’t make the mistake I made and call her Esther.” Henry held up a finger in warning. “It’s Hestia ‘with a haitch’. She’s a bit of a snob. Calls me Master Drover.” He made a face. “Hate that.”

  “She sounds like a barrel of laughs,” Robin said doubtfully.

  “She’s very house-proud,” Henry explained. “Likes everything and
everyone in its place. You can’t miss her. Face like a spade.”

  They had reached the end of this particular corridor. A red wooden door blocked their way. Henry grabbed the handle and went to walk through, carrying on his charming tirade. The door didn’t budge and he stumbled straight into it.

  “It’s locked,” Robin said, trying not to laugh.

  Henry frowned. “Huh … that’s weird,” he said.

  “What?”

  “That it’s locked. The doors are never locked. Trust me, I get about. Idle hands and all that.” He frowned at the large black iron keyhole. It peered innocently back at him. “In fact,” the boy continued. “I don’t think I’ve ever even seen this door before.” He looked back down the corridor.

  “Third floor, bathroom corridor,” he muttered to himself. He looked at the row of closed doors which punctuated the corridor behind them. “There’s the spare bedroom with the blue wallpaper and the rug that smells like dogs. There’s the music room with the windows painted shut. Round the corner’s the study with the planesphere and the hatboxes…”

  Robin looked from the boy to the red door.

  “This door’s never been here before, I’m sure,” Henry said.

  “It must have,” replied Robin. “Doors don’t just appear. You must have missed it.”

  The door looked very old. It had a bit of carving on it, but it had faded away over time. The round doorknob had a small letter ‘J’ and some curly leaves carved into it.

  Henry looked at him sarcastically. “Listen, mate, I’ve crawled all over this house since I was born. Thirteen years of exploring.” He shook his head.

  He dropped down and put his eye to the keyhole.

  “See anything?” Robin asked.

  Henry shook his head. “It’s all dark,” he said. “Maybe the old bird used to have something in front of it. A grandfather clock or a painting, something like that.”

  “Why don’t we go ask her?” he suggested.

  Henry stood up. “Nah. I’ve got a better idea. We’ll get the keys off Hestia. She must have keys for every room.”

  “I thought you said no other rooms had locks?” Robin argued.

  “Well … she must have one for this at least.”

  “You reckon she’d let us have it?” he asked. “The key, I mean?”

  Henry laughed. “Hestia? No way. Are you kidding? Not a chance. She won’t give me the time o’ day, never mind lending me her keys.”

  “But you just said…”

  “I said we’ll get the keys,” Henry grinned. “I didn’t say we’d ask.”

  Chapter Four –

  Woad at the Fountain

  The plan to get the housekeeper’s keys would have to wait until morning, as they discovered that the formidable Hestia was away in town for the day.

  The back-up plan of football also had to be rethought due to a sudden change in weather. The rain came out of nowhere, gusting in great sheets and turning the blue sky to slate.

  Robin, though, was not about to be put off by a bit of wet. He’d been dying to get out into the gardens all morning. He looked at the forest beyond the lawns, lost in a rainy mist. Between, there was a small fountain down there in a neat herb-garden.

  “What’s that statue?” he asked.

  Henry appeared at his side, looking with a bored half-hearted expression. “It’s one of those goat men with pipes, you know, they have little beards and go prancing about the show.”

  “Fauns,” Robin supplied.

  “Something like that. The water comes out of the pipes.”

  “Fancy going and having a look?” Robin asked.

  Henry made a disdainful face. “It’s lashing down! Are you out of your mind?”

  “So?” Robin was about to turn and look away from the fountain, when something caught his eye in the bushes behind the statue. If there’s one colour that really stands out against green, it’s blue. That’s what he now saw. A blue face and blue shoulders, blue chest and blue arms. The legs he saw weren’t blue, they were browny-green – but that was because they were in browny-green pants. The feet at the end of them, however, were blue.

  It was in short, a small blue boy, standing by the statue. He saw Robin looking and, quick as a cat, he darted into the bushes and was gone.

  “Did you see that?” Robin asked, staring.

  Henry looked down. “Look, I know it’s pretty, but it’s only a fountain, Robin.”

  “Not the fountain. There was a kid, a boy like us. Only he was blue. Just in pants, no shoes or shirt, he was right there, by the bushes!”

  “Well, I’d be blue with no shirt on in this rain.”

  “Not cold blue, properly blue. As in blue skin.”

  Henry snorted. “Oh. Alright then. Because that makes much more sense.”

  “I’m not kidding, will you look?” Robin said. Henry sighed and peered down at the fountain and its ring of bushes.

  “So,” he said after a minute, his breath fogging the glass. “Where’s the smurf?”

  Robin elbowed him. “Very funny. He must be hiding in the bushes.”

  “Why?” Henry asked.

  “Because I saw him, obviously,” Robin replied, scanning the area like a hawk. “I don’t think he expected anyone to.”

  “No, I mean why would some random boy come all the way up here from the village covered in blue face paint and prance about in the rain freezing to death?”

  “Maybe he’s not from the village?” Robin countered.

  “Well, there’s nowhere else to be from, not for miles,” Henry noted. “We don’t get many visitors here in Barrowood.”

  “You ever seen a man dressed like an undertaker on Halloween?” Robin asked. “Old dusty coat-tails, white face. Bright orange hair like a pumpkin?”

  Henry was looking at Robin with an even stranger expression now. “No. I think I’d remember him.”

  “Well then, you’ve got at least one visitor in the village,” said Robin. “‘Cause I saw him this morning. He was the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “Maybe this freaky man and your blue boy are part of a travelling circus,” Henry offered with a snigger.

  Robin shot him a very serious look. “Listen, lots of weird things have been happening to me. Ever since Gran died. Only little things, but if you add them up, they equal big weird.”

  “Are you always like this?” Henry asked after a moment. “‘Cause it could get exhausting.”

  “So if I say there’s a blue boy spying on us, then there is, right?”

  “Alright … alright! Stranger things have happened, I suppose,” Henry replied. “What do I know eh?”

  “Let’s go out and have a look,” Robin said.

  Henry sighed, peering out grudgingly at the rain.

  It took them so long to find boots and coats that Robin began to fear that the blue boy would be gone. When they got outside, it seemed he was right.

  Henry stood sulkily by the fountain, which was a great deal larger and more impressive up close, hood up and hands thrust deep into his pockets. Rain splattered off his shoulders hard enough to make new rain of its very own. “I’m so very glad we decided to leave the warm, dry indoors to have this ripping adventure,” he muttered dryly.

  Robin ignored him. The breeze drove the water under his hood, plastering his blonde hair to his forehead. He peered into the bushes, hoping to see a blue face hiding behind the leaves.

  There was no one to be found.

  “There was someone here,” Robin said determinedly. “I saw him.”

  Henry diplomatically said nothing.

  “Hello?” Robin called into the bushes. “It’s okay, I just want to talk to you … whoever you are.”

  The bushes showed no signs of replying. Robin thought about getting a sharp stick and poking them, but that would probably give the wrong impression.

  “Can we go in now?” Henry asked patiently. “Not that it’s not a laugh, chatting to topiary, but I reckon I’m growing gills.”
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  Robin sighed down his nose, frustrated. He wondered briefly if he was going mad. “There’s nothing out here but us and the goat man,” he agreed gloomily. “Let’s go back.”

  “Come on,” Henry smiled. “I’ll thrash you at cards instead.”

  * * *

  Nothing further of an unusual nature happened until later that evening. Mr Drover had finished for the day and gone home, taking Henry with him. Robin, at a loose end with nothing else to occupy him, went in search of his aunt.

  He found her in a study. Floor to ceiling bookcases lined the walls, crammed with every kind of book, map and even scrolls. She was at a sitting at a desk in the corner, papers arrayed all about her, wearing half-moon spectacles and seeming very intent on her business, so much so that Robin was loath to disturb her. But after a few moments, she seemed to sense him at the door.

  “I thought I made it clear earlier, Robin, that I am not fond of those who lurk in doorways,” Irene said mildly, without looking up. “There are plenty of dark corners in this house which are much better suited for lurking, if that is your wont. Doorways are for using.”

  Robin came into the study, closing the doors behind him.

  “I can come back later if you’re busy,” he said.

  She laid down her pen and shuffled some papers. “I shall still be busy then,” she said simply. “Now is as good a time as any.”

  Robin crossed the room, floorboards creaking under his feet. It was very quiet in the house. The rain had finally stopped and the sun had gone down an hour ago. It was strange not to have a TV or radio blaring. Gran had always disliked things being too quiet.

  “Have a seat,” Irene waved him towards a chair by the fire, which was popping away merrily. “Tell me how you are finding your first day here at Erlking.”

  Robin flopped into the high-backed chair as Irene tided her papers away and turned to face him.

  “It’s a nice house. I like it,” Robin said. “It’s massive. I keep getting lost. My room’s great by the way, thanks.”