Hollow Earth

by John Barrowman

  Renard had been teaching Em to pay attention to the way people made her feel. Someday, he said, it might save her life. She knew this particular situation was not what her grandfather’d had in mind, but she also knew, like Matt and Zach, that she was really tired of being told what she could and couldn’t do with her own mind. Plus, what was the real harm in practising some of what they’d been learning?

  Em concentrated on the younger children next. The boy seemed focused and distracted at the same time. She couldn’t figure out what she was sensing from him until he climbed off the back of his mum’s tandem, feet crossed, bouncing on his heels.

  Em laughed to herself. He needed to go to the loo.

  The girl was willing to do whatever her parents suggested, but Em was feeling something else, another desire that was overwhelming the first. The girl was getting hungry.

  The older children, two boys aged about ten and eleven hanging at an appropriate distance from their parents, were far easier for her to assess. Both were clearly bored with everything they had done so far on this trip. In their opinions, Em was the first interesting thing that had happened since the vacation began.

  ‘My family used to work in television in London,’ said Em, telling the tale she had rehearsed with Matt and Zach, concentrating on the mum. ‘Now we live on the island with my grandfather. He owns a lot of the land along the far coast of the island. Every summer for a limited time, my family presents a re-enactment of one of the most famous moments in the island’s history. There’s a performance beginning in an hour if you’re interested.’

  Em handed the mum one of the flyers she and Matt had drawn, advertising The Battle of Auchinmurn. Her fingers glanced across the mum’s hand. The woman was already convinced, enthusiasm flowing from her.

  ‘Oh, Tom, let’s go,’ she said excitedly. ‘We’ll be supporting some local enterprise and I’m sure the boys will learn something unusual about Scotland.’

  ‘I’m hungry,’ whined the little girl.

  Em remembered Jeannie’s packed lunches. ‘We have sandwiches.’

  The eldest of the two boys spoke up. ‘C’mon, Dad, everything we’ve done so far on this stupid vacation has been so lame.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said his brother. ‘You’re always telling us we need to try new things. Let’s do it!’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said the dad, looking at his family and then down at the flyer. The picture the twins had drawn on the front was of an angry Viking standing next to his longship.

  Suddenly the Viking on the flyer thrust his sword out of the page towards the dad who yelped, instinctively ducking.

  ‘Jeez Louise! Lori, did you see that?’

  ‘Hologram,’ lied Em.

  ‘Well, young lady,’ he laughed, ‘I guess you’ve got yourself some customers.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  Em led the Nelsons from Nebraska – Tom, Lori and their four children – back round the island to Viking Cove, a rocky inlet on the southeast point of Auchinmurn. From the air, the cove looked as if something had taken a bite out of the rock, leaving an empty slice tucked from the view of passing boats. Because the beach was layered with uneven slabs of limestone – unlike the sandier beaches on the rest of the island – the cove was no more than a passing highlight on the island’s tour.

  I’m ten minutes away.

  We’re ready.

  The Nelsons followed Em along Beach Road, then on to a forest path, heading towards the sea. About five minutes along the trail, they reached a dilapidated fisherman’s shack, where they parked their bikes, continuing on foot across a rocky plateau that eventually stepped down to the cove.

  The view was so stunning from this promontory that Em had to wait for Mr Nelson to snap a number of photos of his family with the Celtic tower as a backdrop. When they eventually climbed down to the cove, haunting Gaelic whistle music rose up to greet them from wireless speakers Zach had installed under the rocks.

  ‘Oh, listen kids,’ said Mrs Nelson, helping her youngest children down off the ledge. ‘Maybe there’s a leprechaun hidden in that cave.’

  Puhleeze, thought Em, but let the statement pass. ‘Welcome to the site of one of the most famous events in Auchinmurn’s history. If you’ll please take a seat.’ She pointed to a long wooden bench inside the mouth of a cave hidden under the overhang of rocks. ‘I’ll see about sandwiches, and getting your tickets.’ Em smiled up at Mr Nelson. ‘They’re five pounds each. Children under five are free.’

  ‘Oh, of course,’ laughed Mr Nelson. ‘You’re quite the entrepreneur. Good for you.’

  He counted twenty-five pounds into Em’s palm. She thanked him and ducked inside the cave, returning quickly with Jeannie’s lunches, which she handed over for another four quid.

  Once the Nelsons had settled, the children having eaten all Jeannie’s chocolate biscuits and most of the cheese sandwiches, Em dropped a curtain over the cave’s entrance. Pulling a rope divider in front of the bench where the Nelsons sat, she darted behind a black screen that Matt and Zach had built from old painting canvases. A row of lights, strung along the roof, illuminated the space.

  The Gaelic music came on again, the tune echoing eerily off the rocks. A silver light appeared in the centre of the black canvas, spreading out to the edges as if the film projector was too hot, melting the film. The lights went out.

  ‘Woot! Woot!’ exclaimed the older Nelson boys.

  The two younger children shifted closer to their mum and dad.

  The lights came up, gradually revealing a stunning sight on the screen – a painting of a bustling village square, obviously from a very long time ago. The fortified monastery tower loomed in the background, thatched cottages surrounded the square in the forefront, and, beyond that, a square-sailed ship floated on a sliver of sea.

  But what brought a gasp from the mum and ‘awesome’ from the older boys was that everything in the painting was in motion: shoeless children chasing each other while dodging slop thrown from an open cottage window, fat men drinking and brawling outside a tavern, two rosy-cheeked women gesturing and joking with a laughing monk, a farmer feeding his horse, a band of musicians leading a wedding party through the square, chickens foraging in the dirt, dogs fighting under a tree, and a pig spinning on a spit.

  ‘Looks like a Brueghel painting, doesn’t it?’ said Mr Nelson to his wife. ‘Very clever how they’re doing that.’

  ‘Shhh!’ Mrs Nelson said.

  I told you to copy something else.

  Shhh! Get out of my head, Em.

  The lights dimmed. This time when they came up, one of the rosy-cheeked peasant women from the painting, her shoulders wrapped in a woollen shawl, stepped out of the lively scene and appeared to stand before them in the cave.

  Mr Nelson clapped his hands.

  The peasant curtseyed, and the whole family applauded enthusiastically.

  ‘Good morrow, strangers. Welcome to the Middle Ages!’ The voice had a pleasant highland lilt. Em had recorded Jeannie’s voice last week, saying she needed it for a project she was working on with Simon. Jeannie had been thrilled to oblige.

  Good morrow? Really, Em?

  It sounds historical.

  Hysterical, maybe.

  ‘Focus!’ signed Zach to them both.

  They were all hidden in the darkness behind the canvas screen. With his computer, Zach was controlling the lighting, the prerecorded sounds and dialogue, while the twins were animating drawings they’d planned out beforehand from Renard’s stories about the island. They were drawing on a storyboard that they had rigged behind the screen. Each square of the storyboard, and there were many, contained an outline sketch. As Matt and Em used their imaginations to fill in the image, their animations appeared to burst through the black canvas in trails of colour and light like holograms. The screen created an illusion for their audience that the images were somehow being projected from behind the canvas.

  ‘My name is Morag,’ said the peasant woman. ‘Many centuries ago, I lived in t
he village near the Monastery of Era Mina. I’d like to tell you the story of how my son, a thirteen-year-old boy, saved the children of the village from slavery during a bloody Viking raid.’

  ‘Is she real?’ asked the Nelson girl.

  ‘Of course not, sweetie,’ whispered her mum, ‘it’s special effects.’

  ‘It’s called CGI,’ said one of the older boys. ‘Computer-generated images. It’s brilliant! Can’t she just be quiet and watch?’

  Morag stepped to the side of the screen. The boisterous village behind her was now quiet as dawn approached.

  ‘It was the day after market day, when under the cover of dawn a band of Norsemen invaded the island. Without warning, they torched the village, forcing us all inside the protection of the Abbey’s fortified walls.’

  As the twins started filling in the next outline sketch, another painting of the village square filled the screen, one with terrified villagers fleeing from a swarm of encroaching Norsemen, their torches engulfing the thatched houses, flames flickering out of the screen so realistically that, for a second, Mrs Nelson thought she could feel the heat of the blaze.

  Careful, Matt! You’ll singe her eyebrows.

  Zach hit the sound effects, and the tolling of the monastery’s warning bell made the Nelson children jump. Zach hit another key, and the screams of terrified villagers filled the cave.

  Nice, Zach.

  ‘I’m scared,’ said the Nelson’s little girl.

  ‘Oh, it’s just pretend, sweetheart,’ said her mum, pulling her closer. ‘Those bad men can’t hurt you.’

  Morag looked directly into Mrs Nelson’s eyes. ‘After they torched our homes, the Norsemen shepherded us all into the square. Then they began to round up our children. All except Solon, my son, an apprentice to the monastery and a very brave boy.’

  A painting of the monastery courtyard came alive on the screen. The Vikings, their longswords dripping with blood, began rounding up the village children.

  ‘But the villagers were not going to let that happen without a fight,’ added Morag.

  ‘Why do they want the children?’ the Nelson girl whispered to her mum.

  The cave filled with villagers, pitchforks, spades and knives in hand, charging the Norseman, while the children pelted them with horse manure.

  I think we’re scaring the little girl, Matt. Maybe we should stop.

  Aw, no! We’re almost at the best part with Solon and the beast.

  Mr Nelson and the boys were loving every minute of the battle that was unfolding in front of them. A Viking came flying out of the screen, rolling into the corner of the cave, where he disappeared in a flash of light and colour. The youngest boy was so excited, he stood up and cheered, the apple he’d been saving for later falling from his lap and rolling against the screen.

  Darting under the rope, the boy crouched and grabbed his apple, as two villagers brandishing pitchforks leaped off the screen, one after the other, in pursuit of the Viking. The second villager stabbed the Nelson boy, before tumbling into the darkness.

  The boy let out a terrified, pain-stricken howl. His mother, seeing blood gushing from her youngest son’s leg, screamed in panic, and because her mother was screaming in panic the little girl began to scream too.

  Lights, Zach! Quickly. Lights!

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Largs was bustling with tourists enjoying the last gasp of a glorious, sunny August day, when Renard stepped on to the pavement outside the train station. He’d left the island that morning for the Kelvingrove Art Gallery in Glasgow, not long after Matt, Em and Zach had biked from the compound. Now he was on his way back.

  He removed his suit jacket, folded it over his arm and, dodging the heavy traffic cruising along the promenade, walked smartly to the ferry dock.

  Once on the ship, he settled himself on the upper passenger deck. He was about to unfold his newspaper, when he felt a weight, a distinct pressure, pushing on his chest. Gripping the ship’s railing, he closed his eyes, allowing the vision he knew was coming to take form.

  When he opened his eyes, a boy of about four or five years old stood on the deck in front of him, an apple in his hands. The boy was wearing a University of Nebraska T-shirt with a bandage around his thigh. On closer inspection, Renard could see the boy had horse manure smeared across his arms.

  ‘Mr Renard, are you all right?’ asked one of the ship’s crew, walking through the apparition as it dissolved around him. ‘You look awful pale.’

  ‘I’m fine, Jimmy. Thank you. The heat, plus a tiring day, is all.’

  Renard fished his mobile phone out of his briefcase, speed-dialling Simon. No answer. He scrolled down and dialled Sandie. Nothing. Mara – no answer. The children’s new phones. Nothing. Dead silence.

  Where was everyone? Why weren’t they answering their phones?

  Renard was angry rather than panicked. He knew that he would have sensed if something tragic or terrible had happened on the island. He was also angry because the vision of the little boy with the apple had come from Em. She was not yet fully aware of the deep connection Renard had with her as her Guardian powers strengthened, but the boy with the apple was obviously something she had witnessed or, worse still, created some time that afternoon. It had affected her significantly.

  Renard pushed his way off the ferry, cutting to the front of the waiting line, running to his car in the car park. Normally a patient man, Renard used his horn more times on the journey to the Abbey than he had ever done before, forcing drivers and pedestrians out of his way.

  The gates to his home were wide open when he turned into the grounds, his tyres spraying gravel in all directions as he raced along the lane and skidded to a stop in the Abbey’s front courtyard. Before he had climbed from the car, Mara was already outside the front doors.

  ‘Calm down, Renard,’ she said. ‘Somehow our communication network was infected with a virus. That’s why the gates are open. Simon is convinced that it wasn’t an outside hacker. He’s working on correcting it. We should be back online soon.’

  ‘I’m not bothered about that. It’s the twins and Zach. Where are they?’

  ‘They’re fine,’ Mara soothed. ‘At least, we think they’re fine.’

  ‘What do you mean, “we think”?’

  ‘Simon received a text from Zach around lunchtime.’

  ‘Lunchtime?’ said Renard, appalled. ‘That was three hours ago! I’ve been picking up visions from Em. Unsettling visions.’

  Mara lifted Renard’s briefcase from the back seat and followed him inside while filling him in. ‘Directly before the system crashed, Simon checked the GPS he’d installed. The three of them were on the hiking trails north of the old church in Seaport. Probably looking for the burial mound they thought they’d found.’

  Renard exhaled slowly before marching into the library to a cabinet near a grouping of leather chairs, where he lifted out a decanter of whisky, pouring himself and Mara a drink. Renard had only taken a sip when Simon stormed into the room, slamming his laptop on to Renard’s desk, which sat facing the arched window with a view of Era Mina and the bay.

  ‘Zach was the one who crashed our system.’

  ‘What!’ said Renard.

  Simon was as white as chalk. ‘He wrote a piece of code that simulated my GPS program so that we couldn’t track the three of them when they left the compound. Somehow he’s patched it into our network. But the little monster isn’t as smart as he thinks. His program hit a glitch. And when it tried to repair itself, it corrupted our entire system.’

  Renard sat down on a leather sofa, rubbing his hands across his face. ‘What was he thinking?’

  ‘You’ve got to give the kid credit for ingenuity,’ said Mara, trying to repress a smile as she finished her drink.

  ‘Not funny, Mara,’ said Renard. ‘Who knows what damage he might have done?’

  ‘Well, you know one thing. Zach wouldn’t have done this without the twins’ approval, if not their help,’ said Simon.

&nbs
p; ‘Oh, I’m well aware of that, Simon,’ said Renard. ‘I don’t know what they were thinking either. They may still be learning, but they know the rules.’

  Simon worked on his laptop for a few more seconds before closing it. ‘Good news is, the damage wasn’t too bad. We should be fine now.’

  ‘Good,’ said Renard, finishing his drink. ‘That leaves me to deal with the boy with the apple and the manure on his arm.’

  Renard was describing his vision on the ferry, when Sandie came through the open library door to join them.

  ‘Hey, did I miss the invitation for cocktails?’ she asked. She caught the anger in Renard’s eyes immediately. ‘What’s wrong? Where are the children?’

  ‘That, my dear,’ said Renard, ‘is the question.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The children were exactly where most children love to be on a sunny summer’s day: perched on the beach wall, eating ice-cream sundaes. Behind them, the Seaport Café was packed, its outdoor deck spilling customers on to the sand to enjoy their frozen treats.

  Zach, Matt and Em were watching a game of volleyball, oblivious to the man and woman sitting at one of the umbrella tables. The blonde woman was dressed in a white halterneck dress, and the man was impatiently tapping the ring on his little finger against his coffee cup.

  ‘At least Mr Nelson didn’t ask for a refund,’ said Em.

  Matt licked up the crumbs of his chocolate flake, lobbing his plastic bowl into a nearby rubbish container. ‘That family got way too excited about a tiny scratch and a little cow dung. Their boy was fine.’

  ‘Thanks to Zach’s quick thinking,’ said Em. ‘If he hadn’t told Mr Nelson that he’d fallen against the screen and accidentally stepped on the boy with his cleats … well, who knows what would have happened?’

  ‘You could have tried to make them forget what they saw,’ said Matt. ‘You know, that inspiriting thing Grandpa told us about.’