“Yes? What ye want?”
“I’m Angus MacBain. I was sent here by my grandfather. Are you my aunt?”
“Aye,” she said, and then motioned him inside. “Mind ye wet shoes.”
Angus stepped inside the icy entryway, slipped off his soggy tennis shoes and stood shivering on the chilly stone floor. She glowered at him with her arms crossed. Her cold gaze sent even colder chills down his spine. The old woman’s eyes appeared flat, unlike anything he’d ever seen, and an odd shade of periwinkle blue. He followed her into a scantly furnished living room to a cold fireplace. “Start a fire if ye cold.” Her jaw tightened. “I’ll be in my study.”
She started to walk away and then paused without turning around. “Ye bedroom’s on the left, at the head of the stairs. Ye grandfather’s old room, just as he left it. There’s a bucket of peat by the hearth for a fire.”
Angus waited until she was out of sight, and then turned his attention to the living room. The house smelled weird, like old shoes, and the only furniture was a single wooden rocker. A thin plaid blanket draped across the back and Angus resisted the urge to wrap it around his shoulders. He didn’t need another scolding. Oil paintings of ancestors he didn’t know hung on the whitewashed walls in heavy gilt frames. With a lit fire, the house might seem inviting, even cozy, if not for his grim-faced aunt.
Angus went to the foot of the narrow staircase, grabbed his suitcase and started to climb. With each step, the old wood cried out as if alive. He held his breath and gripped the handrail. He didn’t like heights and could imagine himself plunging through the rotten steps.
Two doors stood at the top of the creaky staircase; both were closed, unfriendly. He chose the one on the left. The hallway between the doors flickered with light from the stub of a single wax candle in a tin saucer. Angus grasped the glass doorknob and gave it a turn. The door opened into a pitch-black room. He reached his hand inside and felt along the wall for a switch. He found it and flipped it on. A bare light bulb flooded the room with a dirty yellow glow. A layer of dust, almost an inch deep, coated every object in the room like a cloak.
When Angus tossed his suitcase on the bed, a cloud of dust flew up his nose. He let out a great sneeze, then another. He wiped the grime from his eyes and studied his grandfather’s room. A stone fireplace stood to the right, its gaping mouth covered in a film of cobwebs. Hickory bookcases filled with leather bound volumes reached the ceiling and a beat up steamer trunk stood against the opposite wall beside a roll-top desk.
Angus opened his suitcase and changed into a black T-shirt and jeans. He went to the fireplace, found the bucket of peat and stacked it inside the hearth. The fireplace looked so old, he wondered if it was even safe to use. Angus shuddered and wrapped his arms around himself. Even the tip of his nose was frozen, and every exhale he made caused great puffs of vapor like a dragon’s breath. At least if the house caught on fire he’d be warm.
A long match rested on the mantle, and he struck it against the flagstone. An orange flame sizzled at the tip and Angus lit the fire. Heat filled the room within moments, the burning peat giving off a smell of cooked moss.
Angus wrinkled his nose and crawled into bed. He lay with his arms underneath his head, listening to the crackling fire, and thinking about his grandfather. An arrow of pain shot into his insides. This had been Duncan’s childhood room, and he missed him more now than ever.
Angus held back his tears and studied the bedroom set aglow by the firelight. What treasure had his grandfather left behind? He couldn’t wait until morning to explore the room and find out.
****
Sounds of hammering woke Angus the next morning. He sat up in bed, yawned and placed his feet on the cold floor. The hammering stopped, replaced by the whirl of a drill. The noises sounded near. He slipped his socks on, which had dried nicely by the fire, opened his bedroom door and followed the noise.
Across the hallway, behind the closed door, it sounded as if a construction crew was hard at work. The noise suddenly stopped. Angus waited, but all remained quiet. He crept back inside his bedroom, stoked the dying fire, and surveyed the room. He went to a desk and rolled up the top. Angus’ heart filled with sadness. A Christmas photo of his parents holding him as a small child rested inside. Cradling the precious object, he studied the happy family. An unexpected wave of anger shot to his throat. Why couldn’t things be different? Most kids his age had parents and even grandparents. Why did he have to suffer so many hardships? And why did he have to travel across the world to live where he wasn’t wanted?
Angus slipped the picture into his wallet, swallowed his anger and set his mind on exploring the desk. He tugged open the side drawers only to find several broken sets of eyeglasses, old receipts, and letters strewn about. Someone had rifled through everything. Probably his aunt. What was she looking for?
Crammed into the very back of the last drawer he pulled out a faded manila envelope. The clasp on the back bore a large wax seal imprinted with the image of a wildcat. It held a shield in its right paw with its claws extended in the left. The writing around the cat in a half moon read, Touch not a catt bot a targe. Angus had seen the wildcat before and the strange writing on a gold plaque on his grandfather’s nightstand between a Kleenex box and a roll of antacids.
“What does that mean, Grandpa?” Angus had asked. Duncan had picked up the plaque and pointed to the writing. “This means, don’t touch clan MacBain without a shield for protection. The wildcat is our clan beastie. No one messes with a MacBain.”
Angus flipped over the package, someone had already ripped it open. He reached inside and found an old-fashioned key tied on a red ribbon. What would such a long key fit? His heart skipped. Maybe the trunk? He hurried to the antique chest, but someone had already broken the padlock clean off. A wave of disappointment washed over him. Whatever treasure it once held, was probably gone. Angus lifted the lid and the rusty hinges groaned.
A set of fine-crafted books with vellum covers rested inside. He picked up the first one, no doubt bound by his grandfather’s skilled hands, and blew the dust off. An odor of mold drifted from the pages. They were beautiful books, but hardly the kind of treasure he was hoping for. Angus started to put the book back when he noticed a glint of something metal underneath. He carefully removed more books and found a silver box the size of a football. A Celtic cross with a ring around the center ornamented by knotwork and spirals graced the lid.
Angus lifted it into the light. A lock, shaped like a dragon’s head with a skinny keyhole in the center held it shut. Fresh scratches showed where someone had tried unsuccessfully to pick the lock. The trunk key was too big, but with something long and pointy, he might be able to pry it open. Angus scanned the room, saw nothing helpful and put the box back. He reached up to close the trunk and stopped. There was an inscription on the inside of the lid. His grandfather’s bold writing. Catch a dragon by the tail, do the same to open one. Angus reached for his amulet and slipped it off. “I wonder …”
The tail of the dragon fit perfectly. One twist and the box clicked open. Then something snapped. Angus’ heart fell. At first, he thought he’d broken the amulet, but a closer look told him different. The tail had a tiny hinge that enabled the charm to bend and open without breaking. A tiny hole big enough for a secret hiding place contained a rolled up scrap of parchment. He tugged the paper free, and unrolled it. A drawing of a cat’s eye. Perhaps an ancient symbol used by his ancestors!
Angus snapped the dragon tail closed, re-rolled the paper, and slipped it into his pocket. He examined the contents of the box. Empty. He tipped it over and something slid around inside. His pulse quickened. A tiny lever protruded on the back. Angus pushed it and a hidden door sprang open. A pocket-sized book rested inside, sewn together with dark thread at the seams. What could be so secret that his grandfather had kept it under lock and key?
He flipped the book open. The first few pages contained a series of odd sketches, maps showing watercourses, and strange c
reatures. Probably an ancient manuscript of tales his grandfather had copied and bound for safekeeping.
Angus felt eyes boring into the back of his head. He whirled to stare at the closed door. A shadow passed under the doorframe, accompanied by the scuffle of feet. Angus narrowed his eyes and stood, listening as footsteps faded away and down the stairs. He wadded up a piece of newspaper near the fire and shoved it into the keyhole.
Angus put on his jacket, tucked the silver box back into the trunk and slipped the book inside his pocket. A loud hammering made him jump. The drilling sound returned. What was going on in that room?
4
Angus left his room and headed downstairs to find something to eat. His empty stomach rumbled against his ribs. He hurried down the creaky steps, just in case one gave way, and into the chilly entryway. The house looked much the same as it had the night before. Dark and depressing, not even a cozy fire.
“Good morning,” Angus called out. “Anyone here?” His words echoed down the hallway and disappeared. The hair prickled on the back of his neck and he had the distinct feeling of being watched. He whirled around. No one.
Inside the large, shadowy living room, he stepped on something squishy. Angus lifted his leg and examined his soggy sock. A slimy green blob of seaweed clung to the bottom. Angus reached down and pulled off the wet lump. What was seaweed doing in the house? He held it out at arm’s length, shrugged, and tossed the icky stuff into the cold hearth. His stomach ached, reminding him of his search for breakfast.
“Hello,” Angus called out again. Still no answer. He didn’t want to go into the kitchen and help himself, but what else could he do? Starve to death? A short hallway led past an empty study and around a corner to a spacious kitchen. An old-fashioned stove, with a long crooked pipe, dominated the center of the room. A wide, wooden countertop with deep sandstone sinks sat under a dingy window.
Something flickered out of the corner of his eye, buzzing over his head, following his every move. A giant wasp! It stared at him, hovering near with a rectangular gaze. Angus reached for a flyswatter hanging near the stove. The insect shot past him, landed on the window sill and squeezed through a crack in the wall, escaping outside.
Angus breathed a sigh of relief and hurried to the refrigerator, an antique chrome giant with a silver handle. He pulled open the door. Empty. Not even a scrap of cheese. He opened all the cupboards one after another, careful to shut each one silently. Every shelf bare. What did his aunt live on, air? He chuckled. Maybe she was one of Fane’s vampires. She certainly fit the part.
“Something funny?”
Angus jumped and spun on his heel to find Aunt Prudence glaring down at him. She planted her skinny hands on her hips. “What are ye doing in here?”
“I was looking for something to eat,” Angus stammered.
“Why don’t ye just ask then?”
“I called for you, but you weren’t around.”
Prudence narrowed her piercing blue eyes. “I was upstairs in my room. Next time, try knocking instead of snooping.”
“But I wasn’t….”
Prudence lunged forward and poked Angus in the belly. “You’re a chubby boy, aren’t ye? Doesn’t look like ye need any more food. Abstinence will do ye good.”
Before Angus could give the old bag a piece of his mind, she scuttled out of the room without another word, the ragged and wet hem of her ugly gray dress dragging along the floor after her. Angus stared in disbelief. A stinking trail of green foam flowed behind her. He stepped around the sticky mess. It looked like kelp or seaweed of some kind. The same stuff he got on his sock in the living room. What had she been doing? Wading in the sea?
Hurrying to the entryway, Angus slipped on his shoes and headed outside. The wet sock gushed inside his shoe with each step. He ignored it and set his mind to getting as far away from his aunt as possible. His stomach grumbled again. He’d find his way to Vanora’s. She’d give him something to eat.
Angus inhaled the cool, muggy air deep into his lungs. The scent of fuchsias, honeysuckle, and wild heather danced on the breeze. Even his nasty aunt couldn’t ruin the beauty and serenity of the island. Every curve in the lush landscape reminded him of the stories his grandfather had told him. Angus hiked up the rutted path to a hilly meadow where he spotted Cudweed herding sheep down the driveway.
He greeted Angus with an angry scowl. “Don’t tramp the hay.”
Angus glanced at his feet. It looked like regular grass to him, but he wasn’t arguing with Cudweed. He’d rather avoid him all together.
A lamb playfully bucked to a stop in Angus’ path and he couldn’t help but smile. “Hello, little fellow,” he said. A fat ewe raced up and stepped between Angus and her offspring. She pawed at the ground and lowered her head. Angus backed away slowly, letting the sheep know he wasn’t a threat. The ewe continued to watch him as he sidestepped out of the way. Everyone seemed to be angry at him today. Cudweed came up behind the sheep and tapped at her with a long staff. She jogged down the driveway, the spindle-legged lamb at her side and Cudweed following behind them.
When Angus reached the top of the dell, he stopped and admired the landscape robed in green. Pounding waves crashed onto the shore, and then waxed out to sea, caressing the white and olive-green pebbles on the beach. Iona marble. Angus sat on a moss-covered rock and stared down at the beach, remembering his grandfather’s childhood tales of collecting marble and selling rocks to tourists. Angus pictured his grandfather as a child, with the sleeves of his woolen undershirt drawn half-way up his elbows, his shaggy red hair wild in the summer wind, his bare feet tracking across the white beaches.
For a few wonderful minutes, Angus forgot the way kids made fun of him for being so big and clumsy, the loneliness that chiseled at his insides, the bottomless grief at losing his grandfather and the only home he’d ever known.
Angus pushed onward, hoping to forget his troubles again, following a rocky path past a thick hedge and purple thistle that seemed to grow everywhere. The trail led into lush pastureland of soft, spongy soil honeycombed with rabbit holes. Within a few moments, he spotted the somber buildings of the weather-beaten village.
In the daylight, Angus saw there were roughly twenty houses, with neatly picketed gardens that stretched toward the sea, two general stores, a post office, two hotels and at least one restaurant. The thought of food made his stomach burn. He reached inside his pants pocket and felt a plastic candy wrapper. His heart picked up a beat, then fell. An empty licorice package. Food had always been his friend, his comfort, and now he didn’t even have that. Maybe his crabby aunt was right. He could stand to lose a few pounds. He hated being the fat kid in school, towering over the other kids. Grandfather said it was fine Scottish blood that gave him his size, and that one day he’d be bigger and stronger than anyone. Right now all he felt was fat and alone. He kicked away a stone in his path. It flew up, spun around, and flopped on the ground. Just the way he felt. If only he had money, he’d get back on the ferry and leave so he wouldn’t have to live with his aunt and that creepy Cudweed.
But where would he go?
Shoving his hands back into his pockets, Angus hurried up the dirt road to Vanora’s cottage. In the front stood a rose garden and a tidy clipped lawn he hadn’t seen the night before. He followed a brick path to the front steps and rapped the lion knocker against the door. A minute later, she answered, wearing a frilly pink halter top, white jeans and pink tennis shoes with glitter laces that made Angus feel a bit dull in his plain black T-shirt.
“Come in,” she said.
Angus stepped inside the living room, greeted by the smell of bacon frying. His mouth watered and his stomach gurgled so loud he wrapped his arms around it in embarrassment.
Vanora giggled. “Hungry?”
“Starving!”
“Sit down, I’ll get you some breakfast.” Vanora disappeared into the kitchen and reappeared with scrambled eggs, bacon, and a glass of orange juice. Angus ate like he’d never seen food.
Vanora sat beside him, put her hands underneath her chin and watched him. “Tell me what it’s like,” she said.
Angus swallowed a bite of eggs. “What’s what like?”
Vanora rolled her eyes. “Tell me what it’s like at your aunt’s. It must be dreadful.”
“It is. She acts like it doesn’t matter if I’m around or not. She doesn’t have one thing to eat in the house, not even a crumb.” Angus sighed. “For someone that likes food as much as I do…it’s murder.”
“That’s terrible! No wonder you’re so hungry.”
Angus stabbed at his eggs with a fork, then paused. “And she stinks like a dead cod. Her room is across the hall. All night long there’s all sorts of crazy noises. Hammering and drilling and the creak of floorboards just outside my bedroom door. Makes me wonder what she’s doing in there.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I feel like she’s spying on me.”
“I don’t know how you stand it.” Vanora shuddered. “She gives me the creeps.”
Angus reached inside his pocket. “I almost forgot to tell you about what I found. It was inside the dragon amulet my grandfather gave me. For a second I thought I’d broken it. The tail was bent to one side, but it was really a secret hiding place. Anyway, it’s a drawing of a cat’s eye, and it looks like the same cat that’s on my family crest.” Angus drew the rolled up parchment from his pocket and handed it to Vanora. She unrolled the paper, and stared at the picture. “I’ve seen this before—but where?” Her voice trailed off and the corners of her lips curved into a wide grin. She snapped her fingers. “Now I remember. Come on.”
Angus MacBain and the Island of Sleeping Kings Page 3
