She wrote something with a pen that was black but did not need an inkwell to make it work. She wrote for a long time, not once needing to dip in. At last she ran to the window and looked out. But the drapes were not the drapes Mama made for me. They were fine as cobwebs—they floated like silver flags. She looked out at the dawn, then put on BREECHES! She was rushing, as if in great alarm.
Then downstairs, where there was a great beast of a dog waiting, a black dog with three white spots along his back. The girl ran into the scullery and drank water from a silver pump that did not need to be pumped! She used the best crystal to drink from, as the gentry do. Then she ran out with the dog, in the direction of the cottage.
But no one else knows about the cottage. Just me and Epsilon.
Maybe she is magic, too? Or whatsoever Epsilon is—maybe she is one of his kind. She has a small, pretty face, with hair as black as a rook’s wing. In her nose, she wore a silver ring. In ancient times, so Epsilon told me, followers of the ’Borus also wore this ring, as a sign to each other. This sign has alarmed me greatly. I have written down all that I saw, as commanded by Epsilon, who bade me commit all these strange happenings to a journal. Whatever Epsilon is, I think it best to trust him. So I must take this at once to Epsilon and ask him what to do.
As Agapetos is my witness, so signed by my hand, this 14th day of July, in the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and ninety-four. Sebastian Wren, aged thirteen years.
Across the page, splashed clumsily in his hurry, there were three black inkblots. And one smudged fingerprint. A real fingerprint, with whorls and swirls. A real print. Not the print of a boy from a dream at all. The print of a boy whose name I now know.
Because, over a hundred years ago, a boy called Sebastian Wren dreamed of a girl in an attic. A girl who put on her globe lamp and wrote with her ballpoint pen and ran over her fitted carpet and opened her Ikea curtains and drank from an ordinary faucet and then ran down to the cottage. As I did, not two hours ago—after dreaming of HIM!
It’s easy to work out what “a followed sound” means. The flute. But now I know what “a mirrored dream” means, too. Our dreams were the same. The same things happened in each.
I drew him, just as he looked when he woke after dreaming of me.
He drew me, just as I looked when I woke from a dream about him.
What now will begin?
Oh, I can’t can’t wrap my brain around it all. I think I’m going to be sick.
Chapter Eight
MY DIARY
Haven’t written anything in here for the past two days. I haven’t done anything for two days—apart from run to the bathroom, that is. When I wrote “I think I’m going to be sick,” well—that was an understatement! I have thrown up so many times, I feel turned inside out.
Mom fussed and wrung her hands and—feeling guilty, probably—said she’d give me her precious belemnite. (Oh, wow. A baby stone carrot. Why can’t she give me a CD, like other moms?)
She even sent for the doctor.
“Thank God there’s one on the island!” she said. “What if it’s food poisoning? Oh, your dad should never have heated up that spaghetti—I told him not to!”
“Steady on, old girl! This is hardly my fault! How are you feeling, Jess?”
“Pasta should never ever be heated up twice—it says in all the books.”
“Elizabeth. You and I ate it, too, and we are quite all right. It’s not food poisoning, so please calm down.”
“Calm down? Calm down? And if it’s not food poisoning, it could be anything! It could be meningitis, for all you know!”
“Stop shouting. There’s the doorbell. The doctor’s here.”
Thankfully, the doctor calmly sent Them out of the room, although Mom insisted on hovering halfway up the stairs. (Standing there arguing over me! It’s enough to make anyone throw up.)
Dr. Parker is one of these gruff, large men with a big, booming voice who wants to be everyone’s bosom buddy.
“Call me Charles, young lady, call me Charles.”
You know the sort. But I can’t call anyone Charles when he is a doctor who is listening to my bare chest with a stethoscope. I nearly died of embarrassment.
Well, he did all the icky things that doctors do; then he asked Mom to leave us for a minute. When she’d clattered off downstairs, he sat down next to my bed.
“Well, young Jessica. It’s not food poisoning, nor anything sinister, as your poor old mother seems to think. More likely just the heat. Have you been overdoing things a bit? Dancing, maybe?”
He nodded to the barre, and then to these untidy files.
“A bit of a writer, too, I see. Working on anything special?”
“No! I mean, yes, I do dance. But I haven’t been. I mean, it was too hot. To dance, I mean.”
There’s something about him that makes me feel all flustered. He has very sharp eyes—like he can see right through me.
“So. What do you think of Lume? Bit quiet, for a city girl your age, I expect?”
“Quiet? It’s dead!”
“Mmm. So—how come you all ended up here? Bit sudden, wasn’t it? I mean, we all knew someone owned this place, but we’ve not seen hide nor hair of anyone for twenty-odd years. We thought the whole place would go to rack and ruin! Then suddenly the ferry was full of builders and cement and painters and God knows what.”
And suddenly I was telling him the whole thing—it just all poured out. How I hated it here and wanted to go back to the city. How Mom and Dad were not getting along. How I never even knew Lume was here, for crying out loud, let alone that I was going to be dragged up here to live! How I’d gotten expelled from school for drinking some beer and smoking some wacky backy and passing out in the gym. How Mom had said the only way to get me away from Avril and company was to move up here. How They’d not spoken to me since I’d gotten my nose ring, just before I left. How Dad’s only interested in cameras. How Mom’s crystals and her meditating and her trying to find herself have turned us all upside down. How all she thinks about is paints, paints, paints.
“Well—that’s her job, isn’t it?” he said. “Portraits? So the Island Bush Telegraph tells me, anyway. Doesn’t she take commissions, sell them abroad?”
“Yeah, but . . .”
“But what?”
“Dunno.”
“Ah, the famous teenage shrug. Listen, Jess—your mom is a painter and so spends a lot of time with paints. Your dad is a photographer and so spends time with cameras. It’s their job! I’m a doctor, so I spend a lot of time with sick people. And your sickness will get better, I promise you. Just try to calm down. Give your mom and dad a chance. Give Lume a chance, okay? We’re not all fuddy-duddies here, I can tell you.”
Fuddy-duddies! Only a fuddy-duddy could use such a pathetic word.
I just stared at him, wondering why he had to talk so loudly. Then, suddenly, his eyes took on a new look. Casual. Overcasual.
“So. Where on earth did you get this?”
“What?”
“This bucket.”
He walked over to the windowsill, picked up the bucket. Unexpectedly, my stomach churned. I wanted to yell at him, wanted to shout, “Put it down—put it down!” He turned the bucket this way and that—even lifted it up to the light.
“We’re having our annual Greet in a fortnight,” he said absently, his fingers stroking the old wood. “Why don’t you all come? It’s about time the villagers met you. We were beginning to think you were hermits.”
Suddenly I didn’t want him to read the word on the base, to see the symbol carved there. It seemed urgent for him not to. So I was just reaching over, to take the bucket from him, when he quickly turned it upside down and stared at it. We both froze.
Too late.
Way too late. He’d seen it.
I had the distinct feeling that as soon as he saw that word, something came pouring out of the upturned bucket. Something invisible but real—something that went on and on, like time, unstoppabl
e. Something that poured out and out, and spread darkly, filling the floor between us, filling the whole room until it could not be ignored. Something like shadows, or darkness. Something that was now free.
We both stayed very still, me watching him, him staring at that word.
“Well, well,” he said at last. “Epsilon, eh? Any idea what that means?”
I shrugged, and he turned his blue eyes on me. I trusted him—didn’t I? Enough to tell him all my woes. But something deep inside me wanted to snatch the bucket back, tell him to get out.
“So where on earth did you dig this up?” he said.
“I didn’t. Dig it up, I mean. I mean—I’ve always had it. I brought it with me. From home, I mean.”
He smiled down at me and put the bucket back. Not quite in the center of the windowsill, I noticed. It annoyed me intensely.
“I see. I see. Well—can’t stay here nattering all day. You’ll come to the garden party then.”
I nodded. It didn’t seem like an invitation. It seemed more like an order.
“I’ll tell your parents about it. Meanwhile, young lady—no more running about these cliffs in the dead heat, eh? This is a heat wave, Jessica. Even in the early morning, you have to respect it. People are dropping like flies, even on the mainland, and this island is a blasted sun trap. Best take things easy. Rest up. Righty ho then. Drink plenty of water.”
Then he was gone.
When I put the bucket back where it belonged—smack bang in the center—it felt lighter, strangely hollow. Emptied, somehow. And there was something else.
The word “epsilon” was gone.
There was no scraggly symbol.
The base of the bucket was bare.
THERE IS ONE MEMBER IN THE CHAT ROOM: JESS
JESS: Come on, I’m waiting.
JESS: Come on, V!
JESS: Come on, V. I know you’re there.
V: How can I be here? After all, there is only you in the chat room!
JESS: Stop playing games. Okay then. I know who you are.
V: You do? How?
JESS: I solved your riddle. I know your name.
V: Prove it.
JESS: “V is a letter that is not a letter.” So V must be a number!
V: Elementary.
JESS: The letter V is 22nd in the English alphabet. Right?
V: <
JESS: Which tells me nothing. Because it was the wrong alphabet, wasn’t it?
V: You are smarter than you look.
JESS: But in roman numerals, the letter V means 5.
V: Ah!
JESS: Which also tells me nothing. Unless . . .
V: Unless?
JESS: Unless I go back to the wrong alphabet again! The fifth letter of which is E! So E is your initial.
V: I thought you said you knew my name—not just my initial.
JESS: And the fifth letter of another alphabet—Greek, in actual fact—has an even more ancient symbol. A bit like half a feather, toppled over. And THAT letter is called . . .
V: Well?
JESS: EPSILON! Hello, Epsilon!
E: Phew!!! At last! I thought you’d never get there.
JESS: But I did. Brilliant, aren’t I?
E: Not especially. But you’ll do.
JESS: Gee, thanks.
E: So you’ve been into the small library on the second floor.
JESS: Er . . . yes. How did you know?
E: Where else would you find a book with Greek in it?
JESS: << . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . >>
E: While you’re ignoring me, I might as well tell you—you’re going to need that library. Use it.
JESS: Look—who are you? I mean, I know your name. And so did Sebastian Wren. But I don’t know what you ARE. You seem to know just about everything about me!
E: So why did you decide to trust me?
JESS: Dunno.
E: Don’t get all teenaged again. Tell me!
JESS: <
E: Good.
JESS: Why good?
E: Good that you followed your instincts. Good that you see that the fewer people know about this, the better.
JESS: Yes, but why? Why not the doctor?
E: How do you know you can trust him?
JESS: How do I know I can trust you? Even though Sebastian trusted you.
E: Not enough, as it turned out. Not nearly enough.
JESS: But I must be crazy to trust you! All I know is no one can see you on this page but me. You don’t flaming well exist! And Sebastian knew you more than a hundred years ago! What are you—a ghost?
E: <
JESS: Don’t laugh at me! I’m scared!
E: Sorry. <
JESS: You sound just like my mother!
E: Talking of your mother—how can I put this? She is in danger.
JESS: Danger? Ooooo, the plot thickens!
E: This is not funny.
JESS: Not funny? A minute ago, you were laughing!!!
E: So why did you just look over your shoulder?
JESS: Pardon?
E: Just then. You looked over your shoulder, toward the window. Why?
JESS: << . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . >>
E: Yes. I can see you.
JESS: << . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . >>
E: But I’m not the only one.
JESS: << . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . >>
E: Sorry for scaring you.
JESS: I’m not scared. I’m terrified.
E: So I see. That’s why you looked over your shoulder just now. Because you don’t just feel scared. You feel Watched.
JESS: Oh, shit.
E: I told you. This is not funny. And by the way, you still haven’t explored the rest of the cottage.
JESS: Forget the cottage. Who else can see me?
E: Someone who knows it has Begun. He is watching.
JESS: Who? What’s his name?
E: In your language?
JESS: Oh, yes! Pleeeeeease—not another riddle. They make me throw up.
E: Okay then. Maybe we can call him . . . the Eye of Miradel.
JESS: The Eye of Miradel? Who do you think you are—J.R.R. Tolkien?
E: <
JESS: Yeah, right. Easy. Go find cute little Seb who lived a hundred years ago. Then ask him about the Eye of Miradel—under a full moon, preferably . . .
E: You are getting tiresome.
JESS: . . . with three witches on the heath and a few wolves howling. Oh, and let’s not forget—
E: Just get to the cottage and go upstairs, all right?
JESS: . . . and let’s not forget that “HERE BE DRAGONS!!!!!” <
JESS HAS NOW LEFT THE CHAT ROOM
Chapter Nine
MY DIARY
Mom and Dad think I’m resting. And so I am—here, in the cottage. I brought a dishcloth down and a few cushions, and I dusted the rocking chair. Now I’m sitting here yawning in the kitchen, staring at my finds.
Upstairs is cozy—if you can get used to the heat. I had to come down in the end, it was so stifling. Plus there’s only one room I can get into—without risking the roof caving in on me, I mean. The other room is empty anyway, nothing in it apart from a pile of slats and laths from the roof, the odd tile or two. Oh—and a pigeon’s nest. (I don’t know who was in more of a flap—me or the pigeon!)
But the main bedroom seems safe, and I don’t just mean roofwise. It just has this feel to it—as soon as you step into it, you feel different. Like in those
sci-fi movies when they step through a time shield or something. The bed is not a bed—it’s a hammock, of all things. But all draped round with thick Oriental rugs on the walls; pity they’re so dusty. At first I thought I’d clean the place up. I pulled at one of the rugs near the window. It fell into shreds in my hands. So much for that idea.
Whoever Epsilon may be, he sure was messy. Jars everywhere, with old curly labels: stuff like BLACKENED THYME, and PRESSED LAVENDER OIL, and one that said SPICES FROM THE ORIENT. I had a sniff of that and nearly keeled over—the scent was still there, nearly knocked my head off! Maybe Epsilon was some sort of pharmacist? I keep saying was, but of course, whatever he was he still is. I keep going round and round in circles about him. Sometimes I’m convinced that if he’s anything at all, he’s just a pimply hacker, sitting somewhere on the mainland and having a laugh at me. But how can that be? I’m in his house. Or his ex-house. Like I said, round and round in circles.
Anyway, there’s so much to look at, I almost forgot what I’d come for. For instance, there are two huge sky maps on the wall. Old, faded parchment—I didn’t dare touch them. One had the usual stars on it—Orion and the Big Dipper and the Pleiades and stuff. The other had stars I’ve never heard of: Cygnus, and Gienah, and Tau and Sadr. They were drawn by hand, in very fine lettering, and in one corner of the parchment, guess what I found. Epsilon’s name, written in symbols, and his sign—that half feather toppled over! I grinned stupidly at that—felt like I’d found an old snapshot of a long-lost friend.
There were more things with his name on, too—especially on the desk. The desk is one of those old things with compartments and papers, books, envelopes, and all sorts of stuff crammed in. I have to admit, I’m a bit of a snoop. I gave a little squeal of delight and reached out to rifle through it all.
It was the oddest thing—I couldn’t touch the papers.
I tried again and again, but just when my fingers almost had them, something stopped me. I could touch the quills—dry, ink-stained things—and the inkpots strewn about. But not the papers. It’s as if I’m only “allowed” to look at certain things, and the rest are out-of-bounds. Suddenly I felt shaky.
The Riddles of Epsilon Page 3
