The Riddles of Epsilon

by Christine Morton-Shaw

  I hated it—the very thought of someone watching me—controlling my actions. Preventing me from doing something. Epsilon? For the first time in that room, all the hair stood up on the back of my neck. It was as if someone was staring at me from behind my back.

  Uneasy, I straightened up and looked over my shoulder. When you do this because you’re nervous but don’t really expect to see someone there, it’s an even bigger shock when you do see someone! Because there he was again.

  A man stood there—over by the drapes. A very tall man in a long, dark coat. He was standing very still, staring straight at me. I nearly died of shock. Then I blinked, and it wasn’t a man. There was no one there. Just a full-length mirror in the shadows, and me, staring out of it, white as a sheet.

  I had to take a break then, calm myself, think. Just me in a mirror. But not me. I had seen him—his long coat. His intent face. Was it Epsilon watching me, stopping me from seeing certain papers, private things? Or—even more scary—was it the “other one” who was watching me? The Eye of Miradel?

  What did the word “Miradel” mean, anyway? I decided I’d have to find out. Maybe it was just a place name? If I found a map, found where “Miradel” was on the island, maybe I’d find the other one who was watching me—the one Epsilon had warned me about. But I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out. All this was too scary.

  But then it occurred to me that even if that was Epsilon standing there, he might not mean me any harm. After all, I’d been invited here. Epsilon had told me to come here and find something linked to Sebastian. So that’s what I had to do. Eventually I calmed down enough to carry on my search. Shakily, I went back over to the big desk.

  There was a large drawer in this desk. This, too, was carved with the Epsilon. I found I could open that easily.

  Inside were three boxes, all neatly lined up. I blew the dust away and picked one up. They are quite small, about five inches long—all identical—wooden boxes, each with a keyhole set in silver. And in the corner of the drawer—the key.

  This is a beautiful thing—silver, full of curlicues on the part you hold. I smiled when I saw the actual teeth of the key. What else but the shape of the Epsilon?

  The key fit every box. But only one would open. The first one in the line. It opened with a small click. Inside, it was stuffed with more papers. Three of them. I unfolded them all carefully.

  One had symbols written on it. One seemed to be the words of a song. The last was headed DIARY. And although I’d seen his handwriting only once, I recognized it instantly. Sebastian Wren’s.

  A strange, cold feeling grew in the pit of my stomach and spread out to my whole body. Sebastian Wren, who had lived more than a hundred years ago and yet who had somehow dreamed about me. Here in my hand were another few pages written by him—his diary pages, old and faded. It was like a hand reaching through the years, reaching through time to find me, standing there in the bedroom of the cottage. I had the clear impression that what I was about to read would change my life forever. This made my hands shake as I carried the papers over to the hammock. My legs were wobbling so much, I needed to sit down, and the cushions of the hammock looked cozy and comforting.

  I settled down into the hammock and started to read.

  First I read the page of Sebastian’s diary.

  I am sitting writing quietly in the hammock. Epsilon has just gone, once again bidding me write all this down. Although he is making as little sense as he usually does, about this girl. My name for her—“the girl with the world in her hand”—made him laugh outright. “And thou calls ME a riddler!” he said. He told me there will be wondrous things in later times, such as candles a person does not have to light; he said they will light up whole rooms at the touch of the hand! But I do not believe much of what he says. This girl, he also says, I must assist when the time comes. But how can I help a girl from within a dream? Although I would sorely like to assist her—she looked most troubled and had the air of one bent under a great weight.

  He keeps telling me also to look after Mama. This worries me greatly, for I fear she is indeed ailing in some way. She stares into the candles, she sighs and does not speak, she goes for many solitary walks down to the shore, she comes back looking as lost as when she did set out. Epsilon tells me all is not well with her. Papa, of course, barely notices. I dared this last evening to knock upon his door. I asked him to send for a physician to Mama. But he became angry at once, saying that physics cost much money and there is none nearer than the mainland and please to go out and refrain from invading his privacy, they do not call it the withdrawing room for nought.

  Meanwhile, the villagers are all preparing for the Greet. They sometimes let me partake of their busyness, although always I feel the outsider, after seven years of dwelling here! But Master Cork from the end cott is not like the rest. He does not mock me for my “elegant” voice and ways, and I have spent much time at his hearth. He lets me sit quiet while he whittles the tall pole for the Aroundy dance. He calls the pole his Coscoroba, and the way he fusses over his wood is remarkable to see. He tells me tales, too, and sings as he works, or his grandam does when he falls quiet. Master Cork has a fine deep voice and sings the old songs well. But old Mistress Cork’s voice is not so fine!

  My favorite of his songs is called “The Ballad of Yolandë,” for it has a tune peculiarly soothing to the ears. It has many strange words, yet the music makes them all flow together as if with no seams. And since Epsilon told me to search well in the old ways, and to mark in particular any mention of Yolandë, I did write the whole sweet verse down late at night. As I was smiling down at my paper, Epsilon then appears and makes me fly up in fright and upset my whole inkpot! He says he is come to warn me that “Shining stars may be cold to the touch” and to read this song with care.

  I am getting weary of his old-fashioned mannerisms and his great need to be ciphering, for then he announced: “The key of this ballad is V then V then V then V.” The which has given me nothing but a headache this whole long day.

  Mama is sore pressed to prepare her share of the banqueting table, and so is taking some of her ready preserves to the Greet instead. She said, “Oh, Sebastian, I be too wearied to knead the bread, what with all the shells I am working to gather!”

  I wish very much she would stop gathering these shells, since no one has set her this task but she. But there she is, every sunup, turning the whole shoreline over in the bay. And back she comes, her aprons full, and she tumbles the shells and stones all together into the garden, where they flatten Father’s hollyhocks.

  What work is it that you do, Mama? What is it you seek? (I asked it of her, tired of her hand wringing and sighing.) But she turned her tired eyes upon me and said, “Why, nothing, son! I seek nothing at all but peace.”

  Meanwhile, she walks her bedchamber at night and hums. ’Tis strange, as she hums “The Ballad of Yolandë,” although where she has heard it I cannot tell, nor will she tell me.

  I must put away this, my paper. Papa will be waiting for me back at home, pacing the hallway and frowning as usual. I must help him load the kitchen benches and settles into the handcart, to take over, ready for the Greet. Also, the task has been given me of taking Mama’s preserves tomorrow, the which she is busy labeling. They are heavy enough a burden to push over the miles and will be in grave danger of shattering before I ever reach Milton House. Then Father will be displeased with me again, no doubt. But then again—when is he ever not?

  It was the freakiest thing in the world, to sit in the same hammock Sebastian sat in and read something he wrote so long ago—about me. The girl with the world in her hand. My globe lamp. I suppose if he was only used to candles and oil lamps, me switching on my globe lamp must have seemed like magic to him. Or sorcery.

  It gave me a bit of a start, too, to see that soon—in his time—the Greet is coming up. Just like here and now. It’s like I’ve slipped into a time warp or something, watching things happening to him in 1894. Yet the events seem to be
a bit too similar for my liking, too close to my own life. For instance, Epsilon is trying to help him, too. And the Greet is coming up. And Sebastian is, like me, trying to work out what on earth is going on. Each time he learns a bit more, he writes another diary page. Just like I’m doing now.

  I sat quite still for a while after reading it. Then I turned to the other two papers in the box. The first had the words of a song, written in Sebastian’s fast, spidery handwriting.

  The Ballad of Yolandë

  Of the heather will I sing, its purple chimes.

  Awake! Oh, the music, loud in those pipes!

  And see—the hooves shed, long before time began—

  I see all of them, hidden in the dark roots.

  In my silvered choices I dance unchained.

  Yet I hear the catted night stir.

  I dance in celebration in the moonlight,

  While calling my blue svelte night!

  Winter’s wrath will fade.

  I search for the sweet tooth

  Of the honeyed summer—

  All the treasures of her pale fingers of wheat.

  Her stories tighten the landscape,

  Her standing stones, deep shadowed by children:

  They are laughing,

  They chant their hidden apple slumbers.

  They run from their cradles!

  They embrace my cobwebs and cool dew.

  Eyes blink in the wintergreen—

  The magical light where infant workers

  Smiled, last summer.

  Singers of songs, players of harps—

  My wise babies with no enemy!

  With silver pens they are writing at casements,

  All busy with charm.

  Their knowledge I will sing of,

  I will flute them to owls,

  Call them to seals,

  Spreading my song.

  At last, the faithful plumes of princes come out,

  Parading past crowds!

  Then from the castle door, the east will rise

  And the west will slumber.

  The icy north will hammer the door

  And the Lemon Squire turn south.

  Squire, let me sing, I pray!

  Let the sea sip the shore.

  (He in weakness has to open up Like limpets!

  Though hungry for nectar, he has no choice.)

  Crush petals, O my hand!

  Honesty seeds—heather blossom—

  Singing to release their scents!

  No dust of winter will ignore my perfume.

  Dwelling in his bone castle

  He reaches empty hands, filled with no music.

  Bring me my harp that lies chiming in heather—

  Sing and dance, but not of death!

  To life itself will I sing.

  To life itself must I step.

  Let winter possess all her heady scents,

  My own musk is not black or cold.

  My dripping heart of summer brings seeds:

  Sows them even over the ruin of December’s earth.

  Listen to the owl in the ruin of the keep.

  He is weaving the boughs together.

  My heart swells with his delight.

  In his eyes, the mark of the moon.

  Arise, my songs! My ballads

  Are chanting all seedlings near—

  Tiny travelers on wind or feather,

  Flee now and take root!

  From your growth I take my melody.

  From you, my song swells.

  From the summer of life,

  The songster of beauty.

  On the bottom, Sebastian had scrawled the clue Epsilon had given him, when he came to warn him about this ballad:

  V THEN V THEN V THEN V

  I stared at the name heading the ballad: Yolandë. Aloud, I tried to say the name a few times. The dots over the e make me think it’s spoken with an emphasis on the e—so that it rhymes with panda. It looks like an archaic spelling of Yolanda to me.

  Then I read the ballad over and over, trying to think what “V then V then V then V” might mean. But it was no use—it was all beyond me. So finally I turned to the last paper, which Sebastian had labeled THE KEY. Here it is.

  I stared at all the symbols until my eyes went fuzzy. They were the same sort of symbols as had appeared on my bedroom wall—and I’d managed to decipher those. Surely this was the same process? I just needed to set my mind to it.

  It was then that I realized just how tired I was. The heat of the room and the rich scents of the spices and the perfumed candles standing around—not lit, of course, but still giving off this heady scent. I’ve smelled something like it before, I think—Mom’s endless incense sticks or the smell in a church. But this smell is richer, older; you can almost taste it in the air. And the drone of insects, and a lost bee in the window, trying to push out the pane of glass with its forehead. And above it all, the endless Rhroo-hoo! Rhroo-hoo! of the pigeon in her nest. I felt half hypnotized.

  Anyway, I couldn’t stop yawning. I felt dizzy, too. I remembered the doctor’s warning about the heat wave. So I returned the boxes and came down here to have a rest, to think and doze in the rocking chair.

  I like this place now. It feels creepy at times—but it also feels like it’s mine. Like it’s for me to use. Any minute, I keep expecting to see Epsilon—the real Epsilon, not just glimpsed shadows—suddenly appear in a corner. I wonder what he really looks like. I wonder if I’d be scared. I’ve never seen a ghost (although he laughed like mad when I asked him if he was one!). I want to meet him.

  I just stopped writing, looked all round the room.

  “When can I meet you, Epsilon?” I asked the house out loud.

  The pigeon stopped cooing. But then a new noise started. Outside. A sort of flapping. Like wings, but huge wings—it can’t be the pigeon, she’s too small. Like great birds, coming nearer.

  I just went out and searched the sky for birds. Nothing. Only the sun beating down on the top of my head, and the hushing of the sea in the bay below.

  It’s no good—I have to get out of this heat. I’m going back. I’ll take the documents with me and decipher the symbols at home. Mom will go crazy if she sees me up and about—I’ll have to sneak in. She’ll still be in the kitchen, I know—she’s promised the doctor she’ll bake for the garden party, or the Greet, as they call it here. Though how she can stand being near the stove in this weather is beyond me.

  Okay. I feel sick again. Time to go back.

  I am strangely reluctant to leave.

  ’Bye, Epsilon.

  Chapter Ten

  THERE ARE TWO MEMBERS IN THE CHAT ROOM:

  JESS AND AVRIL

  AVRIL: You’re making all this up! You always did tell tall stories—you never stopped exaggerating.

  JESS: I’m not doing that now—honest, Avril.

  AVRIL: So let me get this right. Now you have met a ghost. Correction—two ghosts!

  JESS: No. Yes. Oh, I don’t know.

  AVRIL: And one is a little boy and one is a man called Epsilon, who is named after a bucket??? Oh, puh-leeze!

  JESS: He is not named after a bucket! The bucket just had his name carved on it.

  AVRIL: Why? And why was it buried in the ground, under an arrow? Come on then—tell me!

  JESS: I don’t know.

  AVRIL: So ask him! Ask either of them—the teeny-tiny ghost or the great big ghost.

  JESS: Epsilon said he is not a ghost.

  AVRIL: Well, he is either a ghost or he is a figment of your imagination. Either way, you can still ask him. Like, “Hey, Mr. Figment-of-My-Imagination, what’s all this about buried buckets and hidden hammocks, tell me quick ’cause I am driving my friend Avril totally crazy!”

  JESS: I knew you wouldn’t understand.

  AVRIL: You knew right. I’M GOING. I’ll catch you again sometime. But next time, do me a favor?

  JESS: What?

  AVRIL: Try to talk about something normal, okay? No more tall s
tories. This is getting boring.

  AVRIL HAS NOW LEFT THE CHAT ROOM

  JESS: Epsilon? Are you there?

  E: Of course I am.

  JESS: Yeah—eavesdropping as usual.

  E: She thinks you are telling lies. Why would she think that?

  JESS: She’s stupid.

  E: “Tall stories,” she said. “Exaggerating.”

  JESS: Forget her. She’s horrible.

  E: So you have a bit of a reputation for telling lies?

  JESS: Okay, okay—so what if I do? I’m bound to tell lies, aren’t I? I mean, it’s inherited. I get it from my precious mother.

  E: And what does your mother lie about?

  JESS: Not “does.” Did. Lied and lied and lied. She is such a hypocrite! Saying They’d come up here to get me away from Avril and everything. Rubbish! Dad wanted us to get away, all right—away from Mom’s boyfriend. Away from the fact she’d just had an affair. Away from all the lies she told. Lie after lie after lie. But I found out. I found her with him. Told Dad.

  E: I see. So you came away for a new start all round.

  JESS: Okay, so now you know. Can we change the subject now?

  E: Your dad sounds like a very forgiving sort to me.

  JESS: Dad? He’s a doormat. Pathetic.

  E: Is all this why you spend less and less time with them?

  JESS: Suppose so.

  E: And why you’ve moved half your things down to the cottage?

  JESS: Now who’s exaggerating? I only moved my laptop and my homeschooling books.

  E: And your files and your favorite beanbag and lots of other stuff. Running away from them won’t help matters, will it?

  JESS: Oh, stop lecturing me. Let’s change the subject. I just like spending time there. And I’ve got a million questions to ask you.

  E: As you wish.