So I have taken the fringed silk covering from the armchair and wrapped myself up. It is bright gold and crimson, quite as fine as any prince’s cloak from Persia—so I can study these old books and maps very cozily. There are rows and rows of old tomes here, many with intriguing titles and gold-edged pages. Two catch my eye especially: The Mythology of the Small Islands is one, and The Cartography of the Island of Lume the other.
And so I shall discover more and will copy into my journal whatsoever I find, in readiness to ask Epsilon tomorrow.
If the morrow will ever come, that is, and this infernal night end!
Long ago, the mythology says, Lume was a gentle place, inhabited by seals and ermines and wild birds. These creatures dwelt in the caves and holes in the cliffs, and they made their own wild music.
But there came an ancient time when a great king rose up in that place. His name was L’Ume, and his heart was filled with melody. So wondrous was his music that it was given a name—the Lumic.
L’Ume’s rule was perfect, and he made his kingdom perfect. So his subjects loved him greatly.
(Just now—a great crash came! I leaped to my feet, and the wind rattled the shutters so violently that BOTH candles almost expired. So I have stolen the lamp from the dining room and now sit here in a steadier shine. The candles I have also left lit, strangely reluctant to be in any gloom. I fear that a tree has come down in the garden, but have no wish to open the shutters again to look out.)
And L’Ume sang songs so enchanting that the creatures of the sea would gather all around the shores to hear them. Whales and porpoises and dolphins would swim close to listen. And some say they sing those songs still, one to another, deep under the oceans. And, says the book, “that is why the island is steeped in such powers, and why on its shores to this day can be heard the singing of the ancient songs of L’Ume, with all their peculiar beauty.”
(I have never heard this singing. But Master Cork told me once that some of the old ones in the village have heard it when the sun is setting and the sky red. They have come stumbling back from the shore entranced, unable to speak because of what they have heard.)
Now into this time came one subject, young and vigorous. He was beloved of King L’Ume, who made him into a prince. The king taught him much of his music and some of his beauty. The prince grew lordly, with high bearing and a haughty head. But he also grew restless.
He was jealous of L’Ume’s melodies! He wanted his own music to enchant the whale and the porpoise and to be carried by them into the depths of the sea.
(The chimney is wailing. In the cold hearth, old ashes stir and resettle. It is as if someone is stirring them with an invisible poker. Who sat here before that fire long ago, in this room where nobody comes? Whose old books are these, that men come from far and wide to open them for their secrets? Maybe I am intruding? I wish Epsilon were here. Sometimes he arrives of a sudden—I look around and there he is. Just as easily, he vanishes away again into nothing. As fearful as I am of him, I do so hate to be solitary in this creaking room.)
So the haughty prince crept alone one night, deep into the hidden tunnels of the island. He sat behind a veil of water and dwelled on his hatred. And he devised a plan that would turn the whole of L’Ume’s kingdom inside out.
(The wind shrieks. The cobwebs above the grate belly out . . . in . . . out.
I sit shivering before a great oval looking glass, and in it, my right hand becomes my left hand.)
As the prince sat alone in the dark bowels of Lume, his hair grew long. His teeth grew into fangs and his heart grew sour. He knew that his own melody had no enchantment. Since he could never match the Lumic, he sought instead to invert it. So he sang a new song—a Song of Inversion.
(The looking glass is suddenly ablaze with lightning! It dazzles my eyes. When I rub my tight-closed eyes, I see the image of the bright mirror—a dark oval mouth. All around it, the shadows are lit, livid green and gold.)
Then out of the prince’s mouth came a song so monstrous that the great creatures of the sea rolled in terror and the seas rose up. For the song held only unspeakable ugliness. And that is why we call him Prince Cimul—or the Lord of Inversion—for he dared to invert the beauty of the Lumic.
(Cimul—the Lord of Inversion! This name stirs me strangely. I feel hot and chilled at once. I am very thirsty. But I do not feel inclined to go back downstairs to the scullery, creeping along the dark corridors alone.
There is no space between the lightning and its thunder. They arrive together. In the face of the looking glass I am captured, a bright-lit scribe.)
So out crept the Inverter from the secret seams of the earth, and he broadcast it far and wide, in cunning whispers, that L’Ume’s kingdom was anyone’s for the taking! He planted his vile song—the Cimul—into the ears of all.
(Yet look—the lamp! It throws my own shape large against the wall. I am a gray giant with a gray quill, scribbling on a gray parchment.
Then the lightning cracks and lights me up again, scribbling. There are two scribes—one bright, one dark!)
So a great unrest rose up, and a hunger not known before—a hunger for the songs of the dark. This is why we call him The Dark Peril.
(That feeling is back again—that I am being watched. I swivel around. I cannot seem to stop doing it, looking for something I dread to see. It is as if there are eyes in the walls, at the shutters—as if someone peers in at me from all sides. But such fanciful thoughts will not help me with my history of Lume. Enough, Sebastian! Write!)
Then Cimul walked out onto Long Beach, and he challenged King L’Ume outright.
“Look,” said he. “Your subjects have never before had two songs warring within them—they have only known the Lumic! But I have created the Cimul, and your people are no longer at rest. So ask them, one by one: ‘Whom would you serve?’ The king who brings them one song—or the prince who brings them choice?”
(The gaps between the thunderclaps are longer now. In his room, Papa coughs and paces—the level in the brandy decanter will be falling. And a new sound—very soft—what is that? It is coming from along the corridor. A footfall? But now the thunder is back; it drowns it out. It is my fear anyway, only my own fear.)
Then all of Lume quivered, as did the mighty sea creatures swimming and listening. They waited for the king to stand and slay this Cimul, the Lord of Inversion. But he did not. Instead, King L’Ume raised his hands up to the sky. His beautiful hand was scarred by ugly marks—tooth marks, as from a vicious bite.
(I am not imagining it! Footsteps approach, soft sounds, like someone creeping along the corridor. No, no!)
And this utterance came from the mouth of the king:
“My beautiful heart is breaking, on this day of dark inversion. But let each one now decide, and then live with his deciding in the coming days, whichever it may be.”
(I am listening, listening. I am a gray scribe, listening. Then the lightning flashes. The bright scribe listens. I am split in two.)
Then each mortal turned his back either on Cimul or upon the king, who alone had ruled them all. So Cimul gathered a great army that day, the day King L’Ume let each decide.
(I swear it—the sound comes nearer, soft along the corridor. No, no! I must pick up the quill from where I have dropped it, all nerves. Here I am, picking up the quill. I will ignore it all.)
But King L’Ume still had his hands raised high, and lightning forked from his fingers. The lightning reached out to Cimul, and as it smote him in the mouth, King L’Ume said these words:
“From your mouth has come this inversion of Innocence.
Now in the name of Agapetos I declare you bound:
Nothing else can you plunder, from this day!
Only that gifted to you by innocent hands will you possess!
Your tooth has been your weaponry, and I tear it from your jaw!”
(In the garden, a crashing, a mighty tumbling. My eyes seem to see through the shutters: The wooden bench has been t
orn from its plinth; it rolls over and over, it splinters into the orchard wall. In the corridor—silence.)
At the sound of the name Agapetos, Cimul screamed a terrible scream until the seas rose up and smashed the shore.
Then out of Cimul’s open mouth fell one tooth, sharp as a dagger, and it fell to the sand on Long Beach. Cimul turned tail and fled then, and all his followers fled with him, onto Coscoroba Rock.
(They start again—the footsteps. They are coming closer, they are very stealthy. Write! Write!)
But one of Cimul’s followers—a foolish youth—reached back to snatch the tooth and carried it to his prince. This was the very first time the tooth was “gifted” unto him. Cimul raised it high in triumph and sang this cursing song in reply:
“If we possess the tooth, we, too, can curse.
If we can curse, we, too, can rule.
If we can rule, we, too, can misrule.
Long live the Inverter, Lord Cimul!”
(My heart leaps in my chest, it bangs so! I cannot open that door to see who is approaching it. I can only scribble, faster, faster.)
But Cimul had forgotten the faithful listeners, the creatures of the sea. And as Cimul raised the tooth high above Coscoroba Rock, a shining porpoise leaped from the waves—and caught it in his jaws.
(Write write write I am not listening not listening not listening.)
Then the dolphin and the whale and the porpoise carried the tooth deep into the secret places under the ocean, where its powers of cursing lie hidden to this day . . . .
(A sigh—just now—right outside the door—)
Yet some say that Cimul’s followers are rising up in force, are gathering once again to find the tooth and invoke the cursings Prince Cimul spoke over it . . . .
Enough! No more! It is written.
And the storm is done also.
From outside—silence. From behind the door—silence.
My hand shakes so, I can barely write.
IT IS NOT REAL—ANY OF IT! It is a story, a legend, written in a quaking room in a quaking house in the middle of a terrible storm. That is all. It is just a myth. I will open the door now. I will open the door calmly, and there will be no pale eyes there, watching. There will be nothing waiting—no dark creatures crouched there, gathered.
I will say a word to help me do it. A word, to make me brave.
The word will be “Agapetos.”
Go now, Sebastian.
Chapter Thirteen
THERE ARE TWO MEMBERS IN THE CHAT ROOM:
JESS AND AVRIL
AVRIL: So what did he find when he opened the door?
JESS: Dunno. Haven’t even found that bit yet.
AVRIL: You’re seriously telling me that all these spooky things are about a fang? A tooth?
JESS: Apparently.
AVRIL: And who do you think the men are? The men meeting in secret at the tower thing?
JESS: Not sure. But from what they were saying, they are up to no good.
AVRIL: Jess. You sound like an Enid Blyton story.
JESS: Avril. This is no story.
AVRIL: The Island of Adventure!
JESS: I’m scared.
AVRIL: No need to be scared.
JESS: No?
AVRIL: Noooo. Just make sure you have lots of yummy picnics and wash everything down with lashings of ginger beer—then it will all come right in the end. According to the gospel of Enid Blyton.
JESS: I HATE IT WHEN YOU DO THIS!
AVRIL: Well, come on! Every time I talk to you, you go on and on about ancient myths and ghosts, and here am I expelled from school again and what do you care?
JESS: You’ve been expelled?
AVRIL: Yesterday.
JESS: Why?
AVRIL: Drinking. Smoking. Usual things. Not that you care.
JESS: But I didn’t know! How can I care if I didn’t know? That’s not fair.
AVRIL: Not fair? All you talk about is yourself and your spooky new mates, and you never even ask about me at all. Why should I tell you—you don’t care about me—it’s all you, you, you.
JESS: I’m sorry, Avril. Really. I’m just so—freaked out.
AVRIL: Can I remind you of something? Like, why we all fell out with you last spring?
JESS: I’m not sure I want to hear this.
AVRIL: Hard luck. We all got so sick of you going on and on and on about your puny little self. Your life, your mom and her stupid affair, on and on and on. You might be the center of your own little universe, Jessica White. But you are not the center of mine. Thank god, or I’d die of utter boredom. You are the most boring person I have ever, ever met.
AVRIL HAS NOW LEFT THE CHAT ROOM
E: Ouch! I saw that!
JESS: Go away.
E: No. I have to show you a picture. A round picture. In a square frame. Down at the cottage.
JESS: A picture? Don’t tell me—another snippet of the whole. Why can’t I see it all at once, instead of this stupid . . . jigsaw puzzle?!
E: Sometimes jigsaws are entirely necessary.
JESS: Epsilon. Read my lips. I do not like jigsaw puzzles. I do not like any jigsaws. I especially do not like this jigsaw. This Jigsaw freaks me out.
E: Nevertheless, you are as involved as Sebastian was.
JESS: Oh, and you really cared about him, didn’t you! I mean—where were you when he needed you? Poor little boy, stuck in a scary library with dark things creeping down the corridors, where were you?
E: Working elsewhere.
JESS: On the island? This horrible, spooky island?
E: On the island.
JESS: Which reminds me—what is that tower thing? And who are the men I heard doing all that horrible chanting?
E: They are workers of the Dark Ones who are watching you. They sense that the time of dark choices has arrived again. They sense that their ancient relic has come to light again—the tooth. It has been lost for many, many years now. They want it.
JESS: So . . . this is all about a tooth?
E: <
JESS: I get it. Not.
E: You will. Just stay close to me.
JESS: Oh, yeah! Right! How the hell do I stay close to someone I’ve never met? Get real.
E: Use your mind. And go to the small library. Tonight.
JESS: The small library?
E: I believe that’s what I said.
JESS: Tonight?
E: I believe that’s also what I said.
JESS: Alone?
E: I believe I did not actually say that. But the inference was there—yes.
JESS: Are you kidding? You must think I’m crazy!
E: You’ll be fine. I will protect you.
JESS: You’ll be there?
E: In a sense.
JESS: <
E: It shouldn’t take you long, anyway. Just go and look for the other book.
JESS: Other book?
E: I wish you would stop repeating everything I say. The other book—the one Sebastian didn’t have time to write about.
JESS: The cartography thingummy?
E: The very same. It’s time for maps. Talking of which—you are not a hermit, you know! Tsk tsk! Lazy girl!
JESS: What’s that supposed to mean?
E: You should get out more. Go for a walk. Get some exercise.
JESS: So. You want me to find a map of Lume? Then go and explore?
E: You are learning.
JESS: Gee, thanks. Anything else?
E: Yes. Take a bit of interest in your mother’s artwork.
JESS: Mom’s artwork? You cannot be serious! After all the panic it’s causing? Have you heard my dad lately? He’s foaming at the mouth!
E: I fail to see why.
JESS: You’re a little slow, aren’t you—for an invisible being? She is supposed to be a PORTRAIT PAINTER!
E: So?
JESS: Well—it’s her career! It’s wh
at we live off! Not all this weird black-and-white stuff!
E: You disappoint me. You sound just like your father.
JESS: << . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . >>
E: I see I have hit a raw nerve.
JESS: << . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . >>
E: Well—you DO sound like him!
JESS: Oh, just SHUT UP!
JESS HAS NOW LEFT THE CHAT ROOM
Chapter Fourteen
MY DIARY
Epsilon is driving me absolutely crackers! But I suppose he’s right.
First—Mom’s artwork.
Always before, it’s been portraits.
Men, women, children, pets. People pay a small fortune for them. Her desk is littered with photographs sent from all over the world. She peers at them through a magnifying glass; she paints them, huge and exact. Japanese girls in blue silks. Toddlers in kilts and sporrans. Grandmothers holding tiny babies. She paints them all, muttering. (“I wish they’d take their ridiculous glasses off! How am I expected to see their eyes? It’s all reflection!” and “Oh, no—not another Polaroid!”)
But lately, all that stuff has disappeared. The tricks of her trade—gone. Which is why Dad’s panicking. It’s the money, really—his photos just bring in peanuts, and he knows it. He’s always desperately trying to win some famous photography prize, but he never quite manages it. So he worries about money all the time.
Anyway, it started two days ago. All the paraphernalia of paints, tubes, brushes, turpentine—vanished. Just one minute brush left—an eyelash of a brush, I kid you not! And a single pot of black drawing ink. She keeps making funny little sketches in black. But she won’t show me those. Yet she leaves the others all over the place—the ones of that haunting face. A woman’s face, staring through strands of cloud or cloth or something. The same face, over and over.
The Riddles of Epsilon Page 7
