The Riddles of Epsilon

by Christine Morton-Shaw

  So I went to the latest of his prints. To the two rows of newly developed images, all pinned up on the double drying line.

  Swans.

  At least—one swan. The same swan, the black one, over and over again. Two separate rolls of film, each one hung on its own drying line.

  One whole film was of the swan feeding. Dabbling in the reeds. Sticking its long black neck under the water. Instantly I heard the lines in my head. “Oh search the deep waters with your sharpened eyes, O you who live in the skies!” And another phrase: “Long of neck and black of foot, they gather.” This made me feel odd, dizzy, as if something shifted in the room slightly, as if something stepped closer.

  I had to grab hold of the table to shake it off. Then I turned to the second roll of film.

  This time, a whole series of flight images—a time line caught on paper. The black swan beginning to taxi over the water, walking the surface with its black feet. Farther along the lake, gathering speed. Taking off. The black swan in flight over the lake. Flying up to the Crags. Coming down to land at Crag Point. Almost landed. Landed.

  I could tell that Dad kept lengthening the zoom, following it as closely as he could. But he must have been finding it hard to keep it in shot, because the last photo was a bit blurred and smudgy.

  The swan was just touching down on Crag Point, flapping its enormous wings. Or . . . hang on. Was it the swan?

  There it was, silhouetted against the white cloud. The black swan with its wings spread out to either side in a great V. But . . . it was much too large, surely? And those wings didn’t look quite right.

  I looked again and felt all the blood drain from my face.

  It was not a swan. Not a swan at all.

  It was a woman standing on the Crags, with her arms held out wide.

  I compared it to the sketch Mom had drawn—looked from one paper to the other. It was the same woman, her arms held out to the sky.

  One, drawn by Mom in her strange, disturbed state.

  The other, captured by Dad on the very last smudgy frame of his roll of film.

  When his camera had not been pointing at a woman at all—but at the black swan.

  I sat down shakily, engulfed by a steady, gnawing fear.

  Chapter Seventeen

  MY DIARY

  I’ve walked and cycled and staggered up so many hills, I’m exhausted! But at least I know the lay of the land now. And I’ve met some of the other villagers.

  It seems that the weekend’s Greet has got the whole village into a spin—flags on every cottage; flowers cramming the church; the Maypole thingummy on show in the village, ready to carry down to the beach.

  Mom’s ready for the Greet, too. Early this morning, she ordered me to take six tins of scones and stuff over to Doc Parker’s. Lent me her cranky old bike with its ancient wicker panniers—just wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  She’s not in the best of moods as it is, on two accounts. First, the missing drawings. And second, last night’s sleeptalking—or whatever it was that scared Dad half to death.

  She spent half the night standing muttering by their bedroom window, Dad said. Just standing there, staring out. “Come on, old girl, come back to bed!” Dad said. “What are you looking for out there in the dark?”

  Until at last she turned to him and said, “Her! I’m looking for her!” But her eyes were shut.

  “She couldn’t even see me,” he whispered to me before he went out, “let alone whatever was out the window! I tell you, it gave me the creeps!”

  She didn’t seem to remember anything at all—didn’t mention it, anyway. Just looked bleary eyed and pale.

  As to the drawings, good grief, you’d think someone had swiped the crown jewels! She almost ransacked the place.

  “But you must have them! I know I left them just here, last night. It’s the same with my magnifying glass. Have you been in here again?”

  “Me? No way!” (The drawings, in fact, were folded up in my jeans pocket, along with the map.)

  Eventually she bundled me outside and crammed tin after tin into the bike’s panniers. I hate it when she tries to get rid of me.

  “Oh, stop sulking, Jessica, it won’t kill you to get rid of a bit of that puppy fat! Now, you can’t miss it—turn left at the gates, follow the lake path to Crag Point, go past that tower thing, and you’ll see the track to the doctor’s house.”

  “But Mo-om, how far is it?”

  “Oh, for crying out loud, not far! Now when you get there, the quiche in the blue tin needs to go right in the freezer until tomorrow—it’s prawns—make sure you tell Charles.”

  “Charles?”

  “The doctor. Dr. Parker.”

  “Oh, I see. First name terms now, are we?”

  “Don’t be childish, Jessica. Now, don’t bother with the doorbell—it doesn’t work. Go straight onto the back porch and yell; you’ll have to be loud—he’s usually in his study on the top floor.”

  “Oh, he is, is he? Usually?”

  “Yes, Jessica, he is. Usually. And take this roll of film to your dad. He’s on that wretched lake as per usual. Well, go on! I’m busy!”

  Busy doodling another black-and-white creepy thing, no doubt. Or another ten zillion sketches of that woman’s face, staring out through ribbons of cloud. I tell you, I’m the only sane person left in our house.

  Anyway, just before I left our land, I tried to find the Ouroborus Stone that was marked on the map. I felt it could be another clue. But the thicket was too dense. It was a mass of brambles—impossible to get into, even. I gave up in the end and went on to the lake.

  And, true to form, there was Dad, furtively hidden halfway up a tree on the far side of the lake. The whirring of the camera gave him away.

  “Gotcha!”

  “Shh, Jess! You’ll scare her away!”

  “Her who? Here’s your film.”

  “The black swan! Trying to get some shots of her preening. Come and see. Climb up, there’s room for two.”

  “Shift up a bit then. Give me a hand. Anyway, how do you know it’s a her?”

  “Because she won’t cooperate. Typical female, fidgeting about half the blasted day, just won’t stay still.”

  “Dad. It’s a swan. Swans move about.”

  “Yes, worse luck. Ow! That’s my foot! Now then—over there, see? Got her back to us, as usual.”

  It wasn’t worth the climb. Not really. Last night, if I’d seen this swan, I’d have freaked out totally. But in the cold light of day, I saw it was just a swan. Just a small smudge of black in the middle of the silver water—and every so often, she stuck her head under and showed us her backside.

  Dad clicked and whirred away anyhow, muttering all the time (“Come on, show me your pretty face!” and “Oh, blast—not another posterior shot!”).

  It was fine when I was there with Dad.

  But as soon as I left him and pushed the bike round the lake, suddenly there it was again—that watched feeling. Nothing had changed—the same birdsong, the same lapping of the water, the crunch of the pebbles underfoot. Yet this growing feeling of eyes on me, watching, following me.

  But every time I turned round, there was nothing—just the swan in the distance, facing my way.

  Just a swan, Jessica, I told myself. Not a woman at all.

  Well, it’s exhausting. It’s not really such a small island!

  Pushing my bike up to Crag Point nearly killed me. I swear I almost dislocated my legs. At the top of the Crags, I saw the ruins, just up ahead. The castle. I stood panting with my bike, above a little dip in the path that led to the castle. The way to the ruin went downhill from this point, then slightly uphill again. At the top of the next incline was the castle.

  Or what was left of the castle. Which is not much—a few cornerstones, half a turret. And just one main wall still standing, with two slim windows intact, and the bright-blue sky framed in them.

  Why walk when I could ride down? I climbed back on my bike, stood on the pedals,
and rode the path down the little dip.

  Big mistake. This was no path—it was corrugated!

  The bike went bumping down and down into it, skidded sideways, and threw me off. I lay on the ground in the dip and watched the front wheel, still spinning awkwardly. I’d managed to buckle the wheel. Great.

  As I crawled over to assess the damage, I realized that everything sounded different. Once in the dip, all the sounds around went dim and dull, as if I’d fallen into a hole or something. It isn’t a very big dip even—about ten feet across, with bushes all around. But as I knelt there, I felt cocooned, wrapped up in a special heat, removed from the rest of the island. Peaceful, even.

  Time for a snack. I settled down in the dip, looked all around as I ate my chocolate. No sound from the lake below. To my right and left, the stone flags of this old, old path. Now that I looked closer, I fancied they were tiered. And the stones were old and worn, sagging in the middle from the passage of many feet. The whole area was massively overgrown and mossy, but suddenly I could see what I was looking at.

  This was not a smooth path at all. These were steps. No wonder it had felt corrugated!

  Steps, leading up on either side. At my back, behind a tangle of shrubs and trees, the hill with the tower.

  Then in a flash, I realized where I was.

  I was sitting right in the middle of Mom’s first sketch!

  Unfolding the sketch, I felt that shivering start again—the same as at the cottage, that first time. Hands shaking, hairs rising on the back of my neck.

  It’s only a sketch! I told myself. But it didn’t help. And as I looked at it, I saw I was sitting on the lowest step of all in the dip. To either side, the funny paths led away—as if this low step was the start of each path. Somehow it didn’t feel like one path but two paths, both starting here.

  And when I read the words again, I felt dizzy and sick.

  In the castle where nobody dwells,

  the flags are flying in readiness.

  They are coming soon, the Dark Ones!

  Long of neck and black of foot,

  they gather at a path rising from no path.

  Oh search the deep waters with your sharpened eyes,

  O you who live in the skies!

  Mom had drawn this place as it had looked long ago, when the castle was still standing, but derelict. Because the closer I studied the drawing, the clearer it all got. She’d drawn it as it must have looked a hundred years ago or so. As it would have been when Sebastian and his mama were alive. It was a castle nobody dwells in, because it was a ruin even then.

  So there I sat, on “a path rising from no path”—where the Dark Ones were going to gather. I had the distinct feeling they already had begun to gather. In fact, I was totally jittery, convinced someone or something was creeping up, then and there.

  A thought occurred to me. If this step really was significant—if it was the start of the two ancient paths (one leading to the ruin, one to the Miradel) maybe it would be marked in some way?

  I bent down and began to pull up the long grass. Under the weeds, moss. Scraping it off with my fingernails, I uncovered first one letter, then more and more, of a text carved there long ago. It was hard to make out, as each letter was worn and crumbling. But I managed it in the end.

  ONE LADY she be,

  ONE LADY we be,

  ONE LADY be he-without-trace.

  For he be ONE LADY

  And she be ONE LADY

  And we see the ONE LADY’s face.

  I thought again of Mom’s picture of the woman standing up here on the Crags. One Lady. One Lady who seems to crop up time and time again. Mom had drawn her. Dad had photographed her. Last night Mom was standing asleep at her bedroom window, “looking for her.”

  Then I looked again at the carved letters.

  Funny that the words “ONE LADY” were written in capitals each time.

  Or maybe not. I stared at the words, puzzling.

  Then suddenly I saw it—the letters of ONE LADY, rearranged, an anagram. I spoke the name aloud.

  “YOLANDË!”

  As soon as I said her name, something changed. That slip, that lurch—like I was falling and falling into something dark and deep. I closed my eyes, shook my head. Opened my eyes again. I was still here, still kneeling on the path—quite steady. Yet everything was different. Something ominous had arrived. Something unstoppable.

  My chocolate wrapper rustled in a tiny breeze and made me jump. The reeds at my back bent and whispered.

  Reeds? Reeds grow near water, don’t they? Yet the lake was far below!

  Peering closer at the picture, I realized that above the path, Mom had drawn the suggestion of a small pond, behind where I now sat. In her sketch it was all cleared and visible. Now, though, it was a tangle of shrubs and matted reeds. I could smell it, though, as I shoved my way in—that whiff of old, still water.

  With my hands, I tore and ripped a gap in the greenery, a little spy hole, that’s all, barely wide enough for my face.

  I looked through the gap—yelled out with shock.

  A face looked back at me. On the other side of the gap, framed perfectly—the face of the black swan.

  Her sharp little eyes were fixed on me intently.

  Then, as I reeled backward in fright, a loud crashing began behind me. A massive, ungainly flailing. I leaped up, alarmed.

  A swear word. A scrabbling in the reeds. Someone struggling on the ground.

  Then the swan was flying into the air, huge wings loud and flapping. Higher, higher she went, then was gone in a great curve over the lake.

  “Jess? Can you believe that?! Hang on . . . help me up. I’ve grazed my face, didn’t realize these were steps!”

  “Oh, Dad! What the hell are you doing, you nearly scared me half to death!”

  “I got it all! A whole film!”

  “All? All what?”

  “You and the swan! The swan followed you—she came after you straightaway—must’ve thought there was food in the panniers or something—”

  “There is, but—”

  “That’ll be it then. She must’ve smelled it, come after you soon as you left the lake. All that time, there’s me perched up a tree all morning and just a glimpse of her backside in the air, then up you waltz, and bingo!”

  He was fiddling all the time, out of breath, taking out the film, packing up the camera, cheeks flushed and shiny beads of blood on his face where he’d fallen headfirst on the path.

  “Dad. You’re bleeding.”

  “Am I? Must go, got to develop this film, see you later, tell Mom I’ll be in the darkroom all afternoon, ’bye, kitten!”

  And he was gone.

  Chapter Eighteen

  MY DIARY

  It’s hard to run away when you’re pushing a bike with a buckled wheel. But I did it at breakneck speed.

  Taking the path round the ruins, I hurried off, panting, thinking of those horrid little eyes peering at me through the greenery. Stalked by a swan. Now who’s cracking up? Then I staggered up the hill to the tower.

  In the day, the tower isn’t half as creepy. But it was still there, somewhere in the background—that strange, faraway rushing of water. Yet there was no river nearby. No water at all.

  It’s not a wonder my hands were so stung, though—as I said, the base of the tower is thick with nettles. Nothing much else—a few small white moths flitting about, that’s all. So I turned my attention to the gargoyles themselves.

  Well! Talk about secrets written in stone! The gargoyles leered down and seemed to be mocking me. I walked all round the tower, staring up at those stone faces.

  First, the north gargoyle, the one overlooking our land. I had glimpsed it correctly in the moonlight—those weren’t hands at all, framing that ugly face. They were wings. Swan’s wings, curved about a birdlike head. A horrible gaping beak. The top curve of the beak looked as sharp as a scimitar. And around its neck—the Ouroborus, draped there like a necklace. The eyes were enormous
in the birdlike head. Sharply cut in the center, they bulged out obscenely. And on its breast, the letter N. N for north.

  So . . . a hideous swan, permanently overlooking our house. Great. After my experience at the pond, this was the last thing I wanted to see.

  I walked to the back and looked at the next gargoyle. W for west. This one stared out to sea—a watcher of the ocean, I could tell that from the face. It was a huge fish creature, scaled and all writhed up in itself. Seaweed dripped from its fins. Round, fishy eyes and barnacle skin, and an anchor and chain around its neck. Yuck.

  S for south. The south gargoyle was lovely compared to the others. It was a beautiful woman, with her long hair streaming out behind her. A bit like the figurehead of a ship. Her eyes were dreamy, with a calm, gentle gaze. Held in the crook of her elbow was a lyre. A musician.

  Around her neck, a necklace of delicate spring flowers. Her slender hands were held at either side of her mouth, as if she was about to call out to someone. To someone directly ahead, but far away. Looking at the map, I searched for whatever lay in the direction she gazed toward.

  Just a large house. Milton House. Dr. Parker’s house.

  But the east gargoyle was the worst of all. It wasn’t just ugly. It was evil. Even the E carved on its chest was horrible, made up of small, writhing human figures, their tiny mouths stretched open in agony. The gargoyle was in the form of a devil, with a face so appalling that it made me start to shiver. Its eyes held a look of great cunning. It was a gloating, leering face with terrible, all-seeing eyes that glared outward toward the east. Its open mouth had fangs rather than teeth. But one of the fangs was missing; the other curved down, sharp and glinting in the sunlight. Even its hands were horrible. They were talons, and the forefinger of the right hand pointed to something far away. The left hand held one end of a noose, which dangled down under the whole figure. In the crook of its arm, a mirror. And round the gargoyle’s neck was a necklace made of tiny baby skulls.

  So. A swan, spying on us.

  A fish creature, watching the western sea.