The Riddles of Epsilon

by Christine Morton-Shaw

  I nodded. Not because I understood—I just couldn’t do anything else.

  “Long ago on this island, a terrible curse was uttered on Long Beach. A curse that said that if the tooth was in the wrong hands, it could be used for misrule by the dark forces of the Lord of Inversion. By Cimul. But another word was spoken—that Cimul could never again steal the things he wanted to possess. They always had to be gifted to him, gifted to him by innocent hands.”

  He went to the wall and touched briefly the golden letter O there. I noticed that his hands left a brief shimmer, a trail of silver, upon everything he touched.

  “That is where your mother comes into it.”

  “My mom?”

  “Or rather, the eldest female of the Big House. The eldest of whichever females are living there at the time.”

  He went to the window, drew the drapes wider open until the window was fully exposed. Then he stood to one side of it.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Then watch.”

  In the window, shadows stirred and formed. The reflection of the room, with the candle and desk and the curve of the hammock, faded but didn’t quite go away. But mingled in with these shapes, new figures appeared. I gazed at them and my mouth fell open.

  People, moving. Men, walking in a circle around the Miradel. Ghostly chanting began in the background, with words barely distinguishable. Something about the time of dark choices. Something about the Lord of Misrule. The chant was musical, with many harmonizing voices.

  Epsilon spoke again, his voice keeping pace with the changing images.

  “These men are followers of Cimul. They work together to serve him, to sing the old stories and songs about their Lord of Inversion. A Solemn Choir. They meet with their leader—their squire—as they have always done, in the hidden places of Lume. In ancient places, places where they placed carvings on the walls, depicting the story of the overthrow of the One.”

  In the window, a curved wall of rock with carvings hewn by ancient hands. Depictions of Cimul, hiding in his lair. Of Cimul, stealing followers from King L’Ume by treachery. Of Cimul on top of Coscoroba Rock, raising the curved tooth high into the air. Of a porpoise, leaping out to take it in his mouth and carry it beneath the waves.

  “When the tooth was lost to them, their one great quest was to find it again and bring it back into the hands of Cimul. Then he and his faithful ones could use its curses for great evil—for misrule. So they seek it urgently.”

  In the window—a beach. Very far away in the distance, a small figure was bending, picking things up off the shoreline. The figure moved nearer.

  “But the first curse spoken over the tooth—words spoken by King L’Ume—still stood. A curse can be invoked or revoked. Until it is revoked, its power continues. So when King L’Ume declared that Cimul could own something only if it was given to him by an innocent—well, that is still the case.”

  The figure on the beach bent. Picked up a shell. Dropped it into a bag. Moved closer.

  “So the followers of Cimul need an innocent to hand the tooth to them. This lady is one of those innocents.”

  The woman straightened and lifted her face—her vacant, dreamy eyes.

  “Mom!”

  Then Mom turned round and looked over her shoulder, behind her. There, a little way off, stood another woman. A woman dressed in long black skirts, with a small black silk bonnet and a silver heart locket shining at her neck. She, too, was bending and lifting a shell.

  “This lady is the last female before your mother to live in the Big House. Her name was Martha Wren.”

  Then Martha turned and looked over her shoulder. Another woman stood there, who turned and looked over her shoulder. And another and another and another.

  “A long line of innocents, reaching back in time. All used by the followers of Cimul to try to locate the relic. But they are not the only ones who lived in the Big House.”

  The picture changed again. I was looking at the small library. A man stood at the table there, poring over a curly map. His face was mean and closed. On the wall behind him was a picture of an Ouroborus.

  “Is that—Sebastian’s papa?”

  Even as I spoke, the image of Edmond Wren was replaced by another man, wearing even more old-fashioned clothes. Then he was replaced by another. And another.

  “It was indeed Sebastian’s father. Edmond Wren was elected by Cimul’s followers as the leader of their group. Their squire. He married Martha, and when Sebastian was born, he sent him away to be cared for in England. He isolated Martha more and more. But she astonished him by rebelling—just once—and bringing Sebastian here when he was six.”

  “And that’s why he always felt an outsider?”

  “Yes. But Martha rebelled only that once. Otherwise, she was perfect for the role. She had to have . . . certain qualities. It has always been so, as you can see.”

  The long line of men in the library faded. In its place, one of Mom’s crystals.

  “Certain qualities?”

  “A curiosity. A longing to look into things and see other things. A sensitive soul, artistic but solitary. Someone who is jaded by the things of the world and so could be encouraged to dabble in the things of the spirit. This is the quality the innocents had to have. This was how the Dark Beings made contact with them.”

  There in the window, woman after woman appeared, then faded. One peered into a basin of water and her eyes grew wide. Another turned over cards and leaned forward to read their meanings. One walked the beach, lifted a huge shell to her ear, and listened entranced to its voice. Yet another sat up in bed suddenly, listening intently.

  Then they all faded away, and Epsilon turned back to me.

  “And they all lived in our house—all those women? And their husbands were all made squire?”

  “Or their brothers. Or uncles. Or guardians.”

  “But why the Big House?”

  “Because of its land.”

  “Its land?”

  “It is rumored in the ancient tales that somewhere on this land—the land your mother now owns—is a map that leads to the relic. It was planted there by the ancients, in a place of great danger, where it would be hardest to retrieve. The followers of Cimul sense this legend is true.”

  “So the Dark Beings want the relic to invoke its curses? And why do the Bright Beings want it?”

  “To revoke its curses and replace them with great blessings. But the Dark Beings are the ones who have tormented your mother. The women of the house have been compelled through the centuries to search for the relic—in order to hand it over to Cimul’s followers. To give it into the wrong hands, freely.”

  I spoke aloud the words I’d translated.

  “In the space below the well

  A map to the tooth lies hidden.

  The space is marked by an infidel

  Whose hand reveals what’s bidden.

  “Through merrow hair

  In Neptune’s lair

  Past thirty fingers pale—

  Then hark for a river

  In the dark

  And reach for the spout

  Of the whale.”

  I stared into the window, hoping it would show me more. Nothing.

  “But—which well? There are four on our land! How am I supposed to know which one it is?”

  “That is the last question I am helping you with.”

  I frowned.

  “But—hang on. Dad isn’t one of these leaders—a squire. Is he?”

  “He is not.”

  “But you said that all the men who lived in this place were! So what changed things?”

  “Sebastian did.”

  Once again, the window shimmered.

  Sebastian on the shore in the rain, screaming over and over, looking for someone.

  “Mama!” he yelled, over and over. “Where are you, Mama!”

  My heart turned over. But the image was still changing.

  Sebastian, dripping wet and exhausted, walkin
g into the drawing room of our house. He stood panting at the door, and his papa looked up from the papers he and other men were studying. At the tops of the papers, the Ouroborus was plainly marked. Sebastian’s face grew hard and cold as he stared at it. He turned away and slammed the door on the way out.

  Epsilon spoke again.

  “Sebastian guessed enough to know what had happened. To know that his father had sacrificed his mother, trying to obtain possession of the tooth. Sebastian was the child of the house who got closest to solving the whole thing. Sebastian almost solved it all.”

  “Almost?”

  Epsilon turned away, his face solemn.

  “His fear made him trust the wrong person in the end,” he said. “But he found the letter his mother had written for him—the one with the instructions to go to the firm of solicitors. He was sent away to boarding school, as she had anticipated. But as soon as he came of age to inherit, he went to that firm and laid claim to the house and land.”

  As he spoke, the window came to life again. I watched Sebastian—an older Sebastian—as he went through each of the things Epsilon was telling me.

  “He turned his father out of the house. He hid everything he could that referred to all this. He closed up the small library. He ran away for a while. But he always came back. He never stopped searching for his mother’s body. Not even when he was a very old man. And in his will, he left his house to any female descendants of his own family. He wrote a codicil stating that each female inherited it only on condition that she, in turn, would pass it to a female. Never to a male. And never to anyone with any connection to the Solemn Choir. He never again wanted any members of the inverted rule to live here. He broke every link he could with this house and the followers of Cimul.”

  “So . . . he must have had a female descendant? A daughter?”

  Epsilon nodded. In the window, a kaleidoscope of scenes came and went.

  Sebastian in strange lands, traveling seas, speaking to people gathered in exotic-looking tents. Then Sebastian with a woman who was dressed in Edwardian clothes. The woman cradled a tiny baby in the crook of each arm.

  “He married when he was thirty-five. An Irishwoman—Beth. She gave birth to twins—Bridie and Libby. You can see for yourself what happened then.”

  Beth and her husband walking on a small Irish beach. There were little cottages snuggled into the hillsides. Beth ran with two small girls, twin girls with very long hair and huge eyes. Bridie and Libby. But Sebastian wasn’t laughing with them. He was staring out to sea. He was with them, but not with them. Remote, far away. Beth called to him, but when he turned her way, his eyes were dead and hollow. Then Sebastian was returning to the Big House. Alone.

  “He left them? He left his wife and children?”

  “His mind was tormented. He couldn’t settle anywhere for long—not without coming back here to search for Martha. So he came back—and never left again.”

  The window had gone blank. I sank back down into the hammock, strangely exhausted.

  “And Bridie and Libby? His children?”

  “Well . . . Bridie took after her father. She was a bit of a recluse, not interested in the Big House or the father who had abandoned her.”

  “And Libby?”

  “Libby inherited the house after Sebastian died. But she never lived there—she lived in Ireland until she died. That was ten years ago. She left it in her will to her own daughter. Your mother.”

  A long silence followed this.

  I sat with my eyes shut, thinking, thinking. So Libby must be my Grandma Libby—the one whose jet necklace I kept with my treasures. And that meant . . .

  “That means . . . I’m related to Sebastian? He was my . . . great-grandfather?”

  The silence went on and on.

  When I opened my eyes and looked up, I was utterly alone.

  LATER THE SAME NIGHT

  Something woke me, about an hour ago. The oddest feeling.

  I’d pored over these files till late, trying to think where the final piece of the puzzle might be. I suspected it was where Martha had said—behind one of the swans on the Coscoroba pole. But I couldn’t check that out until tomorrow. So I fell asleep in the end, my papers spread all over the bed. Then I woke up and felt jittery, uneasy. Had I heard a noise outside? I went to the window and peered out.

  The clouds were almost solid, with the moon behind them. The whole sky was sort of backlit, silver.

  Into the silver, something moved, far away. Just a speck. It came closer and closer. A large bird.

  The swan? No—not a swan, surely; the neck was all wrong. But whatever it was, it was massive—an enormous wingspan!

  It began to soar above the garden, to circle down. To the big oak tree by the house. It landed gently, yet it made the whole bough bend and quiver. I could see it clearly now from my window. It was so unexpected that I gasped out loud.

  It was an eagle.

  I might never have seen one before, but I knew what it was. An eagle.

  It folded its wings and turned its head my way.

  What had I read, only just read tonight? In Mama’s good-bye note to Sebastian? Mama, warning him about Yolandë’s enemies:

  “They reverse all things. I shudder at it. Their lies are ludicrous, yet people believe them. It is like calling the eagle more lovely than the swan. That brown bird with its ugly talons, built only to kill!”

  Those talons. They did look cruel, and I thought of tiny mice and rodents, scurrying away from that viselike grip. Yet it was also noble. Such a noble head!

  Then something else caught my eye—something on the ground this time. Something pale and slow, moving out of the woods.

  I opened the window and leaned out. I could see it all, the silver sky, the eagle, motionless now on his bough. The pale thing moving, far below. Coming toward the garden gate.

  With the window open, I heard it quite clearly—the sneak! sneak! of the gate opening and shutting. And a soft, contented humming. A strange tune, over and over.

  It was a woman. A woman in a long white nightie—bending, rising, bending again. She didn’t move far each time, just a step. Then she sank to her knees an instant—stood up again, stepped forward. What was she doing? I screwed my eyes up, trying to see through the dark.

  The clouds parted. The moon came out.

  It was Mom.

  And in the moonlight, small gleams appeared on the ground, picked out by the soft light. They led away from her, back into the darkness.

  I knew what they were. A row of pale shells, all lined up.

  More and more she laid, past Dad’s hollyhocks, all the way into the middle of the lawn. Once I heard her laugh, a small, breathy laugh. It set my hair on end.

  Then—a movement from the bough!—the eagle. It opened its wings and soared down, straight down toward Mom as she crouched there. I clamped my hand to my mouth—I thought it was going to attack her! But no, it just landed on the grass, right in front of her.

  But when she stood up, incredibly, she didn’t seem to see it at all. A great bird like that, nearly half her height. She just bent closer to the pile of shells held gathered in her skirts and chose the next one. She laid it down tenderly, an inch from the talon of that eagle. She stood up and chose another.

  It stood very still all the time, watching her.

  Until she had laid her shells in a tight curve, all the way round the eagle.

  Then a great stripe of yellow flashed out across the lawn—the back door was flung open. The bird flew up, the moon went in—Dad gave an anguished shout as the eagle flapped away.

  “Did you see that? Did you? A white eagle! An eagle on the lawn, and my camera with no flash setup. I can NOT believe it! Did you see it?”

  He came into view, running about the grass, looking up in every direction.

  Clearly her voice came to me, eerily calm.

  “I’ve nearly finished.”

  “The eagle! A whopping great eagle, on the lawn! It was right by you!”r />
  She laid the last shell.

  “Finished!”

  “Elizabeth! It was right there, right on the blasted lawn! Good heavens, woman, it was at your foot! You must be blind!”

  She turned and pointed to the ground, all along her trail of shells. Dad looked down, and his mouth fell open. The trail led away, back into the woods, gleaming in the light from the back door.

  “Look!” she said. “I’ve lit her way. She can come now.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  MY DIARY—THE DAY OF THE GREET

  I’m here at the Greet, and—as the villagers keep saying to each other—“It’s certainly a lovely afternoon for it!” If I hear that one more time, I’ll scream.

  Dr. Parker’s garden is enormous. Dead gorgeous, too—garden designers come to visit it—apparently it’s quite famous. Milton C. Parker made it all a squillion years ago and it’s all still there—like something out of those rich-and-famous programs on TV. Statues and fountains and herb gardens. A summerhouse and a Japanese section (mostly stones—can’t see the point in that). And even an enormous hanging garden, its many long flower beds swaying gently from verdigris chains, in a pretty arbor all of its own. This hanging garden was old Milton’s pride and joy.

  Anyway, the stands are set out in among all this finery. I’m getting through my spending money like there’s no tomorrow. There’s games and lemonade stands and cake stands and stuff. (Oh, whoopie! If only Avril could see me now—this is so jolly thrilling!) To say nothing of the tug-of-war, the skipping games for the little kids, the endless sack races and egg-and-spoon contests.

  I’m supposed to be helping Mrs. Shilling with the lemon punch at the drinks stand. She’s cross with me, as usual. Apparently, we were supposed to bring some lemon squash, to add to the punch; everyone else has contributed some. But Mom forgot, although why Mrs. Shilling should blame me for that, I’ve no idea! I’m sick of her nasty glares. So I keep sneaking off here to the summerhouse, to be on my own. There’s a lot to think about, and I go sweaty every time I realize I’ve not found the final clue. But there’s no sign yet of the Coscoroba pole.