The Riddles of Epsilon

by Christine Morton-Shaw

  I can’t stop thinking about Mom. She’s back to the muttering, hand-wringing thing. She keeps stopping what she’s doing and looking out to sea, as if she’s listening for something, waiting for something, all the time. When I get close enough to hear, she’s talking about “her” again. Looking for her.

  But it could be worse, I suppose. She could be wandering about in her underskirt, laying a trail of butterfly buns.

  From here in the summerhouse, I can see her quite clearly, eating scones and now chatting in a distracted way to a man in a dirty red beret. They’re both laughing very loud—too loud. (Probably something to do with the wine punch they’re all drinking, which Doc Parker is doling out to adults only.)

  In fact, now that I look, I think the man in the red beret is a bit tipsy. A lot of the adults sound a bit too happy and rowdy. They all have friends and family staying from the mainland, apparently. Big event for them. The scintillating highlight of their year. Anyway, they seem to be making the most of it.

  Dad is staying closer to Mom than usual, thankfully. Hovering. He’s a bit tetchy and edgy—his wisdom teeth are playing up again—it always makes him sulky. He’s mad at Mom again—for not believing him about the eagle last night. And for not getting him some herbal remedy for his sore gums—what a fuss! He said she’d written it on her shopping list herself days ago, he’d watched her do it himself, but had she remembered? No, too busy playing Mrs. Neptune.

  So he’s sulking and fiddling with his camera, but at least he’s not at the lake—first time all week! (You can tell he’s tempted, though—four cameras and two tripods, they’re draped all over him. He looks like a traveling salesman. Kids keep snickering at him behind their stupid fists.)

  Right now, Mrs. Shilling is waving her walking stick at some of them—boys who keep trying to get free lemonade.

  A very old man in a long black coat—in this heat!—is standing by the cake stand, staring my way. Earlier, Jerry Cork’s wife, Agnes, told me his real name is Luke, but he moves so slowly all the time that they all call him Lively. “Look Lively!” they say to him. “Hurry up!” But he never can. Agnes said he is the slowest man she’s ever met in all her days. Anyway, he keeps glancing my way. I get the feeling he wants to talk to me.

  Another funny name they use is given to old Ely. They call him Fingers, “on account of how fast he can mend a fishing net—it’s a sight to behold, is Ely, tying knots!” Well, he’s certainly tying me in knots—following me all over the place! Because all afternoon, at odd times—playing ring toss, chatting to Agnes, selling a pot of jam—I’ve looked up and there he’s been again!

  He watched me come in here, to the summerhouse, watched me all the time. His forget-me-not eyes. Only sometimes they don’t seem half as innocent as forget-me-nots.

  Maybe I’m imagining it.

  I keep looking for Epsilon. “This is just one of my forms. I have others,” he said last night, when I accused him of looking ghostly. He said he’d be here, he said I’d see him at the Greet. One minute I wonder if he is the man they call Lively . . . or Ely . . . or even Mrs. Shilling . . . or even the cat! Then I shake myself, tell myself I’m overtired, my imagination is going wild. Which I am. And it is.

  It doesn’t help that Epsilon had also said I’d see “a friendly enemy” here, and “a hostile friend. You must not get them mixed up.”

  Mixed up? If I’m thinking the cat could be Epsilon, I’m more than a bit mixed up.

  Later we’re all going down to the beach for the barbecue—although someone must be down there already—I can hear them on Long Beach. Calling and calling, like they’ve lost their dog or something. A woman, I think.

  A few things have happened. First, when I was standing there unfolding all my raffle tickets (I bought twenty! I was after the carved music box) I was eavesdropping on the doc and the man in the red beret. Mrs. Shilling—I am convinced of it—was eavesdropping, too.

  “You a visitor then?” said Doc to the man in the red beret. “Lemon punch or gin punch? Have a bit of both—it’s free to visitors.”

  “How kind. Thank you. All set for later then?”

  “Later?” The doc poured the drink into a plastic cup, handed it over.

  “Well . . . you’ve waited a long time for this, haven’t you?”

  “The barbecue? Hardly! We have it every year!”

  “Ah. Yes. Of course.”

  “Er . . . I’m Dr. Parker. Look after all these people, for my sins! Call me Charles. And you are . . . ?”

  The man in the red beret held out his hand.

  “Pleased to meet you, Charles. Just call me Mike.”

  They shook hands; then someone called the doc away to judge the cake competition. Off he went, clutching his belly and pretending to protest.

  I stared at Mike, wondering. Could this be Epsilon? But he just seemed too . . . normal. He tasted his lemonade and pulled a face. Quick as a bird, Mrs. Shilling reached over—snatched his cup and took a sip. I couldn’t imagine sharing a cup with that toothless old hag! But he didn’t seem to mind.

  “Not enough sugar!” said Mrs. Shilling. “I tell him, year after year. But will he listen? No!”

  “Tell who?”

  “Why—the Lemon Squire, of course!” she snapped.

  The very mention of the Lemon Squire sent me whizzing mentally back to the documents in the first box, “The Ballad of Yolandë.” But before I could think anything through, I realized that the woman from the raffle ticket stall had been tugging at my sleeve awhile.

  “Jessica? You’re miles away, child!” she was saying. “You’ve won the bubble bath set! Lucky you—my sister had her eye on that.”

  When I turned round, Mike had gone.

  Then later, when we were sitting on the benches, watching the skipping games (all these little kids running in and out of a long rope), I heard something else.

  I heard it quite clearly. But no one else seemed to.

  “Mama? What is it, Mama?”

  “Shh! Can’t you hear it? Someone on the beach, calling me. Mar-tha! Mar-tha! Over and over. Can’t you hear it, Sebastian?”

  I dropped my drink and whirled around. Nothing. Just Mrs. Shilling glaring at the spilled lemonade, tutting and muttering (“clumsy, stupid girl”) and swiping at the bench with a cloth.

  But no one else was there. Well, there was, of course—about two hundred people, in fact. Just ordinary people, all cheering the kids as they jumped in and out of the skipping rope, taking turns until someone tripped up and was out. The winner was obviously going to be the child who lasted the longest.

  Then the skipping rhyme changed.

  “Winken, Blinken, and Sharry-arry-odd!

  Who is our devil and who is our god?

  Is it a swan or a goosey goosey gander?

  IN jumps the one we call Yolandë!

  “How many feathers does Yolandë bring?

  One-two-three-four-five, we sing.

  OUT jumps the devil and IN jumps god!

  Winken, Blinken, and Sharry-arry-odd!”

  Mrs. Shilling was still standing behind me—I could smell her.

  “Mrs. Shilling,” I turned and asked, “who is Yolandë?”

  “Never mind that—where is your mother?” she snapped. “You must be vigilant, girl!”

  Sure enough, when I turned round, there was Mom leaving the garden. She had a strange, intent look on her face. Eager, even. I raced after her.

  “Mom, Mom! Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to find her,” she said.

  “Oh, Mom—find who?”

  “She’s down on Long Beach, calling my name.”

  “It’s just someone calling her dog, Mom. Come on, let’s go back.”

  “Stop pulling me! Who is it? Stop pulling me and listen!”

  So I stood still to listen, to hear what they were calling. Went icy all over. But turned back to Mom, led her away with a bright smile.

  “All I can hear is someone calling their dog. Now come on
.”

  “But I want to find her!” Mom looked as if she might cry.

  “Oh, Mom! Look, sit here with Mrs. Shilling. I’ll get you a cup of tea. Two sugars. To calm your nerves.”

  I left her on a bench, went to the tea stand. Two sugars for me, too.

  I’d heard it, all right. A faraway voice, a woman’s voice, very thin and sweet. In a funny kind of singsong, over and over. I’ve been hearing it all day, I realized, tugging at the very back of my thoughts. Not her name at all. Mine.

  “Jess-i-cah! Oh, Jess-i-caaah!”

  Over and over and over.

  A chill ran down my spine.

  LATER

  Luke Lively just came up to me and said such a weird thing.

  He sidled up to the shed just as I’d carried one of the folding tables back into it. Like Agnes said, he moves slowly, carefully, as if he’s preserving his energy all the time. He also moves far too quietly for my liking. One minute I was alone. The next minute there he was, blocking the door.

  “I’ve come to tell you. You are being led astray,” he said.

  “Pardon?”

  From outside the shed, the sound of laughter and the clatter of things being cleared away so we could all go down to the beach.

  “There is one who calls himself a Bright Being. But he is a Dark Being.”

  I stared at him, my heart thumping. Here—out of the blue—someone waltzes up and mentions the beings. As calm as anything! I looked into his eyes and considered. Could this tranquil, careful man be Epsilon? I decided that time was running out—I had to grab any chance I got to solve all this. It was almost dusk.

  “You know about the Bright Beings and the Dark Beings,” I said. “How?”

  He turned to look over his shoulder, back at the sea, glittering there in the distance.

  “You know that the blue whale exists, don’t you?” he said. “Out there somewhere, under the sea?”

  I frowned.

  “Of course I do!”

  “How? Have you ever seen one? Actually seen one for yourself?”

  “Well . . . no.”

  “There are other creatures, too, even deeper under the sea. They exist. The fact that few have seen them doesn’t mean they don’t exist. Some have never been seen at all—but they are down there, all the same. You have to learn to look at things in another way. With different eyes.”

  I didn’t quite know how to answer this strange speech, spoken by this strange man. Could this be the friendly enemy, I wondered? Or the hostile friend? I had no real way to tell.

  “What did you mean,” I said finally, “I’m being led astray?”

  “Just what I said. The Bright Being. He is not good. He has fed you with lies. Do not trust him. Do not trust his riddles and his music. Especially not tonight.”

  Then he turned on his heel, and I was alone again in the shed.

  So. A second warning about Epsilon. What had Mama said, in her note to Sebastian?

  “His kindness to you is a lie—you must not believe it; he is one of the Dark Beings. He has bewitched you with his riddles and his music. Yet I cannot help you. It is all too late.”

  Outside the shed, a blackbird sang in its tree and shadows crept across the garden. The sun was beginning to set. I was running out of time. But I didn’t know what it was I had to do.

  Food cheers anyone up, and the beach barbecue was excellent. Loads of chicken and hot dogs and that yummy fried-onion smell. Fish, too—mackerel! And plenty of it. I stood by the doctor and smiled down at the rows and rows of sizzling fish.

  “Well, Doctor—that’s one way to get rid of it, I suppose.”

  “Had to do something. Blasted freezer lid wouldn’t close! Here—choose a fire and go and sit down. Eat! Eat! You look tired.”

  There were four fires, strung all along Long Beach, right over to Coscoroba Rock. One big one (the barbecue fire) and three smaller ones. A different activity was happening at each small fire, it seemed. At the first, children were singing campfire songs, elbowing one another, all munching hot dogs. At the second, just gossip, a place to rock the tired babies, to talk softly.

  The third (the farthest away—you got chilly walking all that way to it) had Jerry Cork at it. And what looked like the whole Cork tribe. And Mom and Mrs. Shilling. They were talking about some creatures called Butterwyths, and this was the fire I joined.

  “So the Butterwyths are real, Uncle Jerry?” asked a small girl, eyes wide in the dancing flame.

  “Real? I’ll say they are. Why else do we leave food out for them in the outbuildings—butterbread and fat? It’d be a bad day for us if we ever forgot!”

  “Why, Uncle Jerry? Would they kill us?”

  “Don’t be so dramatic, Judith. It’s not us—it’s the sheep. Where do you think foot rot comes from? And hack cough, every winter? It’s them that bring it, the Butterwyths—nasty, greedy little elves that they are!”

  “Shh! Mind your tongue!” said Mrs. Shilling. “They’ll hear you, Jerry Cork!”

  But he just laughed, and so it went on to the next tale, the next old story.

  It turned colder. We all got shivery. Then, in a lull around the storytelling fire, Mom suddenly spoke.

  “I’ve heard a story, too,” she said in a quiet voice. “A beautiful story. About a woman. I heard it right here, on this beach!”

  “Tell us, tell us!” clamored the children.

  “Sit back down then, all of you!” said Jerry Cork. “And wipe your nose, Judith. You’re making me lose my appetite.”

  They all went quiet and looked up at Mom expectantly. But she seemed to have forgotten how to tell a story. She stared all around at the waiting faces, and her chin started to tremble.

  “It’s not a very interesting story. It was about . . . I don’t know what it was about. I think I’ve forgotten it.”

  “But you said it was a beautiful story!” said Judith. “About a woman. I want to hear it. Uncle Jerry, I want to hear the beautiful story!”

  “Leave the lady alone, Judith,” said Jerry Cork. “Why don’t we go have some of that punch, Elizabeth? Come on, you’ll be warmer over at the big fire, and that pork must be done by now. I can smell it from here. Up you get then—that’s the way. Now you behave yourself for Mrs. Shilling, all of you!”

  Mom smiled and went off with Jerry Cork, to the disappointed aaahs of the children.

  “I’ll tell you a story,” said Mrs. Shilling unexpectedly. “If you’ll sit down and stop all this ridiculous noise.”

  “Is it a beautiful story, Mrs. Shilling?”

  “No.” (Somehow I expected that.) “It’s a story about a girl who kept looking in the wrong place for things.”

  “What things, Mrs. Shilling? Treasure?”

  “Yes . . . treasure. One day she was told to look for some gold.”

  “Who by?” asked Judith instantly.

  “Er . . . by . . . the Butterwyths. Yes, the Butterwyths. They told her to find some gold. Right here, on this beach. It was hidden under a small rock—she knew that—a rock with black in it and white in it, the Butterwyths had said. But which kind of rock, she wondered? A black one with white specks? Or a white one with black specks? Look all around you—as you can see, there are plenty of each.”

  The children swiveled round, pointed out rocks, some black speckled, some white speckled. Mrs. Shilling glared at me and pursed her lips. Why was she always angry with me? What had I done?

  “It wasn’t so much what she did that annoyed them,” she went on in that tight little voice. It was as if she’d read my thoughts! The hairs began to creep up at the back of my neck. “It was what she didn’t do. For this was a girl who could get nothing right—she was stupid, as stupid as they come.”

  The children were silent, puzzled. Mrs. Shilling ignored them all and began to trail her bent old finger through the sand.

  “So the girl spent days and days and weeks and weeks looking under the rocks. Black stones, white stones, all the speckled ones, she looked under
as many as she could. Then someone came and told her time was running out—she had to hurry.”

  “Who came and told her, Mrs. Shilling?” asked one of the boys.

  “Tsk. It doesn’t matter who came and told her, she was told!”

  “But—”

  “Who is telling this story, Adam Butler—me or you?”

  The boy fell silent and sulky.

  “So when time was running out, what did the girl do? She just went on looking under all those same rocks—the black-speckled ones and the white-speckled ones—same as she ever had. The problem with her, you see, is that she didn’t know how to listen. For it wasn’t a black stone the treasure was hidden under at all.”

  “It was a white one!” cried Judith in triumph.

  “Not at all. It was as the Butterwyths had said. A stone with black and white in it.”

  “A stripy stone?”

  “For heaven’s sake, no! Not a stripy stone at all. Not black next to white at all, oh, no! Black on top of white! She had to take the color of black—and put it on top of the color of white. One on top of the other, then it would all make sense. And that’s the end of the story.”

  The children looked round at one another, indignant frowns on their faces.

  “But I don’t get it!”

  “That’s not a story, nothing happened!”

  “It was a gray stone,” I said.

  “It was a gray stone,” said Mrs. Shilling. “Lay one fact on top of the other and it has a way of merging into sense. Especially when time is short . . . and now you all look tired. You should all be thinking about getting off back to your beds.”

  Their mouths fell open in astonishment. They stared at her as if she had grown two heads.

  “Bed?!”

  “But we never go to bed on the night of the Greet! You know we don’t, Mrs. Shilling!”

  “Mam said we could stay up till after midnight!” said Judith sullenly. “And look—they’re getting the Aroundy dance ready.”

  “And we don’t like your stupid stories anyway,” said Adam. “They’re rubbish.”