The Riddles of Epsilon

by Christine Morton-Shaw

  She pointed into the surf. A bit of broken old tree branch was tumbling there. As we watched, it rolled slowly over onto its back and clutched for sky.

  “What the sea takes away, the sea brings back.”

  The voices from the main fire grew louder. The villagers seemed to have uprooted the Coscoroba pole. They’d dragged it out of the sand and were carrying it along the beach. They were all on the surf line now, singing and screeching if anyone got their feet wet. A long messy line of people was snaking our way. Mrs. Shilling looked alarmed.

  “It’s started. You are running out of time, girl!”

  “But—I don’t know what to do! I really don’t, Mrs. Shilling! Why don’t you tell me, if you know?”

  “Because I don’t know!” she snapped. “I only know bits of it—bits I’ve read—impressions formed over the years. It’s you who have got to make sense of them.”

  I saw a flash—a flurry of sparks. The ribbons, catching fire. They were burning the Aroundy pole. The ribbons flew, shedding sparks. Slowly the flame took hold of the wood.

  “It is you who must find the relic—it’s your mother who’s involved.”

  I stared at that pale bough tumbling over and over in the nearby surf. The villagers got louder and louder.

  “But . . . where do I find the relic? I know there is a map to the tooth. Somewhere under a well. But which well? There’s loads of wells on the map of the island! I just don’t get it, Mrs. Shilling!”

  She gave a huge sigh. The first children arrived—Adam and Judith. They ran giggling into the small halo cast by the fire.

  “The speckled stones, you stupid girl! The speckled stones. Not striped, black laid next to white. Black laid on top of white!”

  “Oh, no—are you still telling that boring story?” Adam said. He ran back, dragging Judith to the main group. They all went over to Coscoroba Rock and began to swarm over it.

  The burning Aroundy pole was held out over the sea. But I was still racking my brains about black laid on top of white. Suddenly I had it!

  “Black laid on the top of white—the patterns! I have to take the patterns and lay them on top of the map. The patterns—the constellations—are part of the map!”

  “At last! Now go and do it. If it’s not too late already.”

  Mrs. Shilling heaved herself to her feet and stood watching the children. They were all laughing now around Coscoroba Rock. On top of the rock, Dr. Parker held out the burning pole. It sparked and dripped fire into the waves. Then, with a great shout from everyone, he tossed it like a great golden spear into the churning water. The sea took it at once.

  The children shrieked and clapped and began to run back to our fire. Mrs. Shilling went forward as if to meet them. But something stopped her. She went very still and turned around—stared out to sea as if she’d heard something.

  Then I heard it, too—very faint at first. A sound, a steady beat, a rhythmic, steady whirring.

  “Hello, Jess,” said the doctor. “You missed all the fun! And I must say, your dog certainly enjoys a good paddle.”

  Domino came careering up and landed, a wet, sandy bundle, on my knee.

  He was trembling violently all over.

  “Uncle Jerry,” said Judith. “Uncle Jerry, what’s that noise?”

  The noise grew and grew—the sound of many wings, great wings beating. Until suddenly there they were, over us—the swans.

  Ten, twenty, thirty. More and more and more.

  White swans, calling and circling, low over our heads, and the moon lit up each neck, each curve of wing. Hundreds of them.

  So loud, so beautiful, so many of them! The loveliest, wildest thing I ever saw, and we all just looked up, our mouths falling open.

  Then Dad gave a yell and ran out of the crowd, camera flashing. The silver of the moon, the hot, electric flash from the camera, feathers twirling down, feathers falling, the children trying to catch them. One. Two. Three. Four.

  Four feathers, dropped by the swans.

  No—five. Just like it said in the skipping song. “How many feathers does Yolandë bring? One-two-three-four-five, we sing.”

  But then the swans rose higher, and all flew together over the sea. In a great shining circle they flew before curving inland in an enormous, moonlit glitter. They flew like that toward the lake.

  Everyone started talking at once.

  “Wow! Did you see that? I can’t believe it!”

  “Hundreds of them!”

  “That was amazing!”

  Dad stood still, panting, with a look of sheer joy on his face.

  “Dad?” I said.

  “Jess! Wasn’t that incredible!”

  “Dad.”

  “My god! I’ve never seen so many swans in one place in all my life!”

  “Dad,” I said, “where’s Mom?”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  MY DIARY—LOOKING FOR MOM

  The last time anyone had seen Mom was watching the Aroundy dance. Doc Parker said she’d seemed fine; she’d said she had a slight headache and might go and get some painkillers.

  Dad said he’d last seen her heading this way, toward the last fire. He’d thought she was coming to join me and Mrs. Shilling. But she hadn’t joined us.

  Judith said she and Adam had seen her up at the lake. But that had been earlier, she said—about ten o’clock.

  “At the lake?” said Dad. “Are you sure? What were you doing at the lake?”

  “I went back with Adam, to get his inhaler,” she said, looking up at Dad with round, scared eyes. “The smoke from the fires was making him wheeze. We went up to the village and she was up on Crag Point.”

  “Up on Crag Point? What in blazes was she doing up there in the dark?”

  “But it wasn’t dark!” said Adam. “She was all lit up—there were lights behind her.”

  “Lights?” said Dad.

  “Yes, lights. In the ruin. We thought it was you!”

  “Me?” said Dad, bewildered. “What are you talking about?”

  “Well . . .” Adam trailed away uneasily, so Judith took up the story.

  “Well, we thought it was you, taking pictures of her. You’re always doing it, up and down the island. You rigged up lights last night—to shine onto the lake. We saw you!”

  “To photograph the swan, yes. Not up at Crag Point! Why on earth would I risk my neck up there—do you think I’m crazy?”

  “Yes!” said Adam, his courage returning. “We all do—we all call you the Mad Photographer. And Uncle Jerry’s seen some of your photos in a magazine, and he says they’re brilliant. He wouldn’t be surprised if you’re a genius—he says geniuses are always a bit crazy.”

  Jerry Cork colored up and stammered his apologies to Dad, who waved them away and looked secretly rather flattered.

  “Anyway,” said Judith, “as we passed by the bottom path, we saw you’d lit up the ruins, like there were lamps lit in the windows. And she was standing on top of the point with her arms held out to the sea.”

  But that wasn’t Mom, I knew.

  “Well, we’d better go and look for her then!” said Dr. Parker. “We’ve all finished here anyway—and it’s getting cold. Richard, you go and check your house. She may just be resting. If she’s not at your house, come back up to mine and we’ll all think again.”

  Dad nodded and strode off, frowning. He seemed to have forgotten all about me. The doctor went on.

  “Ely, Mrs. Shilling—you look frozen stiff. You both come back with me. We can all get a stiff brandy or a coffee. We’ll check the lake on the way past. Jess, you, too. Come on.”

  But I didn’t want to go with Dr. Parker. I knew now what I had to do—lay the star chart over the map. To find the right well. And the flashlight was there in my backpack, all ready.

  “No, thanks, Doctor. I have to take Domino back. I should dry him—get him warm. Look how he’s shivering.”

  Ely stepped forward and laid his hand on my arm.

  “Best do as he say
s, child,” said Ely. “The doctor always knows what to do.”

  He said it quite kindly, but as I looked into those blue, blue eyes, my whole insides turned over. Because there—behind the forget-me-not blue—there was something else. An intrusion, an unpleasant tugging. Like he could see into my very thoughts. Like he could see all my secrets at once.

  I looked away, pulled away from his hand. Called Domino.

  Ely and the doctor exchanged glances.

  “As you wish, then,” said Dr. Parker. “Come back with your dad if you want, later. He can hardly leave you there on your own. But I’m sure your mom will be fine. She’s probably up at my house. Maybe she left her handbag up there with aspirin in it or something.”

  He put his arm round Mrs. Shilling, who nodded to me before she was steered away. Such a huge amount was in those old eyes! Rheumy eyes, ugly, sandy-lidded eyes of a mad old bag. Yet . . . wise eyes, knowing. Like she could read my thoughts, too, if she wanted to—but instead was trying to send me some of hers. I stared back at her, the most enormous lump in my throat. What? What is it? I said to her in my head. But there was no reply.

  I watched them move off up the beach, the doctor guiding Mrs. Shilling round rocks. Then Mrs. Shilling stopped and shouted out one word.

  “Speckled!” she yelled. Incredibly loudly, for such a tiny woman.

  “Come on, now, Mrs. Shilling,” I heard the doctor say kindly. “It’s been a very long day. Time for one of your pills, I think.”

  I waited till they’d gone, thinking all the time. Speckled. A speckled stone? Then I started to look around.

  It didn’t take long to find it.

  There, where Mrs. Shilling had sat. A speckled gray stone, half buried in the sand. From under it, the corner of something poked out.

  I reached down, pulled it free.

  One last bird card. This time—on the front, an eagle.

  LATIN: AQUILA CHRYSAETOS. Common name: The Golden Eagle. One of the most magnificent birds of prey . . . .

  Aquila—the other constellation from the star chart.

  Aquila means “eagle”!

  One star chart with two birds on it—Cygnus and Aquila. The Swan and the Eagle. As Mrs. Shilling had prodded me to see, the star chart of these two birds had to be laid over the map of the island.

  Time to go back to the house—find the map and chart—lay one over the other. That way, I knew, I’d find the right cave. But I sensed I didn’t have long.

  The logs from the fire collapsed in on themselves as I ran away. A soft rain began. From the lake, an eerie, haunting sound rose up. The sound of hundreds and hundreds of swans, calling out into the dark . . . .

  BACK AT THE HOUSE

  No sign of Dad as I tore up the stairs. No sign of Mom either—so Dad had probably gone back to Dr. Parker’s.

  In my room, I lit my globe lamp and got busy. Setting the files out on the floor, I took out the rhymes and map and the copy of the star chart.

  Right.

  The document called The Key said the map to the tooth lies under a well. But I had to find the right well.

  I got the section of star chart. Those funny patterns, laid next to each other. I traced them onto a bit of tracing paper, Cygnus first, then Aquila.

  Then I turned it this way and that, wondering how to lay them over the map. Wait a minute . . . what about the last riddle? That was supposed to be the clue that linked it all together. So that should tell me how to use the star chart.

  The Riddle of the Two

  At the feathered head,

  I hang my bed.

  At the feathered breast,

  An ancient rest.

  At the feathered wing,

  The whale doth sing.

  Feathered. But which way up should I put the tracing? Both the eagle and the swan are feathered. I had to find a starting point. Think, Jess, think! I’m missing something, something obvious.

  I sat down on my bed. My swan bed.

  Bed. “At the feather’d head, I hang my bed.”

  Hang my bed. Who hangs a bed? No one. Unless . . . it’s a hammock! A hammock is a hanging bed. And there is only one person I know who sleeps in a hammock. Epsilon. So the head of one of the bird shapes must fit directly over Epsilon’s cottage on the map.

  I grabbed the tracing paper and looked at the constellation of Aquila.

  No, it doesn’t look much like an eagle! But wait—suppose the two curved lines coming off are wings? Wings, bent backward? Then the end of the straight bit sticking down must be the head. Yes!

  I laid it over the map, but none of the other points matched up.

  “At the feather’d breast, an ancient rest.”

  And there it was on the map—the stone seat. The stone seat, halfway to Epsilon’s cottage—the one I always sat and rested on when I went down there. An ancient rest—a place where people sit! So I lined up the point the two wings spread from—the breast—with the stone seat.

  And suddenly it all became clear.

  I looked at the map with the constellations laid over it.

  Now all I had to do was find the eagle’s wing. The place where “the whale doth sing.”

  The tip of the upper wing lined up with the Ouroborus Stone—the one I’d tried to find on our land, but couldn’t, as the brambly thicket was too dense.

  But at the tip of the lower wing . . . a small cave was marked there! On the shore below our tiny beach. “At the feather’d wing, the whale doth sing.”

  And the nearest marked point on the star chart corresponded to a well! It was not far, really, from Epsilon’s cottage. Surely this must be the well I was looking for, below which the map was hidden?

  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 knew I’d at last found the right well. The right cave. I stuffed both bits of paper into my jeans pocket and rushed out.

  As I ran downstairs, my knees went weak. I’d been rushing around all night. I’d also been sick. I felt light-headed, hollow. At the kitchen table I stopped and sat down. I was scared.

  No one knew where I was going. What if I fell? Got lost in that cave? I’d better let someone know what I was doing. But who?

  Dad knew nothing about all this. And Dr. Parker—if he was the Lemon Squire—was on Yolandë’s side, surely! But was Yolandë a Bright Being—or a Dark Being? Until I was sure, I couldn’t trust him. Who else? Who else?

  Mom was already gone. Mrs. Shilling was too old to be much use in an emergency. And anyway, I couldn’t very well write a general note saying, “I’m in this cave—X marks the spot on the map. Come and get me out in case Dark Beings have destroyed me.” Could I? Anyone from the wrong side might read it, come and find me, and (in fact) destroy me. I couldn’t write much in this just-in-case note at all! Unless . . . unless I wrote it in the Lumic code?

  Epsilon. Perhaps he would know how to work out The Key. If so, he could trace it all back to the cave. Yes. Copy The Key out in Lumic and hope no one else can read it. Leave it here on the kitchen table. Then, if anything happened, at least someone could—eventually—find me.

  Not much of an emergency plan, really. But the best I could think of, all things considered. So I grabbed a scrap of paper from the kitchen drawer and scribbled the whole verse on it using the symbols.

  I left it there, propped up against the pepper mill. Then I went and had a long drink of milk.

  I hate small spaces. And what would I find when I went into the cave? The map? Mom? Someone else?

  Whatever it was, there was no putting it off any longer.

  UNDER THE WELL

  The well, when I got to it, was just an old
mound in the middle of the undergrowth—I nearly missed it. Just a mound, grown over now with tall grasses and moss. It didn’t look like much as I shone my flashlight on it. But I got down on my knees, dragged the moss away, pulled up handfuls of grasses. And underneath, I found it—a stone. The capstone of an ancient well.

  It was round, heavy. There was no way I was going to be able to move that!

  I sat down with my back against it and chewed on my lip. “In the space below the well a map to the tooth lies hidden.” Below the well.

  I stood up and began to walk around it. Domino and I slid about, our ankles getting skinned on the stones piled everywhere.

  But suddenly Domino found it—at least, he disappeared. One minute, he was snuffling in the long grass. The next minute, his head vanished, then the rest of him.

  “Stay, Domino!” I hissed. “Sit!” I didn’t want him falling down a hole, vanishing for good.

  I heard his little snuffly woof as he obeyed and sat.

  Then carefully, carefully, I followed him in.

  He’d found a small opening—barely a cave at all—this couldn’t be it! Just a space, a few feet wide—just enough to wriggle into, really. Domino sat there, wagging his tail. He seemed okay; he wasn’t scared like me.

  “Good dog! What is it, boy? What have you found?”

  Domino inched forward to lick my nose. And my flashlight showed me what he’d found.

  Steps. Spiral steps. Leading downward.

  I hated the claustrophobic space. It made me sweat. Yet it was cold. The sort of cold you only ever get deep underground. Slippery, too—water dripped from the tunnel walls, and the steps were slimy and horribly full of echoes.

  There were lengths of chain at the steepest bits, fastened into the rock with ice-cold bolts. Soon my fingers were totally numb. The air felt stale—dank and sour. Domino didn’t seem to mind all that much. He looked uneasy, but not terrified.