The Book of Beasts

by John Barrowman

  Screaming… I can feel screaming. I have never felt screaming before…

  Em felt scared and excited. Someone’s screaming?

  Not someone, something… It’s going right through me… Argh! The pain… Zach stumbled backwards, knocking into Em. Jeez, Em. It’s like… you’ve painted yourself into this. Your feelings, your memories maybe… I don’t understand… What have you done? Why have you painted this?

  Em blazed with fierce pride. It was working!

  ‘Promise you won’t think I’m crazy?’ she signed.

  He sat up shakily. ‘No guarantees. Look at this place. There’s a dead squirrel hanging from the rafters.’

  Em took a deep breath. ‘I’m going to use this painting to travel back in time to rescue Matt and Jeannie.’

  Zach’s eyes widened. Em rushed on before he tried to talk her out of it.

  ‘Think about it! What if I can connect myself to the right era with art that I’ve made with medieval materials?’

  Zach stood up angrily, shaking his head. You’re not travelling back to the Middle Ages, Em. Even if this does work, you can’t go there alone.

  Then come with me.

  Come on, are you serious?

  Em could sense Zach trying to inspirit her, calm her and make her change her mind. But she was prepared. She had known that he’d discover her secret sooner rather than later. They were too close for him not to. As Zach tried to work on her mind, she focused on his, digging through his empathy and his love and getting to his anger at her and his frustration at Matt. She poked at it, shone a light on it.

  Stop it, Em!

  You first!

  They collapsed next to each other on a sack of potting soil, both holding their hands to their heads. Zach surrendered first.

  ‘You win!’ he signed irritably. ‘I’ll come. But how do you know for sure it’s going to work? And if it gets you there, how can it get us back to the present?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Em admitted.

  It was impossible to keep her fears to herself any longer.

  Zach took her hand. Talk to me.

  Gratefully, Em let her worries wash through her, into Zach’s waiting mind.

  The panel on the left isn’t the entire image that comes to me. But I can’t… I can’t bring myself to put on this canvas what I’m actually seeing.

  You have to. It might help us figure out what to do.

  Em nodded, biting her lip. Zach was right.

  She moved to the table and mixed some paints. Her shoulders relaxed and her hair fell forward, the purple streak framing her cheek like a comma as she turned to the canvas and applied the paint to the unfinished panel. She worked with a fierce concentration, but without the intention of animating. The image stayed flat and obedient on the canvas.

  After a little while, Em laid down her brush and pointed silently at what she had revealed.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Auchinmurn Isle

  The Middle Ages

  Matt had lost his bearings entirely.

  They were waist-deep in water now, their pace slowing considerably. At one point the water had reached as high as their chests, and they’d had to doggy-paddle through it. The tunnel pressed in on them, dark and cold and growing ever smaller.

  The tunnel suddenly opened up, offering a pocket that was less a chamber than a rock formation. It was enough to give the boys a chance to catch their breath.

  ‘Almost there!’ said Malcolm, as if they were out hiking in the countryside, heading towards a picnic instead of a terrible unknown.

  He’s mad, Matt realized. Unbound after ten years inside a painting, his father had clearly lost his humanity as well as his face.

  Malcolm pushed them on. His excitement was growing palpable. Matt quietly animated a compass on what was left of the lining in his jacket. Hiding it beneath his sleeve, he watched the needle bounce around and settle. They were tramping west.

  Matt couldn’t believe it. They couldn’t be heading west. West was the bay. West was water. Deep water.

  They’d now been gone all of the night and most of the morning. He wondered if Carik was searching for them. He was beyond tired now, running on adrenaline and fear.

  The disturbing mechanical sound Matt and Solon had heard reverberating under the grounds of the monastery suddenly began echoing up ahead. Whatever was making the noise was moving towards them. The tunnel walls shook. Dirt and stones began to drop from the roof, raining on them.

  ‘Pick up the pace, boys,’ Malcolm advised. ‘I don’t want to have to dig you out from a cave-in.’

  The tunnel ended in a sheer drop to a vast cavern. From their position on the precipice, Matt stared into the chamber below. Ancient cave etchings met his eyes. A hellhound snarling in relief. The peryton, its wings so lifelike they appeared to be fluttering.

  ‘I know where we are,’ he said in astonishment. ‘I was here in the summer. This is Solon’s Cave.’ He stared at his white-faced companion. ‘It’s named after you.’

  Solon looked terrified. ‘This is the place of the portal to the world of the beasts,’ he said. ‘This is where I brought the peryton into the world above, with my master’s help. It’s how we saved the village when the Vikings came.’

  ‘Awesome!’ said Matt, for a second forgetting the danger they were in, forgetting the threat to Solon’s family, with the overwhelming sense of being a part of history.

  He didn’t forget for long. Rolling out of the darkness beneath them was an enormous mechanical monster like nothing Matt had ever seen.

  At the centre of the beast was trapped the body of a man.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Auchinmurn Isle

  Present Day

  Em’s picture was of Matt.

  ‘His hair is a bit longer,’ Em signed, swallowing, ‘but I think maybe time is passing differently for him. You know?’

  Matt was standing beneath a gloomy archway, leaning forward at an odd angle. He was wounded. The hilt of a small weapon stuck out from his side, right above his hip bone.

  Em was pale. That’s why we need to get back there. To help him.

  Zach looked at her with concern in his eyes. It doesn’t look like a knife.

  Em shook her head. It’s the bone quill. The ancient object that you use to animate the beasts and free them from Hollow Earth.

  Matt gets stabbed by it? Are you even sure this is Matt?

  ‘I don’t know!’ Em cried, forgetting either to sign or telepath in her anguish. ‘But I can’t risk it!’

  ‘If this did come into your imagination from Albion,’ Zach signed swiftly, ‘then we need help. Matt’s hurt. We have to tell someone.’

  ‘Not yet! You promised!’ Em jabbed a finger at the triptych. ‘I wish I knew how the panels are connected. They seem fragmented. Like I’m watching a film that’s been put together out of order.’

  Em had captured the pencil tower on Era Mina in loose, sketchy strokes. Along with the telltale halo of an animation inside the tower itself, there was a huge hole between two of the arrow slits at the top. It looked like a powerful projectile of some kind had hit the wall.

  Zach picked up a book on medieval art from Em’s jumble of papers. He flipped to the section on altar adorations and triptychs, then passed it to her.

  ‘It says here that the central panel of a triptych is often just the most dramatic part of the message, and the panels are not necessarily in sequential order,’ he signed.

  Like a comic, Em telepathed, reading swiftly.

  Zach nodded. Think about how comics are laid out on the page. You read the huge central panel first. Then you go to the smaller surrounding panels to get the bigger picture. Does that help?

  Em felt a jolt of hope. If that’s the case, maybe some of this stuff hasn’t happened yet. Maybe Matt’s OK. Zach, I love you!

  She threw herself into Zach’s arms, knocking them down together on to the sacks of potting soil lined up against the wall of the shed.

  ‘Sorry,’ she signe
d, giggling as she got up again. ‘If any of this is going to work, I think I need just one more thing before I… we try. And I need it soon. Help me get this place straight again, will you?’

  Zach worked with Em, returning the hut to the way it had been when they entered. He couldn’t help himself. He wished she would kiss him again.

  FORTY-NINE

  Auchinmurn Isle

  The Middle Ages

  The clanking, whirring gears of the ghastly contraption were shaking loose stalactites from the cavern’s uneven ceiling. Its frame was huge, its shape resembling a winged demon of the undead. The whole contraption reminded Matt of a terrible torture device.

  Instead of legs, the machine had a set of wooden wheels on the far edges connected to a series of cogs, ranging from several the size of a teacup to a couple as big as bicycle wheels. They turned a complex system of gears, belts and chains, all powered by one of Malcolm’s skeletal half-faced minions on a treadle, sending sparks of light and energy to the place where Brother Renard was bound. From the front, the old monk looked as if he was being carried on the back of a hideous wraith.

  Before Matt could stop him, Solon had leaped from the lip of the tunnel, landing hard on his feet in the cavern below. He scrambled to his trapped master, reaching round the machine’s wooden wings to loosen the thick leather straps around Brother Renard’s ankles. The moment he touched the straps, an electric current sliced across the palms of his hands, throwing him back against the dirt floor. Matt jumped down to join him, stumbling on impact, feeling the shock jar his body.

  ‘Let my master go,’ Solon yelled, nursing his blistered hands as Malcolm climbed down a rope ladder hooked into the rock face and strolled across the cavern towards the machine. ‘Use me for your schemes, for your animations. Brother Renard is old, and weak-minded!’

  ‘And that is why I have such control over him,’ Malcolm said. ‘His mind is utterly broken. With very little practice, I’ve been able to project images into his mind that he is then able to animate for me.’

  Brother Renard’s head was locked in a similar iron mask to the one Jeannie had been trapped in. His feet were bound in leg irons, and his hands were held in fingerless gloves of metal linked to a wooden tablet covered with a piece of parchment. Matt’s stomach lurched in disgust. The old monk’s fingers were covered in pinpricks, many had scabbed over but several were dripping on to the parchment. The old Animare had been using his own blood as ink.

  Brother Renard was like Malcolm’s marionette, but the strings were controlling his mind. Matt shivered. Is this what would become of all Animare if evil Guardians like Malcolm controlled them?

  Matt’s father ran his hand lovingly along the sleeping monk’s arm. ‘Ingenious, don’t you think?’ he said.

  ‘It’s despicable!’ Solon said.

  Malcolm was ready as Solon flew at him, striking the boy across the side of his head and knocking him against the rock. ‘All this drama for a weak old man,’ he said. Matt and Solon’s reaction seemed to disappoint him. He reared up taller. ‘My contraption is a work of genius!’

  Matt dared himself to stare directly into his father’s ruined face. ‘How did you know we would come to the miller’s cottage?’

  ‘I found an accomplice following you after you left the tower on Era Mina… Unwilling, but helpful nonetheless.’

  He moved to the far corner of the cavern and dragged Carik from the shadows.

  She was gagged, her eyes glazed and her lids puffy from sleep. Her fury lay like an orange sheen against her alabaster skin.

  Solon ran to her, trying to gather her in his arms. She pushed him away, tearing the rag from her mouth, spitting and coughing phlegm into the dirt.

  ‘What have you done to her?’ Solon shouted.

  ‘Relax, young man.’ The helix on Malcolm’s breastplate spun and sparked with light whenever he moved closer to the cave paintings. ‘I encouraged her cooperation with a little mind control. Nothing more. She will recover quickly, I am sure. She’s been resting nicely since I found her.’

  He ruffled Carik’s spiky blond hair. She slapped his hand away furiously. Malcolm laughed.

  ‘Her mind has been quite entertaining, though.’ He winked at Solon. ‘This young Viking is quite smitten with you, my lad, even if she’s angry with you for abandoning her in the cave. She blames you for that, Mattie. It seems she heard you leave, and followed you as far as the Abbey where, thankfully, I intercepted her.’

  Carik’s fury was rising. She shifted closer to Solon, glaring at Matt.

  Matt needed to think. Ideally without worrying about a furious girl getting in the way. Em was crazy enough when she was angry, but at least she didn’t carry weapons. He shrugged at Carik apologetically. He didn’t have any extra energy to worry about hurting her feelings.

  Brother Renard stirred. Lifting the iron mask, Malcolm stared into the old monk’s tired eyes.

  ‘It won’t be long now,’ he soothed. ‘Death will come soon enough.’

  Solon threw himself towards Malcolm. ‘The devil will take you to hell!’ he yelled.

  Caught unawares, Malcolm stumbled against the machine. The tablet fell from the old monk’s feeble fingers and bounced on to the ground.

  Matt dived at the tablet before his father could reach it, and crushed it under his feet, grinding it to splinters.

  ‘Draw that,’ he said.

  Malcolm howled with rage, sending a burst of red dust into the air. He swung at Matt, who threw himself backwards against the cave wall.

  With an animal yell, Carik leaped up on to Malcolm’s back, yanking viciously at his hair. He was too strong for her, knocking her from his shoulders like a bug. She landed with a grunt, the wind knocked from her lungs.

  ‘No,’ Malcolm screamed, whirling round to where Solon was trying to release the old monk from the machine.

  Without the old Animare in his thrall, Matt knew that his dad would need to depend only on his Guardian powers. If he could draw something to help Solon, then perhaps they would stand a chance of defeating him.

  He dug in his pocket for his nub of charcoal, taking his eyes and his concentration from his father.

  FIFTY

  Auchinmurn Isle

  Present Day

  A custard-coloured moon was shedding its pale light on the ancient standing stones at the Devil’s Dyke, high on the island of Auchinmurn. Em worked quickly by the light of her torch, scraping the yellow lichen from the stones into a small plastic bag. If everything went to plan, this extra lichen and the stone scrapings would be the final element for her painting. She hoped the stone would be ancient enough and would make the triptych more authentic.

  Through the gloaming Em could see the dark shape of a crofter’s crumbling black-house. She froze in shock at the feeling of an ice-cold hand on the back of her neck.

  ‘Tell yer story walking, lass,’ growled the old man. His hand slid to her hoodie and hauled her away from the stones.

  ‘Hey,’ Em exclaimed, struggling in his strong grip. ‘You’re hurting me! What do you want? What have I done?’

  Her mind slid wildly through the possibilities as the old man pushed her wordlessly through the forest of tall pines and down the craggy hillside. She wasn’t trespassing. As far as she knew, there was no preservation order on the stones. Why was he so angry?

  Despite his age – Em judged him to be as old as her grandfather – the man was surprisingly fast. Every few steps Em had to skip a little to keep up.

  It was the middle of the night and a chilling fog was seeping in from the sea, covering the ground. Em kept stubbing her toes on roots. The man’s stride was long and unrelenting.

  ‘You’re one of them Abbey weans, aren’t ye?’ he barked.

  Em wriggled her shoulders, trying to slip out of her hoodie, but the straps of her backpack made freeing herself impossible. ‘What if I am?’

  He didn’t answer.

  They slowed a little as they crested the hill and began to climb down toward
s the footpath. Em decided to try another tack, going limp and relaxing every part of her body. Instead of slowing, the man only lowered his arm, letting Em slide across the rough ground behind him. Her shins smashed against a rock.

  ‘Ow! Now you’re really hurting me!’

  ‘Ach, stop yer whining. Yer no’ a wean any more.’

  Em scrambled back to her feet, her eyes watering with pain. She could feel one shin bleeding inside her jeans. ‘Where are you taking me?’ she demanded, trying to sound braver than she felt.

  Could she get her hand into her pocket and reach her sketchpad? And if she did, what might she draw to free herself?

  ‘Keep yer hands where I can see them,’ he said sharply. ‘I know about you lot and all yer sorcery. Ah’ll no’ stand for it on this island any more.’ And he smacked her behind the knees with the long wooden stick that he was carrying.

  Em was feeling seriously scared now. Who was this man? How did he know about her abilities? About the Abbey? More importantly, how had he managed to sneak up on her? She should have sensed his presence.

  Em didn’t recognize her captor as he yanked her over the fence that bordered the public footpath. A long time ago, a whole village of crofters had eked out a meagre living from potato farming and raising sheep on the island. According to her grandfather, only one or two families still lived in the stone-and-peat cottages near the shore, mostly surviving on the occasional odd job and taking tourists on fishing trips. She’d spotted this one tending to a sheep tangled in a briar on the far side of the hill when she’d last sneaked up here. She’d thought he hadn’t noticed her.

  ‘I wasn’t doing anything wrong,’ she said defiantly.

  ‘That’s not for you to say.’

  Em could smell the pipe tobacco in the top pocket of the crofter’s tatty canvas field jacket. His cap was old, its mud-caked brim resting on bushy grey eyebrows. A front tooth was missing, and the others were yellow with black roots exposed. It gave him an ugly leer.