The Blackhope Enigma

by Teresa Flavin

  “But this isn’t a game,” he said. “This is real.”

  “That’s right: it is real. We can’t just skip the scary bits.” Sunni pushed through the opening, waving her arms in front of her. “Besides, what if the way home is just around the corner?”

  They inched through dense, heart-stopping darkness. In the distance was what looked like a bright white door cut out of a black wall. Sunni tiptoed toward it, puzzled by its brilliance.

  “Is it snow?” whispered Dean. “A blizzard?”

  “I haven’t a clue.”

  The door was just wide enough for Sunni to walk through. She and Dean emerged into the light like rabbits from a winter burrow.

  There was nothing here except whiteness. No objects, no colors, only brilliant whiteness.

  Sunni took a few steps and bumped into what appeared to be some sort of wall. There was no edge where it met the ground. She turned around. The door they had come through was now just a black slit.

  “This is giving me a headache,” Sunni said, feeling around the black shape. “There isn’t a wall. But then there is a wall.” She ran her hand up and down the whiteness. “It feels rough.”

  “It’s got streaks in it,” said Dean, sticking his nose up against it. “Like when your dad painted the kitchen table.”

  “Dried paint.” She could make out great whorls and swirls, as if a huge paintbrush had sloshed white over everything. She edged sideways along the wall that wasn’t a wall. “This is like an alleyway. Come on, let’s just see where it goes.”

  Dean followed her, peering back at the black doorway in case it disappeared, until Sunni pointed and said, “There!”

  A misty shadow loomed in the whiteness, shining through as though it was wrapped in lace curtains. For the first time in ages they felt a breeze.

  “It looks like the trees in the fog on that day we went to Gran’s last month. Remember? She called it a pea-souper,” said Dean.

  “Yeah. And you know what else it looks like? Like when I did a painting on a canvas and really messed it up, so Mr. Bell gave me some white paint to cover it and start again. It didn’t quite hide everything until I’d done three coats.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Maybe Corvo did the same thing. He painted something and then covered it over with white paint,” said Sunni, heading toward the shadow.

  “Because he made a mistake?”

  “I don’t know.”

  As they came closer, they could make out a deep gray tree trunk bleeding through the whiteness, its lower branches framing a patch of bare earth and scrubby bushes below.

  “Come on,” said Sunni. “This could be the way out. Maybe Corvo was trying to hide it.”

  “I dunno,” answered Dean, pulling back.

  “Do you want to go back to the frozen zombies instead? Look, we can find our way back there if we need to. The path only leads one way.” Something struck her. “Just like the labyrinth.”

  “I wish I’d never walked on that thing,” Dean muttered.

  Together they stepped onto the patch of ground beneath the tree. As they moved forward, the whiteness thinned out and Sunni and Dean found themselves in a green wood. It rang with bird songs, and the leaves rustled in a gentle breeze. The sky was the same blue as the one in the world they had just left, but this time clouds were moving across it. The sun was low, and the shadows gave them the feeling that it was afternoon.

  “This place is alive,” Sunni said in wonder. “Things are moving. Inside a painting.”

  “Maybe we’re out of the painting now. There’s wind and sounds.” Dean looked around for anything he might recognize. “Maybe we’re home, Sun.”

  “Not unless we skipped winter. It’s warm here.” Sunni picked a wildflower and stroked its petals. They felt silky, like real petals. Its fragrance was delicate, though not like any flower she had ever smelled before.

  They moved along on a path lined with ferns, through groves of swaying trees. The sun sank a bit lower, sending even longer shadows across the glade they passed through. The birds grew quiet or fluttered away. Dean looked uneasy and pulled his jacket around him, even though the air was warm.

  “What’s up?” asked Sunni in a low voice. Dean had huddled against a tree.

  “I’ve got a feeling we’re being watched,” he whispered. His eyes were riveted on dark shadows among the ferns.

  Sunni was straining to see when they heard a new sound.

  “One is one and all alone, and evermore shall be it so!” sang a deep voice.

  The voice dropped for a moment and then burst out again. “Five for the symbols at your door, six for the six proud walkers! Seven for the seven stars in the sky, eight for the April rainers!” Now they could see a man in the distance, heading toward them.

  “Green grow the rushes, Oh!” the voice boomed as its owner thrashed into the glade. “Oh, I say, Inko, well spotted!”

  Before them stood a man wearing slim trousers and a long blue coat, a top hat sitting jauntily on his blond head. He looked like someone from the TV programs Dean’s mom loved, where snooty men rode around on horses and women sat in mansions waiting for one to propose.

  The man tipped his hat, careful not to come too close. His eyes were bright with excitement. “Good day to you. Hugo Fox-Farratt at your service.” He nodded toward the ferns behind them. “And Inko, of course.”

  A shorter, smiling figure stepped into the clearing and Dean recognized the face he thought he had seen among the ferns. It belonged to a barefoot boy of about his age. He had shaggy dark hair and wore a loose shirt covered by an embroidered vest. His baggy trousers were bound at the waist by a red cloth, like a pirate’s.

  “D-don’t hurt us!” Dean stammered.

  “Young sir, I have no intention of hurting you!” Hugo was horrified. “Heavens, that is the last thing we should wish to do. You have found Arcadia — and so few have of late. May I ask who you are?”

  “I’m Sunniva Forrest,” said Sunni as calmly as she could. “This is my stepbrother, Dean Rivers. We’re here by mistake, and we’re looking for the way out.”

  Hugo looked surprised. “Sunniva,” he said thoughtfully. “That is an unusual name.”

  Sunni rolled her eyes ever so slightly. “My mother was Norwegian,” she replied.

  “Well,” said Hugo, “I have not heard of anyone arriving here by mistake before. It is a difficult task to guess the password. Yet despite your youth, you have cracked it.”

  He paused for a moment. “Or perhaps you are the accomplices of some great personage, sent ahead to survey this place? You would not be the first.” He nodded at Inko. “There is no sense in lingering here. Come, we will take you to the palace for a meal. We can speak freely once we are there.”

  Sunni remained where she was. She studied the man for signs of a shifty look or a fake smile. But his gaze was straightforward and his geniality seemed genuine.

  “How do we know we can trust you?” she asked.

  “I might ask the same of you,” answered Hugo. “Let me put it this way. Of all those you are likely to meet here, we are the least threat to you. And if we leave you in this glade, your safety cannot be guaranteed.”

  “How is it not safe here? Who is —?”

  “I will explain everything at the palace,” interrupted Hugo. “I offer you my word as a gentleman that you will not be harmed.”

  Sunni and Dean exchanged a glance and a hesitant nod. “Don’t let them split us up,” she whispered as they moved away from the tree and followed Hugo.

  “This way,” said Hugo, leading them deeper into the grove of trees, with Inko bringing up the rear. “It is not far.” As they thrashed past overgrown greenery, he called out in a jolly voice, “By Jove, it has been some time since anyone found his way in. In fact, I believe I was the last one until now.”

  “But why are you still here?” Sunni asked. “Don’t you know how to get out?”

  “Ah.” Hugo paused. “That is rather a good questio
n. And one that I have not yet answered definitively.”

  “You’re stuck in here, too?” asked Dean.

  “Hmm . . . stuck. Not exactly the word I would use, but, yes, this is where I have ended up.”

  “Since when?” Sunni felt a growing sense of apprehension. She could hear the smile in Hugo’s voice when he answered: “Since the 20th of September, 1859.”

  Lorimer Bell turned off the news and put his head in his hands. Now Blaise had disappeared, too, even after he had warned him to stay away from Blackhope Tower. Maybe he should have told his student everything he knew. Or thought he knew.

  The computer on his desk beeped to say he had a new message. Lorimer frowned at the sender’s name and opened the message.

  It read: I see some of your lambs have wandered into our pasture. See you soon. Angus.

  Beneath it was a scanned newspaper article with a photo of a well-built man in a cluttered artist’s studio.

  Paris, January 16

  THE RETURN OF ANGUS BELL

  International art forger Angus Bell is now using his original family name, Bellini, but can he change his infamous reputation as easily after five years in prison?

  He thinks he can, and his accountant would probably agree. Bellini’s first exhibition since he was released from prison has sold out within a week. The show, at Mimi St. Pierre’s stylish gallery, is the talk of Paris.

  But are the paintings any good?

  “At least they’re not forgeries this time,” quipped Bellini.

  “Angus is an undisputed talent,” said Madame St. Pierre, “and having a colorful past has not hurt him one bit. In fact, it has made people want his paintings even more.”

  Fuming, Lorimer Bell studied the picture of his cousin, Angus, grinning cheekily at the camera as he aimed his paintbrush toward a canvas. Lorimer deleted the message in one swift move.

  The doorbell buzzed insistently, and Lorimer squinted at his alarm clock: five in the morning. He stumbled downstairs to the front door. Through its glass pane, he could just make out a dark figure outlined by the streetlight. The bell buzzed again, and Lorimer jumped. He flicked on the outside light to reveal the smirking face of Angus Bellini.

  “Stop gaping and let me in, Lor,” ordered his cousin. Lorimer hesitated and then unlocked the door. Angus barged through, bringing a blast of icy air and French aftershave with him. He looked his cousin up and down.

  “No hair left, I see. Due to the stress of your teaching career, by any chance?” Angus pulled off his dark fedora and triumphantly shook loose his own jaw-length hair. Then he crushed Lorimer in a bear hug.

  “What are you doing here?” Lorimer asked stiffly, pulling away.

  “Thanks, I’d love a cup of coffee. A couple of eggs on toast would be grand, too.” He shrugged off his black overcoat and handed it to Lorimer. “I traveled all night to see you, Lor.”

  The art teacher snorted. “You’re not here to see me, Angus. You’re here because of the painting.”

  “Grumpy in the morning, aren’t you? Of course I’m here to see you,” said Angus.

  “You’ve been out of the slammer for over six months and you haven’t bothered till now. Not that I wanted to hear from you.”

  “I was busy making paintings for my comeback exhibition. You know what it’s like. Art takes up all your time.” Angus stroked his chin and said, “Actually, no, you don’t know what that’s like anymore, do you? You had your chance to be an artist, and you chose to babysit teenage brats instead.”

  “At least what I do is legal!”

  “Oh, yes, you’re the good one.” Angus sat down at the kitchen table. “Coffee, Lor. Come on, then — we’ve a lot to discuss. Haven’t you been reading the papers?”

  While Lorimer grimly boiled water for coffee and cracked eggs into a frying pan, Angus said, “Those missing kids have done what we spent ages trying to do. They’ve found a way into The Mariner’s Return to Arcadia.”

  “And they may never get out! Two of the three are my students, Angus, and they have left frantic families behind. They also happen to be the most promising students I’ve taught in years.”

  “Very touching,” said Angus, filling a cup with black coffee and settling back into his chair. “But it was the youngest and apparently least artistic of them who went into the painting first. So, how did he work it out?”

  “I have no idea,” muttered Lorimer, shoveling eggs and toast onto a plate and throwing it down in front of Angus. “But you have to stay out of this. Go back to Paris and live the good life that art forgers seem to have these days.” He waved his hand dismissively at his cousin. “When you and I tried to get into the painting, we were only kids ourselves. It was a stupid idea, anyway. I’ve left all that in the past.”

  “Hmm.” Angus munched his breakfast, ignoring Lorimer. “From what the police are saying, the kids all walked the labyrinth before they disappeared, muttering some sort of password. Something must have inspired them — something in that room. And we know that no one is allowed to change anything in the Mariner’s Chamber. It’s stayed exactly the same since 1582. Right, Lor?”

  Lorimer said nothing.

  “Actually, that’s not strictly true, is it?” Angus continued as he wiped egg yolk from his plate with a piece of toast. “They added an information card about the painting, did they not?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “A news snippet I found. You were asked to help write all the information cards about the paintings in Blackhope Tower, weren’t you?”

  “So?” Lorimer shot back.

  “Tell me what you wrote for The Mariner’s Return.” Angus looked slyly at his cousin.

  “I can’t remember. It was three years ago.” The art teacher stood up. “Leave this alone, Angus. It has nothing to do with you.”

  “On the contrary, it has everything to do with me. And with you.” Angus rose, eye to eye with his cousin. “Fausto Corvo did make magical paintings. You and I wanted to believe it. We spent all that time trawling through dusty old books on magic and astrology but found nothing. Now your little darlings have come along and proved us right. Just think of the possibilities, Lor. For a start, a certain customer of mine would pay the earth for a painting he could disappear into whenever necessary.”

  “You haven’t changed a bit, have you? Even after cooling off in prison,” said Lorimer in a flat voice.

  “Why should I change? I’m pretty marvelous as I am. Always was more marvelous than you, anyway. Better at drawing, more popular with girls.”

  “I’m not interested in helping you. Never again,” Lorimer said.

  “Even if there’s a chance that Corvo’s lost paintings are hidden inside The Mariner’s Return to Arcadia?” Angus smiled.

  “That’s a bit of a leap, isn’t it?”

  “No one’s ever found those paintings, so why shouldn’t they be hidden in there? Just think what they’d be worth!”

  “You’re just as greedy as ever, Angus,” Lorimer said. “I’ve heard enough. You can leave when you’ve finished eating.”

  “With pleasure. After you tell me what you wrote for The Mariner’s Return information card. It’s a shame, though. I was hoping we could work together again. We were a good team.”

  “In your dreams. And if you want to know what I wrote about the painting, you can go over there and read the card yourself,” Lorimer said. “Oh, but I forgot: that’s not possible now because the police have closed the Mariner’s Chamber off. You’re too late.”

  Angus’s face twisted in anger. He grabbed Lorimer by the front of his bathrobe. “You’re not going to stand in my way.”

  The art teacher grappled with his cousin, but Angus managed to flip him around and pin his arms behind his back. He pulled Lorimer into the dark front room and flicked on the light with his elbow. In front of them was a makeshift studio with shelves of art supplies and a few paintings propped against the wall. On the desk sat a computer.

  “Turn it on.” Angus pus
hed Lorimer into the chair at the desk and held him firmly by the shoulders. “And find what you wrote for Blackhope Tower. I know you. You’ll have kept it all.”

  Teeth gritted, Lorimer searched through his computer folders, hoping he might have deleted the one Angus wanted. But there it was, efficiently marked “Blackhope Tower Visitor Information.” He slowly found the right file and opened it, scrolling to the text for The Mariner’s Return to Arcadia.

  Angus read the paragraph hungrily. “This must contain a password that the kids found by chance. It was the only piece of information they could have seen in that room. And it would be a word in Italian since that was Corvo’s language. The only thing it could be is chiaroscuro. Yes, that must be it!” Angus started laughing. “Right under your nose, Lor, all this time.”

  “I wasn’t looking for it anymore!” Lorimer shouted. “It was exciting at the time, trying to see if we could get into the painting. But that was twenty years ago.”

  Angus released his grip and swiveled his cousin’s chair around so they were face-to-face. “I’d given up on finding the secret, too. But now it’s been served up on a silver platter.”

  Lorimer cut him off. “Well, I’m finished with the dark side of art, Angus. No more forging, no more scheming. I make my own art now — plain old paintings with no magic involved.”

  Angus leaned over and flicked through the paintings stacked against the wall.

  “If this is the best you can do, I suggest you go back to forgery.” He shoved the paintings upright again. “These are garbage.”

  “Forgery is your game, not mine.”

  Angus shrugged. “Enough of this. I’ve given you a chance, but you haven’t got the guts to come with me,” he said. “But once I get into the painting, you’re to keep your mouth shut, OK? You never saw me here or knew where I was going. Got it?”

  “How are you going to stop me from inside the painting?” Lorimer sniggered.

  Angus smirked back. “I’ve put together a little package of information about you. An associate has been instructed to send it the minute you start causing trouble and it will go straight to your headmaster and the media. Then your teaching career will be finished. Nobody will hire a forger like you, however much you say you’ve sworn off it.”