The Blackhope Enigma

by Teresa Flavin

  “I’m afraid I have never looked for it. I have never been particularly interested in leaving Arcadia.” Hugo looked a bit sheepish.

  “Why not?” asked Sunni and Dean together.

  He sighed. “My inheritance has dwindled, and I have almost nothing left. There are certain debt collectors who wished to find me. Disappearing seemed the perfect solution. And I could hardly ask for a better refuge than this.” Hugo glanced at Dean’s jacket draped over a chair and at Sunni’s winter coat. “I do not know how long I have been here, because time moves strangely in Arcadia. But I deduce from your clothing that you are not from 1859. What was the date when you walked the labyrinth?”

  When Sunni told him, Hugo murmured, “It means the debt collectors who hunted me are long dead by now.” He was still for a moment. “As well as everyone else I knew.”

  Dean began yawning, and Hugo stood up.

  “I am a poor host,” he said. “You surely wish to rest, and I am boring you with my own troubles. There is a bedchamber for you.” He picked up a brass bell from the table and shook it once.

  Inko appeared and beckoned to Sunni and Dean.

  “I hope you will be comfortable for the night,” Hugo said, clasping his hands together. “Most delightful to have your company, my young friends! It has been so long since . . .” He stopped, his eyes misting over. “Since I had anyone amiable with whom to converse.”

  Dean’s whisper cut through the darkness of the bedchamber they shared. “What do you make of Foxy Farratt?”

  “He’s OK, I think,” Sunni mumbled, half asleep on a bed of the softest feathers. “He knows a lot.”

  “Yeah, though he’s nice one minute and strange the next. Maybe he’s been cooped up here too long.”

  “Oh, only by a hundred years or so!” Sunni said. “Just try to be a bit less mouthy, huh?”

  Dean’s hoarse whisper rose. “I was just trying to show him I’m not a stupid little kid!”

  “You don’t have to prove yourself. He seems to want to help us,” said Sunni. “Let’s not make him change his mind.”

  Dean was silent at this and then asked, “What do you think of Inko?”

  “Dunno. Didn’t speak while we were there. Did he say anything to you?”

  “No,” answered Dean. “I don’t think he talks.”

  Sunni didn’t respond.

  “Sun?”

  “What now?” she groaned.

  Dean whispered earnestly, “Sorry I got us stuck in here.”

  Sunni let out a long breath. “It’s all right.”

  At the bottom of the naiads’ lake, a commotion began. There had always been a patch on the lake bed that glowed white under the silt, but it had never erupted before. Now suddenly a tangle of arms and legs thrashed up through it, propelling clouds of bubbles and sending the naiads darting away. A young man emerged, kicking at something below him, forcing it back down. Struggling to hold his breath, the young man finally let go. Satisfied that the mud had settled and his pursuer had gone, he pushed himself up to the surface, bursting from the water with a low cry of relief. He swam toward the lights of the palace and staggered out of the water, shaking pink droplets from his black hair.

  The naiads recognized him and shrank back into the water to let him pass. He hardly noticed them — his eyes were trained on the palace ahead. He stole along the palace wall and heard voices through one of the high windows; voices that were unknown to him.

  The young man made his way into the woods and whistled. A collective breath greeted him from the trees, like the wind rising through the leaves.

  “Newcomers,” it whispered. “Newcomers are here.”

  The dust of melancholy had settled over Hugo Fox-Farratt, sitting alone in his chair. He looked up as Inko scurried into the room with a tray.

  “Bit of a shock, Inko,” he said. “Outside it is the twenty-first century already.” He picked up his goblet. “I ask myself whether my enterprise was worthwhile. I have evaded my enemies, the debt collectors, but I have also evaded my friends. I shall never see them again.” His head dropped to his chest.

  Inko stood nearby, his face furrowed with concern. Hugo half smiled when he looked up and saw the servant’s serious expression.

  “Still, it is good to have company, eh, Inko? I would have preferred visitors from my own time and closer to my own age, but it will be most interesting hearing about the twenty-first century from our guests.”

  Inko nodded more cheerfully as he picked up plates and cups.

  “I remember when I first arrived in Arcadia,” Hugo continued, “and was astonished to meet Lady Ishbel. I did not expect to find anyone here, let alone Sir Innes’s niece. And then to find out that Lady Ishbel was not the only one here, that others had also found their way in —”

  Inko paused in his tasks, the serious look back on his face.

  “Why, Inko, what makes you look so worried? Are you wondering about Lady Ishbel and the others? I think we are quite safe here. We have been for some time now.”

  The servant boy nodded.

  “We will continue to have as little to do with them as possible,” Hugo said resolutely. “And we shall hope they keep to themselves. After all, we don’t want to scare away our new friends.”

  Inko picked his way through the forest to his hut without need of a torch. He knew every twig and branch, every lump in the ground. Meeting the two young strangers from the other world had made him think of Sir Innes, who had gone back there long ago and never returned. He had died, Lady Ishbel had told him when she arrived. He was my uncle, she said, and he left me the secret of how to come into Arcadia. Now I am your mistress. And she had been, until she had vanished below, like the others.

  Inko, too, had once had a life in the other world, though he couldn’t remember it. Sir Innes had told him he had been a cabin boy on his ship, the Speranza Nera. Inko had never been able to talk, but the captain had said that he was the best cabin boy he had known.

  Inko tensed as his mind snapped back to the dark wood he was crossing. There was a light breeze, and he sniffed the air. Something was nearby, something he had not sensed in a long time. Suddenly he was caught around the chest by a long, curling arm. A woody fragrance breathed into his ear. He recognized the scent of a dryad, a tree spirit from the woods.

  A blue lantern light burst out of the blackness, and a dozen tree spirits surrounded Inko. In this form, they were willowy maidens with polished gray-brown faces and sinewy arms. The somber dryads made him uneasy enough, but a deeper shiver ran down his back when he recognized the person holding the lantern. He was back, after all this time.

  Inko cringed as the young man stepped forward from the gloom, his hair tangled around his face and his clothes shining damp.

  “Inko,” he said, thrusting the lantern into the servant’s face, “strangers have entered Arcadia and are with Fox-Farratt in the palace. Bring them to me tomorrow.”

  Inko shook his head mournfully. He had not seen his master so happy in ages, and he knew it was because of the two visitors from the other world. Hugo would not want them to go to the faraway woods with the young man.

  Eyes flashed in the blue lantern light. “You know you have no choice. I will be waiting by the brambles at this time tomorrow.” The young man turned abruptly and melted away into the trees, followed by the dryads, rustling along the ground behind him.

  I’m in the painting, Blaise thought, awestruck. He had no idea how long he’d been sleeping when he woke up on a wooden dock, sprawled at the chained feet of men waiting to board a galley ship. Through their legs, he recognized the oversized Sir Innes Blackhope standing at the top of his ship’s gangplank, one arm raised to greet the crowds on the dock. The name of the ship, Speranza Nera, was painted in curly gold letters on its hull.

  Excitement charged through Blaise as he got to his feet and took in the life-size buildings, people, and animals. It was like being on a film set of Fausto Corvo’s imagination, stuffed full of his backdrops and chara
cters.

  Blaise couldn’t see back to the bench he had sat on in the Mariner’s Chamber or the labyrinth in the floor tiles. People there might see him in the painting, but he could not see out of it. He wondered whether the two detectives were watching him at that moment. His dad might have arrived by now, too.

  “Sunni! Dean!” he yelled, puzzled by the muffled sound of his own voice. The place was dead silent.

  Instinctively Blaise pulled out his sketchbook and pencil. Flipping to his sketch of The Mariner’s Return to Arcadia, he drew a star on his location at the docks and then chose a route up into the city where, if luck were with him, he would find Sunni and Dean.

  Blaise hunted the streets, stopping to examine Corvo’s painted people. A smear for an eye, a dash for a mouth, he noted, peering closely at the petrified figures.

  “Sunni! Dean!” he shouted again. There was no reply, so Blaise moved on, occasionally stopping to make a quick note of his location on the sketch.

  After he had wandered through many lanes, tiredness overcame him. Hoping to find somewhere to rest, Blaise came upon a slightly opened door to a house. In an upstairs window, a lady looked out from behind her fan. She looks nice, he thought dreamily, and went through the door. There was nothing there, just an empty space.

  Blaise spread his coat out and sat down. He ate a banana and half a granola bar and drank a little water.

  He was plotting what route to take when he heard a deep voice from somewhere outside.

  “You beauty!”

  Blaise jerked around, his heart pumping, and scrambled to his feet. Limping toward the door, one leg half asleep, he peered out, trying to keep himself hidden.

  “You flaming beauty! Lorimer, you donkey brain, look what you’ve missed! Every brushstroke, every shadow, every hair the Raven painted!”

  The voice was moving closer. A man in a hat and dark overcoat appeared, sometimes pausing to study the belongings and clothing of the people in the street.

  “Bellissima,” the man murmured, staring nose to nose into the blank eyes of a woman in his path. “Were you his lady love? He took more time painting your face than all the others in this street.” He stroked the woman’s cheek. “Did you know his secrets? Eh, not talking either?”

  Blaise held his breath and kept watching. The guy seemed drunk or something.

  Just then the man wheeled around and fixed his eyes on the doorway where Blaise was frozen in place.

  “You’re Blaise, aren’t you?” the man asked, pushing open the door. “You looked younger in the newspaper photo.”

  Bewildered, Blaise sized up this big man. If it came to a fight, he wouldn’t stand a chance, even though he was pretty tall for his age.

  “I’m Angus Bellini. Your art teacher is my cousin. He sent me in after you and . . . Sunni. And whatzisname, of course, her brother.”

  “Dean,” said Blaise, stunned. So Mr. Bell had known more than he’d let on. “Mr. Bell sent you? How did he know the way into the painting?”

  “Lucky guesswork,” said Angus. “We put our heads together and worked it out.”

  “Why didn’t he come himself? Or call the police?”

  “Call the police? I could ask the same of you, my lad. Thought they wouldn’t believe your story? Well, you were right. They wouldn’t have believed us either. Just be grateful I’ve come to help you out.”

  “Who else knows how to get in?”

  “Nobody else. We wouldn’t want the hordes streaming in, getting in our way and mucking up the place,” Angus said.

  “You know the way out?”

  “Not exactly. But the four of us will figure it out.”

  “It’s just me. I haven’t found the others yet,” said Blaise.

  “You’ve looked everywhere?”

  “Not yet. This is as far as I’ve gotten.” Blaise scanned Angus’s face, still sizing him up.

  Angus grinned and tapped the top of his head. “Look, Blaise, no devil horns. No forked tail either.”

  With a shrug, Blaise pulled out his sketchbook and flipped to the sketch he had made of The Mariner’s Return to Arcadia. “I started down here at the docks and came along these streets. We’re here.”

  Angus’s face lit up. He grabbed the sketchbook and thumbed through it, chuckling to himself. Then he looked Blaise straight in the eyes. “Nothing else matters like the capture, does it? Catching a face or a tree or an animal with your pencil. You capture it and it’s yours.”

  “I just like to draw,” said Blaise, pulling his sketchbook out of Angus’s hand and thinking, Weirdo alert.

  “Of course. So do I.” Angus took a small sketchbook from his overcoat pocket. “Go on, have a look.”

  Angus’s drawings took Blaise’s breath away. Faces twisted in agony. Figures fought each other. One figure huddled on the ground, maybe not even alive.

  “Who are they?” Blaise asked.

  “It’s a long story. And we’ve got people to find.” Angus snapped the sketchbook shut and put it back in his pocket. “Shall we move on?”

  D.C. Nash stood in front of The Mariner’s Return to Arcadia. He had been staring at the painting for what seemed like hours but had not seen the missing kids or the man who had caused his colleague a hospital visit. Nash looked at his watch. Only ten more minutes and then he could go home.

  The painting was an anthill of people in endless streets, so how could anybody find four particular figures, even if they were somehow there? All right, no one could explain how Blaise Doran had vanished in front of them, but he couldn’t accept the boy’s explanation of where the kids had gone either. Nothing had moved in the painting while he had been looking at it. That’s what he was going to tell the chief inspector. With any luck, he would never have to look at the painting again.

  At the stroke of five o’clock, Nash turned his back on The Mariner’s Return to Arcadia, nodded briskly to the guard at the door, and strode out into the corridor. The lights were extinguished, and the heavy door was locked behind him.

  The painting was plunged into darkness. But inside the sunny world of its medieval lanes and squares, two figures set off, the big man striding like a general and the boy keeping himself slightly to one side, the better to watch his new companion from the corner of his eye.

  Sunni sat up in the feather bed and rubbed her gritty eyes. Her body felt sluggish, and her head ached. She had woken up several times during the night, unnerved by the silence. The thoughts spinning around her brain had been as dark as the bedchamber and almost as suffocating. We might never get home. We might die here.

  Now the darkness had gone but not the trapped feeling, even though a buttery light beamed onto one of the chamber’s walls. She touched the wall and felt the familiar sensation of cool marble. Made by the power of the stars. On a table nearby was a brass tray filled with real bread, fruit, and a jug of milk. An endless supply of food, thanks to the power of the stars. No wonder Hugo hadn’t wanted to leave, she thought.

  Inko peered into the room and smiled, gesturing at Sunni to eat. He ventured in, carrying their jackets, and draped them over a chair. He was wiry and alert, like a young deer.

  “Can you talk?” Sunni asked softly.

  Inko shook his head. He smiled at Dean, who was snoring away, his bare feet dangling out of the bed. Sunni tugged one of his ankles, making him groan.

  “Get a move on, Dean,” Sunni said. She stuffed some bread into her mouth and washed it down with milk. She was ravenous, not having dared to eat the night before. She grabbed a peach and let Inko lead her down a corridor lined with animal heads.

  In the courtyard, Hugo lounged on a couch reading a small book. “Ah, Miss Forrest! I was just enjoying some Tennyson. I hope you slept well.”

  Hugo wore a cherry-red coat and tweed trousers. His shoes shone, and one foot was crossed nonchalantly over the other. Sunni was suddenly aware that her hair was probably sticking up and that her school uniform looked like it had never met an iron. She smoothed her hair as much as she cou
ld and nodded.

  Sitting down on a stool near him, she rolled the peach from hand to hand. “Mr. Fox-Farratt, don’t you have any idea at all how to leave Arcadia?”

  “An idea, yes.” Hugo hesitated. “I believe the exit is — I believe it could be some way from here.”

  “Would Inko know?”

  Hugo smiled. “Inko is a simple soul. He is not interested in hunting for exits. He belongs here.”

  “So you’re not sure how Sir Innes got out?”

  “No. By the time I arrived here, he was long dead,” said Hugo.

  Sunni bit her lip. “Could you show us where you think the way out could be?”

  A look of alarm passed over Hugo’s face. He turned the poetry book over and over in his hands. “There are things you don’t understand, Miss Forrest. Last night I told you how il Corvo created Arcadia for Sir Innes. But . . .” His voice trailed off. “I am afraid things have changed here since Sir Innes’s death.”

  Just tell me where the exit is, Sunni wanted to shout, but she waited for him to go on.

  “It is not safe to go off searching for things.” Hugo frowned.

  “Not safe?” Sunni repeated. “What do you mean?”

  But Hugo ignored her question. “As well as this magical work, il Corvo is reputed to have created three other paintings even more spectacular than Arcadia — paintings of vast, rich cities where all the knowledge of the ancients was stored in huge palaces.” Her host had his dreamy look again. “The grandest of the paintings was meant to be a gift for Rudolf, the Holy Roman Emperor. It was called The Chalice Seekers, and it was said to show a procession of noblemen on horseback, traveling across a mountainous landscape. Below them a dead stag was sprawled at the bottom of a cliff with scavenger birds poised to feed on it. A city lay in the distance, a glowing silver chalice hovering in the sky above it.” Hugo paused and looked intently at Sunni. “It is my belief that these paintings, like il Corvo himself, are here — here in Arcadia.”