‘I’ve never done that before,’ said Em. ‘I’m just glad that you did what you did, Zach,’ she signed. ‘You saved the day!’
Zach’s face reddened. Quickly gathering up Em’s bowl and his own, he walked over to the bin to mask his blushing.
‘We should’ve known the whole story would be too scary for young children,’ said Matt, oblivious to Zach’s embarrassment. ‘The children with that last family from Edinburgh, though – they were the perfect age. How old do you think they were, Em? ’Cos that’s who we should stick to next time.’
‘They were our age,’ laughed Em. ‘Still, it was pretty easy to convince their mum and dad to follow me, especially when the dad figured he could have a pint on the beach while we entertained his children.’
‘How much did we make?’ signed Zach.
Em pulled a pencil case from her backpack, surreptitiously counting the notes stuffed inside. ‘Sixty quid. Not bad.’ They high-fived each other.
‘Celebrating something?’ asked a woman, appearing next to Matt on the steps.
Em jumped with fright.
‘Oh, I’m sorry! Didn’t mean to startle you.’ She pointed at a man sitting at one of the umbrella tables, who lifted his cup in acknowledgment. ‘We heard from a fellow tourist that you children conduct a re-enactment to anyone interested in learning more about the history of the island. We’d like to take your tour, and, of course, we’re happy to pay you double since it’s so close to the end of the day.’
The woman took a thick pile of notes from her bag.
Em was feeling uncomfortable. There was something vaguely familiar about the woman. Had they met before? She took a closer look at the man at the table. He looked fairly harmless, but there was something about him. He waved. It didn’t help Em’s unease. Maybe she was just getting tired.
I don’t like this woman, Matt, and there’s something weird about her husband.
Matt ignored her. ‘I think we could do one more show before it gets dark,’ he said, standing and brushing sand from his cargo shorts.
‘I think we should get home,’ signed Zach, sensing Em’s discomfort.
Em was under no illusion that they’d spent most of the day breaking the First Rule of being an Animare – never to animate in public. But she had convinced herself that they had done their re-enactment in such a way that no one in their audience would ever know that what they were seeing was real. Technically, she felt, they’d got round that one.
But giving one more performance when they were both tired and not as focused as they should be would violate the Second Rule of an Animare – always be in full control of your imagination.
Let’s get Matt out of here.
Em and Zach each grabbed an arm and forcefully yanked Matt across the street to where they’d left their bikes.
‘Maybe another day,’ the woman called after them. Then, more quietly to herself, ‘Most definitely another day.’
TWENTY-SIX
‘So how much trouble are we in, Jeannie?’ asked Em.
Sandie had cornered them in the back of the stable when they were putting their bikes away. She’d been livid when they admitted what they’d been doing.
‘It’s hard to say, lass,’ Jeannie answered. ‘They’ve been in the library since you returned, and not one of them has come in here since. I made a treacle pudding as well. Usually Mara and Simon have their spoons out before I’ve even served it, but not this afternoon.’ Ladling thick pea soup into their bowls, Jeannie smiled sympathetically at the three of them.
‘We said we were sorry,’ snapped Matt, tearing into a crusty roll. ‘What more do they want?’
‘Son, that bread never did a thing to you,’ said Jeannie, staring at the pile of crumbs covering his placemat.
‘Sorry.’ Matt dropped the remains of the roll on to his plate. ‘So how did they find out in the first place?’
‘One of the things ye two should heed – and quickly – is that when it comes to this island and his kin, nothing gets past your grandpa. Nothing.’
‘Mum said that he had got a projection of the Nelson boy from me,’ Em said.
She had decided that she was prepared for whatever punishment their grandfather set for them. She’d also already made a decision that they wouldn’t run their performance at Viking Cove again. When the little Nelson boy had screamed in such abject terror, she had felt as if someone had stabbed her. She did not want to feel that way again. Ever. Today would most definitely not be repeated.
‘I’ve lost computer privileges for a month,’ signed Zach.
‘As well you should,’ said Jeannie. ‘I couldn’t get any of my programmes on the telly this afternoon. The whole screen was a big box o’ nothin’ because of yer fiddling.’
Zach drooped. ‘Sorry.’
For the rest of their tea, Matt, Em and Zach concentrated on eating, hoping that looking penitent enough would mean that any punishment coming their way might be muted by their obvious remorse.
When they finished their sticky treacle pudding and excused themselves from the table, they each tackled a section of the monastery model in silence, continuing to look as contrite as possible.
Mara came into the kitchen, stopping first to scoop a taste of pudding out of the dish with her finger.
‘Wow, you’re really doing a great job with this.’ She crouched down, peering into the village square, where Matt was painting a hay cart. ‘Is this how you got the idea for your performance thingy?’
Matt nodded awkwardly. ‘Em was studying the artist Brueghel with Simon, and Zach was making a comic about the Battle of Largs with Sandie, so we just put the two things together when we were … um … animating.’
‘Plus Grandpa has told us about Solon and the monks so many times,’ added Em.
‘Certainly can’t fault your source material,’ Mara smiled. ‘Well, come on now. Renard wants to see both of you in his study.’ She turned to Zach. ‘Your dad is waiting for you in the stables, Zach. Something about scrubbing the boathouse?’
TWENTY-SEVEN
Renard’s study was at the front of the Abbey, on the second floor of the north tower. Matt and Em took their time getting there, neither of them in any hurry for the impending telling-off. As they paused outside the door, tears welled up in Em’s eyes, and Matt nervously clenched and unclenched his fists.
‘I know you’re both out there. Come on in,’ boomed Renard’s voice.
Their grandfather was standing at the window, looking out at the Celtic tower on the promontory of Era Mina.
‘Matt, do you remember that first afternoon when you and Em arrived on the island?’ he asked, turning to face them.
Matt was wrong-footed. He’d been sure they were just here for a telling-off.
Why is he asking us about that?
‘Humour me, Matt,’ responded Renard.
Matt’s and Em’s eyes widened in surprise.
‘Don’t panic. I can’t hear the words you’re actually telepathing,’ he said. ‘I just know when you are, so I simply made a reasonable assumption, given the circumstances.’ He looked from Matt to Em. ‘So, Matt. Do you remember that first afternoon?’
Matt nodded.
‘And do you remember what you asked Simon, when he gave you a tour of the gardens?’
Frowning, Matt joined his grandfather at the window. ‘Yes! The Celtic tower. I couldn’t understand why it had been built as a watchtower when it was so narrow and all the arrow slits were in the wrong side.’
Renard shifted over so Matt and Em could stand next to him at the window. ‘The tower faces the island and not out to sea because the tower was not built as a watchtower as Simon told you. It was built as a prison.’
Matt and Em gasped.
‘It was built for an Animare,’ Renard continued, ‘a mad old monk who one day, so the story goes, became so deranged that he became a threat to himself and all around him. His Guardian, the Abbot of the monastery of Era Mina, knew something had to be done. Even then we h
ad rules that Animare and Guardians lived by.’
Em stepped in. ‘Some of the monks who lived here were Animare?’
‘They were indeed. The monastery of Era Mina was the first full community we know of that was organized to protect Animare and to support their artistic abilities away from the scrutiny of the wider world.’
‘So what happened to the old monk?’ prodded Matt.
‘The historical records are sketchy, but legend states the monk was illuminating a manuscript and lost control of his imagination, animating a terrible monster that wreaked havoc on the island. So his fellow monks, who loved him dearly and couldn’t bear to hurt him, built the tower, situating it in such a way that the monk could sit at the window and see the comings and goings from his beloved Abbey, but if he animated anything it would be contained within the tower.’
Matt slumped into the nearby armchair.
‘That’s very sad,’ said Em. ‘Was he able to keep his manuscripts?’
‘I don’t know, Em. The monks had to protect themselves and the village from his imagination somehow. If they did let him continue working with manuscripts, I think they hoped that the height of the tower and the thickness of its walls would have made it very difficult for him to sustain his imaginings for very long. He’d have been too old to project them very far.’
‘But this is the twenty-first century,’ Matt blurted out. ‘You’re not going to lock us up for what we did today like we’re deranged or something, are you?’
Renard let out a little chuckle. ‘I wasn’t going to suggest that, Matt. I just wanted to illustrate how dangerous an Animare was considered back then. Because, sadly, there are a growing number of Guardians who wouldn’t hesitate to lock you both up. Your mixed birthright is seen as dangerous for our kind and the world. Notwithstanding the fact that the Council voted not to bind you, you are still seen by many as a threat.’
‘What happens when someone is bound?’ Em asked nervously.
Renard retrieved a key, some sunglasses and a pair of earplugs from his desk and slipped them into his pockets. ‘I want to show you both something. It will help you understand.’
The side wall of the mantel in Renard’s office was embellished with a shield displaying the Abbey’s coat of arms. Tilting back the shield, Renard revealed an electronic keypad. He punched in a series of numbers, and the panelled wall next to the stone fireplace slid open to reveal a lift, not much bigger than an old telephone box.
Matt had always suspected that the Abbey would have secret passageways, but this wasn’t what he’d expected. The lift looked more like the kind of high-speed elevator you’d find in a modern London office-building or a fancy hotel. Its interior was steel and chrome – no fixtures, no panels of any kind.
‘Shall we?’
The lift doors closed with a hiss behind them. Before Matt could complain about his ears popping and his stomach somersaulting, the doors opened on to a dimly lit passageway with a row of lights pulsing along each side of the stone floor, diminishing to a small dark rectangle in the distance.
‘That was cool,’ said Matt, about to step out. ‘How far down did we come?’
‘Wait!’ said Renard, grabbing Matt’s arm and holding him back. ‘I need to disengage the security.’
Renard pressed his palm against the elevator wall next to the doors. A heat outline of his hand morphed red, then green. When it turned blue, the pulsing lights in the hallway quickened. Matt pressed himself back against the rear of the lift because it looked as if the lift was suddenly moving forward, travelling at some speed along the passageway.
‘Grandpa, I feel sick,’ said Em.
‘Close your eyes, Em. It’s an optical illusion,’ said Renard. ‘We’re not really moving at all.’
‘Brilliant!’ exclaimed Matt.
Renard pulled Em next to him. ‘It’s a little disconcerting when you first experience it, but it’s part of a sophisticated protocol that uses the pulse and the illumination to control access. Simon designed it.’
‘What would happen if you didn’t disengage it correctly?’ asked Matt.
‘The lift seals shut.’
‘And then what?’
‘That’s simply it.’
‘Oh.’
When the pulsing lights slowed to a steady heartbeat, the elevator appeared to stop. Now there was a door directly in front of them.
‘I told you about the old monk locked in the tower not to teach you a lesson and certainly not to terrify you.’ Renard tousled Matt’s hair. ‘I told you about your Animare ancestor to help you understand what you’re about to see in this room, and so that you appreciate the significance of who you are becoming.’
Renard pulled the key, the sunglasses and the earplugs from his pockets. ‘Em, you should wear these.’
‘Why?’
‘Your Guardian abilities are emerging more strongly right now than Matt’s. That’s why you can sense emotions more easily and why you and Zach can read each other’s minds. This room may affect you more intensely.’
Em slipped on the shades and tucked the earplugs into her ears. Renard unlocked the door. Matt stepped into the room first.
‘Wow!’ he said, gawking at maelstroms of yellow, black and green exploding across a canvas directly in front of him.
Em followed her brother into the cavernous space. Immediately she felt herself pulled to a small painting in a gilded frame, protected under a thick Perspex case.
She crumpled to the floor and lost consciousness.
TWENTY-EIGHT
‘I told you they weren’t ready to be down there!’
‘I’m sorry, Sandie – I thought they were. They need to know more about who they are.’
‘I don’t care how well-meaning your motives, Renard. You put my daughter’s mind in jeopardy and—’
Matt was sitting at the foot of Em’s bed. He was tired of the squabbling, especially since it reinforced his disappointment at having to leave that amazing room and return to the surface when Em had collapsed.
He knew what had happened wasn’t Em’s fault. As soon as she stepped across the threshold, she had looked as if someone had slapped her hard across the face. Her eyes had rolled up into her head, then she had crumpled to the floor.
Em stirred on her bed.
‘I think she’s waking,’ said Matt.
When Em opened her eyes, she felt as if she had fallen into the final scene of The Wizard of Oz, with Zeke, Hank, Auntie Em and Uncle Henry peering down at Dorothy. Only Em’s Kansas was a spacious bedroom in an ancient Abbey, with her grandfather, her mum, Matt and Zach gawking at her.
‘Where’s Toto?’ she croaked, smiling weakly.
‘Hey, sweetie. How are you feeling?’ asked Sandie, kissing her daughter’s forehead.
‘Okay, I think.’
Zach passed her a glass of water, and she took a sip before asking, ‘What happened?’
‘Go downstairs and tell everyone Em’s awake and talking,’ Sandie ordered Zach.
‘Were you ever worried that she wouldn’t be?’ Zach signed.
An almost imperceptible glance, a silent admonition, flashed from Sandie to Renard. Zach caught it, and decided to let the question go. He would ask his dad what Sandie had meant later. He waved at Em, then hurried from her room.
Sandie looked at her children. ‘The place your grandfather wanted to show you … It’s a place where …’ Her words trailed off, tears welling up in her eyes. ‘Where they store artwork by former Animare.’
What are they talking about, Matt?
I don’t know, but I want to.
Sandie turned to Renard. ‘Seeing those works of art changes everything, Renard – the way you see the world. You know that. When you know what’s down there, it can breed suspicion, mistrust, even madness.’
‘Not to most Animare, Sandie.’ Renard reached across the bed and squeezed her hand. ‘It didn’t to you or to Mara.’
‘But it did to their dad,’ Sandie said, snatching her hand fr
om his. ‘He was never the same after he had seen all those paintings. I want to … I have to protect them from that path.’
‘Keeping them in the dark is no way to help them live in the light,’ said Renard gently.
‘Hello?’ interrupted Matt. ‘We’re in the room, you know. We can hear you.’
‘Mum, we can handle it,’ said Em. ‘They were just paintings.’
Sandie closed her eyes. ‘Oh Em. They are so much more than that.’
Renard took Em’s hand. ‘That room is one of five vaults hidden all over the world, containing art created by Animare who, at the height of their imaginative powers, either refused to contain their imaginations or lost control of their power. After the Council voted on their binding, their imaginations were … de-animated by their Guardian and another powerful Animare, reduced to radiant energy and bound in a work of their own art.’
Em pulled herself up against her pillows. ‘I don’t understand. These Animare died?’
‘In some cases the binding of their imagination resulted in the artist’s death,’ said Renard in a low voice. ‘To be bound, to lose their imaginative powers, reduced other artists to madness or worse. Sometimes it simply left them empty, a shell of a human being.’
‘Oh man, I saw Van Gogh’s painting Starry Night down there,’ Matt gasped.
‘So was Van Gogh an Animare then?’ Em asked, thrilled by the connection to such a famous artist.
Renard sighed, resigned to all he would have to tell them. The time had come, and he didn’t like what lay ahead one bit.
TWENTY-NINE
When Matt had walked into the vault, the room had astonished him but not overwhelmed him the way it had overwhelmed his sister.
‘The room was filled with paintings,’ he explained to Em enthusiastically. ‘Each one was glowing, like it had a halo of light coming from it.’ He jumped off the bed again, as if pacing would help him find the words more easily. ‘Em, when I looked into that picture – Starry Night – I felt like … well, I don’t even know what it was I felt.’
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