‘Wait!’ Matt yelled, running back along the shore. Zach joined him. ‘You can’t go in there again. You might get something worse than spiders this time!’
‘What satchel, Em?’ Zach signed as they caught up.
‘The brown satchel on top of the funny mural with all the suitcases. Like the kind doctors in old movies carry. It looks exactly like the one Mum brought from London when Matt and I first came to the island!’
‘Oh, yeah … I remember!’ said Matt in excitement.
‘I need to go back inside and take a closer look at it,’ Em said.
‘Okay, you two draw the lock and key again,’ signed Zach. ‘But we can’t risk the walls coming to life again. This time I’m going inside on my own.’
THIRTY-NINE
Zach left the twins standing outside the studio’s closed door. They were supposed to be watching for Simon and Mara to return, but spent most of the time peering through the dark glass, trying to track his progress.
With the storm’s passing, sunlight filled the studio with light, making every image look even more alive than before. Waving his way through the charcoal haze that still permeated the studio air, Zach went directly to the luggage mural.
Got it yet?
You’ll be the first to know, Em. Now be quiet. Watch for my dad and Mara. I don’t want to lose any more computer privileges because of this.
Zach was too short to reach the top of the painting where the satchel lay. Grabbing the stool Matt had used to smash the spiders, he climbed on and stretched his arms up the painting, trying to reach the satchel.
Your dad and Mara are pulling into the garage. You’ve got maybe two minutes before they see us out here. Hurry up!
Zach was aware of something tingling beneath his fingers as he touched the mural. It almost felt like … electricity.
Thirty seconds.
Before he could process Em’s warning, his fingers hit against something hard directly underneath the image of the satchel. It was a clear Perspex shelf, camouflaged into the mural with a real satchel, not an imagined one, perched on top of it.
Got it, Em! It’s real all right. And there’s something underneath the mural, too – some weird kind of power current.
Matt says leave the satchel where it is for now or we’ll get caught with it. It’ll be safer where it is. We can’t let your dad or Mara know about it until we see what’s inside first.
Locking the door, Zach sprinted back outside to join the twins. With only seconds to spare, the three of them plonked themselves on the end of the jetty, as Mara and Simon walked out of the garage. Matt quickly tore up their drawing of the lock and key.
Mara headed inside, while Simon came down to join them.
‘What have you three been up to this morning?’ He looked more closely at the state they were in. ‘You look like you’ve been cleaning chimneys. What’s with the soot?’
‘The flue backed up in Em’s bedroom,’ said Matt. He gathered more stones to skip on the water. ‘We helped her with the mess.’
‘We’re thinking we might walk along the shore to Seaport now,’ said Em, brushing excess charcoal from her jeans. ‘See if the storm washed up anything interesting.’
‘Good idea.’
‘Will we be able to see our grandfather this evening?’ Em asked.
‘I think so,’ Simon said. ‘We can go after dinner if you’d like. I heard from the Chief Constable this morning,’ he went on. ‘They’ve accounted for everyone on and off the ferry yesterday – except for one couple who came on to the island earlier in the afternoon. The curious thing is there’s no evidence of the couple returning to Largs on any later ferry runs.’
‘So they might still be on the island?’ asked Matt, alert. ‘And they might have Mum?’
‘The police have canvassed all the B&Bs. There’s no record of them staying overnight anywhere,’ Simon told them. ‘Of course, they may have found another way on to the mainland that kept them clear of CCTV cameras, but I doubt it – particularly in the light of this morning’s storm. I think they’re still here.’ He stood up. ‘The police have every dock and boat charter under surveillance and, as of this morning, your mum has officially become a missing person. That’ll put her on every alert in every constabulary in the country.’
‘I guess that’s good news,’ said Matt uncertainly.
‘It is.’ Simon looked like he was about to say something else to the children, but his mobile rang. He walked a little way up the beach to take the call.
Em nudged Zach. Zach peered to read his dad’s lips and sent his thoughts directly to Em to avoid detection.
He’s talking to someone at the hospital.
Simon closed his phone and marched across the lawn to the kitchen. Zach’s mind went dark as he shut Em out of his thoughts and processed what he thought he’d read. This was something he had been working on with his dad, who had told him that there might be times in his life when he might have to keep things from Em. Zach had protested that he couldn’t imagine such a time, but his dad had been right.
‘What’s wrong, Zach?’ Em said urgently. ‘Who was that?’
Zach thought carefully about his response. ‘I think it was the Chief Constable. She must have told my dad something about some marks they’ve discovered on your grandfather’s legs and ankles.’ He paused.
‘Tell us!’ demanded Matt angrily.
‘Remember all I got was my dad’s side of the conversation,’ signed Zach at last. ‘I may have read him wrong. But I think he said, “Good God, bite marks. You know what that means.” Then he hung up.’
‘And what does it mean?’ said Em.
‘I think it means that the dwarf creature you saw in the library attacked Grandpa,’ Matt guessed. ‘The scratches on the library door looked like bite marks.’
Em felt sick. ‘You know something?’ she said. ‘If that creature did hurt Grandpa … it means there’s an Animare on this island giving it orders to do a lot more than just haunt my dreams or visit the library.’
FORTY
Realizing they’d have to wait until later to retrieve the satchel, and not sure what to make of all that they’d learned, Matt, Em and Zach decided to take advantage of the low tide, and for once do exactly what they had told Simon they would do.
The wind remained strong, the sea choppy, as they trudged out on to the hard sand. The sun was out, but the afternoon felt more like a blustery autumn day than a mild summer afternoon. Plodding along the shore in a companionable silence, they occasionally picked up something shiny in case it was treasure-worthy. If it wasn’t, they set it on the rocks where they could later retrieve it for the rubbish.
‘If there was an unknown Animare on the island,’ Em said thoughtfully, as they headed back to the dock for lunch, ‘wouldn’t Grandpa have sensed them? That creature was in my room days before it attacked him.’
‘You’d have thought so,’ Matt agreed.
Zach nudged Em, pointing to a skiff cutting across the waves. ‘Who’s that?’
The figure operating the outboard motor was hooded up in dark rain gear. They couldn’t see his face.
‘He must have come round from the public launch at Seaport,’ said Em. ‘Where’s he going in such a hurry, though?’
‘Fishing off Era Mina?’ said Matt. ‘Grandpa always says the few hours before and after a storm are the best.’
‘Well, he’s moving pretty fast for a fisherman,’ signed Zach, running ahead of them towards the boathouse. C’mon, Em.
Em took off after Zach.
‘Wait up!’ Matt sprinted after them both.
Inside the boathouse, Zach grabbed the binoculars from a hook near the door. The man in the fishing boat had slowed, clearly scouting the island. Zach passed the binoculars to Em.
‘Did you recognize him?’ she asked.
‘I could hardly tell if it was a he or a she, let alone recognize them.’
‘Definitely a “he”,’ said Em after a minute, passing the binoculars
back to Zach. ‘I think he’s docking his boat.’
Staying within the cover of the boathouse, they watched the man run his boat into shallow water on the southern end of Era Mina, before climbing out and dragging the skiff up on to the beach. Then he rounded the point of Era Mina, where the children lost sight of him.
‘He’s heading to the caves,’ Matt said. ‘What if he finds our stuff?’
Em thought about everything that she, Zach and Matt had used to create their illusions for the tourists – their refurbished computers, art supplies and sound equipment – all stashed in one of the Era Mina caves. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she answered, with a bit more confidence than she felt. ‘He’d have to pick the right cave, go all the way inside, then work out which wall to climb before he’d even spot the next level of caves. If he did that, well, yes, then he’d find our stuff. But the tide’s coming in. Can’t see him risking getting trapped and drowning.’
‘You’re probably right,’ agreed Matt, relaxing. ‘But who is this guy? He looks like he knows his way round the island.’
Taking turns with the binoculars, they kept their eyes on Era Mina until the stranger wandered back into view, walking across the beach to the ancient Celtic tower. Wandering the tower’s circumference, he suddenly stopped and crouched.
‘He looks like he’s examining the sand,’ said Matt, his eyes pressed to his binoculars. ‘And he’s way too curious about that tower. We should follow him. See what he’s up to.’
‘We should get the satchel from Mum’s studio before we do anything else,’ Em warned.
‘We don’t have time,’ said Matt, glancing at his watch. ‘It’s not likely this guy came all the way across the bay in that tiny boat. If he came from the mainland, he’ll probably return it at the island rental and catch the next ferry. If we cut through the path in the woods, we’ll make it. We can see where he goes from there.’
‘Plus,’ signed Zach, ‘whatever’s in the satchel is still safer in your mum’s studio than in our hands – at least for another couple of hours.’
It was true that the satchel probably was safer where they’d left it, yet Em couldn’t help feeling that it was something she and Matt should look at as soon as possible. But the boys had already retrieved their bikes from the stables and were racing into the woods. There was nothing else for it. She’d just have to follow them, and leave the satchel until later.
PART THREE
FORTY-ONE
The Monastery of Era Mina
Middle Ages
The warning bell on the monastery’s gate tower had fallen silent, but below, the courtyard had erupted in a cacophony of commands. Setting the old monk’s manuscript on the floor, Solon crawled to the arrow slit in the scriptorium’s wall. Peering through the narrow hole, he wept at what he saw.
Under cover of darkness, a band of Norsemen had attacked the village, stealing into the bay from the north. Raids had been a regular occurrence for centuries, but in recent years there had been fewer and fewer, especially on Auchinmurn. He watched in horror as the surviving villagers charged through the forest, desperately seeking the safety of the monastery’s fortified walls. A line of monks, all of them skilled archers, had mustered on the parapets, shooting with speed and accuracy to keep the Vikings at bay. But the monks were outnumbered. They were losing the battle. Solon could see that those manning the heavy ropes of the portcullis would have to drop it soon, leaving any stragglers from the village to their fate.
He stared at the monks courageously holding the gates. He knew them all as friends and teachers. One or two of them were Animare, but not one would use their imaginations to defeat the invaders. Not when the monastery of Era Mina was the only place in the kingdom where Animare were protected, where they were not reviled as abominations or hunted like monsters as long as their imaginations were used in the service of enlightenment and truth.
Solon had come to know this as the First Rule. If an Animare were ever to break the First Rule, the penalty was dire – imprisonment or death. This had not always been the case, but the world was no longer the open, enchanted world in which the old monk had grown up. Instead, it was becoming a world where magic and miracles were in the hands of powerful men, and an unfettered imagination was becoming a blasphemous thing.
Solon spotted his mother charging through the gates. Then he gasped. His oldest sister Margaret, carrying her daughter Mary, was trailing a few feet behind. Margaret would struggle to reach the monastery gates before the monks dropped the portcullis.
Come on Margaret! You can do it. Run!
He knew only the old monk could hear his thoughts, but he willed them on nonetheless, holding his breath until he saw Margaret and Mary both safely inside.
Along the perimeter of the wall, a line of monks was pouring hot tar into buckets, preparing to drop them at the Abbot’s command.
But where was the Abbot? Where was the old monk?
Solon scanned the chaos below. It was becoming more and more difficult for him to see individuals in the panicked sea of faces filling the courtyard. The monks were lowering the portcullis and closing the gates as fast as they could. Using pickaxes and pitchforks, a group of villagers assailed any Vikings that had got into the courtyard.
Quickly, Solon retrieved the pages for The Book of Beasts from the floor, intending to secure them on the shelves before leaving the safety of the tower. He planned to find the old monk and help prepare the monastery for the inevitable siege. They’d need to secure food and water, find safe places inside the walls for the women and children.
But something pierced his temple, and everything went black.
Minutes after Solon went down, the old monk and the Abbot were herded into the courtyard by a second line of Vikings who had come at the monastery from the rear, scaling the sea walls and avoiding the village altogether. With the archers’ attentions on the gates and the villagers’ safety, this line had charged unhindered through the Abbey itself, finding their two hostages along the way.
Their presence sent a wave of shock rippling through the villagers.
A nimble young warrior broke from the line and climbed up on to a corner turret on the monastery’s wall. Pulling his horn of ivory from its goatskin sheath, he blew two long blasts, silencing the rabble and halting the fighting.
The chief stepped into a clearing in the centre of the courtyard. His feet and legs were laced in pigskin, his body draped in reindeer hide and silver chain-mail, his helmet and nose-guard a blush of gold. Shoving the bound and blindfolded old monk and Abbot to the ground in front of him, the Viking raised his longsword in the air, holding it in two hands above his head as he spoke.
‘My name is Rurik the Red, son of Logmar the Berserkr, grandson of Erik the Fierce. Put down your weapons or everyone will die!’
Beneath his blindfold, the Abbot’s face was the colour of limestone. The old monk gasped, his body listing to the side. A cut on his head, where Rurik had thumped him with the hilt of his sword, continued to bleed. Every man, woman and child holding a weapon let it fall to the ground. The archers, setting down their bows, moved away from the portcullis, letting the warriors outside charge triumphantly into the courtyard.
Solon! Solon! Can you hear me?
The old monk knew Solon was collecting the day’s pages from the scriptorium high in the north tower.
Can you hear me?
The old monk and the Abbot had been forced to their knees. Longswords drawn, Rurik’s men formed a wide circle around the terrified villagers. Four or five of Rurik’s warriors moved through the crowd, fetching children and dragging them to the centre of the courtyard. If a mother or a father objected, a sharp blade or a leather strap helped change their mind.
I hear you, master. Solon’s voice was faint, groggy. I hear you.
When every child in the village was huddled together in front of the kneeling Abbot and the old monk, Rurik stepped forward again, his booming voice drowning out the sobs of the children and the cries of their famili
es.
‘A century ago my family ruled these islands. The monks repaid us by stealing a priceless relic. On this day in the name of Odin, I’ve come to retrieve what’s mine.
‘You will give me what I seek, or I will take payment in your children.’
FORTY-TWO
Auchinmurn Isle
Present Day
Breathless from pedalling at top speed through the forest to the ferry, Em, Matt and Zach nodded their greetings to the man checking their boat passes at the dock. They were the last ones to board.
‘I’ll take a look around the boat for the stranger,’ said Matt, climbing the stairs to the upper deck. ‘You both keep your eyes on the bay in case he didn’t get on the ferry after all.’
He returned a few minutes later. ‘No sign of him. I even checked the loos.’
Taking turns with the binoculars, they stood at the stern, monitoring the bay. The ferry was about a hundred yards from docking at Largs when Em finally spotted the stranger, bouncing his boat through the waves at the southern tip of Auchinmurn.
‘What took him so long?’ asked Matt. ‘Even Jeannie could have made it round the island faster than that.’
‘He must have stopped somewhere,’ said Em. ‘It doesn’t look like he’s heading to any of the boat-rental shops in Largs to return his boat, so where’s he going?’
The three of them were the first off the ferry, running their bikes up the gangway, doing their best not to knock over any of the tourists exiting with them. Stopping next to cars queuing to board for the return trip, Matt took the binoculars from Zach. The stranger was now hugging the coastline, guiding his boat south.
They mounted their bikes quickly, cycling south along the packed promenade, doing their best to keep the stranger in their sights.
The afternoon sunshine had brought everyone back outdoors. Riding safely along the promenade was becoming an exasperating challenge.
‘We can’t let him get away from us,’ said Matt, more worried about losing the stranger than either Em or Zach. He’d let his mum down by not being at the Abbey when she’d needed him – he wasn’t going to let her down again.
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