Hollow Earth

by John Barrowman

  ‘Do you think this Wren guy has taken my mum?’ asked Matt.

  ‘If what you’ve discovered from these people is true, it sounds like Sir Charles just wanted something from her.’

  ‘Do you know what it might be?’ asked Em in as innocent a voice as she could muster. She’d seen where Zach had thrown the satchel.

  ‘I don’t,’ said Simon. ‘I wish I did, but I don’t.’

  For the first time that night, Em was certain that she was hearing a truth.

  FORTY-NINE

  ‘For goodness’ sake, where is she?’ asked Simon fifteen minutes later, sitting behind the wheel of the Range Rover idling in the courtyard. ‘

  She said she had to get something for Grandpa,’ replied Matt.

  Seconds later, Em darted out of the front doors, carrying a parcel the size of a coffee-table book wrapped in brown paper, and a bouquet of daisies from Jeannie’s garden.

  ‘We can’t go to the hospital without flowers,’ she said, scrambling into the back seat.

  The ferry ride and drive to the hospital were quiet, with Matt and Em lost in their own thoughts. Simon was worried that events surrounding Sandie’s disappearance seemed to be escalating. Zach fiddled with their watches behind the twins, making sure they were clean of any tracking devices.

  When they arrived at the hospital in Largs, a doctor met them outside Renard’s private room.

  ‘Your grandfather is heavily sedated, and he’s connected to lots of machines monitoring his vital signs. But the good news is he’s breathing on his own.’

  Em had never stopped long enough to process what a serious assault her family had experienced that night: her mum missing, her grandfather in a coma. Standing outside the hospital door, seeing the man she adored so pale and weak and connected to a medley of tubes, Em wasn’t sure she’d be able to keep herself from turning into a sobbing mess.

  ‘Can I hug him?’ she asked, trying to hold back her tears.

  ‘I’m sure he’d expect nothing less,’ said the doctor, leading them into the room.

  Matt and Zach stood awkwardly next to the bed, doing their best to conceal their own upset. Arms outstretched, Em threw herself across her grandfather, pressing her cheek to his heart, finding comfort in its quiet but steady rhythm.

  After they’d offered their comments to the unmoving figure in the bed about the weather, the increase in jellyfish in the bay and their lack of progress on their model of the monastery, the boys shifted to the other side of the room and perched on the window ledge. Simon went outside to chat with the doctor, while Em pulled a chair closer to Renard’s bed.

  ‘I brought you a present, Grandpa,’ she said, reaching for the package Simon had carried inside for her. Balancing it on her lap, she tore open the wrapping. Vincent Van Gogh’s Poppy Fields, one of the artist’s less famous paintings, which Renard had bought as an investment years ago, glowed up at her.

  Matt moved off the ledge. ‘Is that the painting from Grandpa’s study, Em?’

  Em set the picture on the hospital dresser, directly in Renard’s field of vision should he open his eyes.

  ‘You do know that’s an original Van Gogh?’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘You can’t have a painting like that in a hospital room,’ Matt pointed out. ‘Someone will steal it.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Em choked. ‘Grandpa loves this painting. It makes him happy. I want him to sense that the painting is near him and … and maybe … maybe his connection to the painting will help bring him back to us.’

  ‘That’s sweet,’ said Matt. ‘But did you tell Simon you were bringing it here?’

  ‘I helped her wrap it,’ said Simon, coming back into the room. ‘And I thought it was a lovely idea.’ He hugged Em. ‘It’s always been one of his favourites. Who knows what power it may hold?’

  On their way across the hospital car park to the Range Rover, Simon stopped. ‘Who’s up for an ice cream? It’s a beautiful night. We could sit on the pier and watch the fishing boats go out.’

  Matt, Zach and Em were appalled at the suggestion, as it would keep them even longer from finally seeing what was inside Sandie’s satchel. In unison, they shook their heads hard.

  Simon looked taken aback. ‘Okay. I guess that was a bad suggestion. But you did hear me say ice cream, right?’

  ‘We’re just tired,’ Em said, linking her arm with Simon’s. ‘I think we’d like an early night tonight.’

  On the ferry, the children could hardly contain their nervous energy. Twice Simon had to make them sit down, their pacing around the deck and their boisterous bickering with each other bothering other passengers.

  When he pulled the Range Rover into the Abbey garage, the three of them were out of the vehicle before Simon had even turned off the engine. Charging up the front stairs and yelling goodnight to Jeannie as they went, they agreed to sneak back down and retrieve the satchel when the adults had gone to bed.

  It was one of the longest hours of their lives.

  Reading a book from the never-ending pile on her bedside table, Em was curled on her window seat waiting for the kitchen lights to turn off. When they did, she telepathed the boys instantly.

  All clear.

  Matt watched and listened at the bottom of the servants’ stairs, with Em at the hallway door, while Zach slipped outside to fetch the satchel.

  Bring Matt and get out here.

  Em looked across at Matt, the colour draining from her face. ‘Something’s wrong. Zach wants us outside.’

  Dashing out to the terrace, the twins found Zach digging around in the woodpile. ‘It’s gone,’ he signed in desperation, tossing logs on to the grass. ‘The satchel’s not here any more!’

  PART FOUR

  FIFTY

  The Monastery of Era Mina

  Middle Ages

  Solon! Solon, can you hear me?

  ‘I will only say this one more time,’ Rurik bellowed. ‘I’ve come to retrieve what’s rightfully mine. You have until the coming dawn to give me what I seek, or I will do as I say. I will take payment in your children.’

  Believing he would find an open wound from an arrow, Solon gently touched his fingers to his head before opening his eyes. His skin was unbroken.

  Solon! Can you hear me?

  Solon remembered he was in the Abbey’s scriptorium. It had been the overwhelming power of his master’s words inside his head that had caused his blackout, not a Viking arrow after all. But his relief that he was not wounded was short-lived. Crawling over to the arrow slit in the wall, he stared down at the terrible chaos in the courtyard.

  I’m here, master. What is it Rurik seeks?

  He seeks that which he must not have – which no man must have ever again – but that is of no consequence. Right now, you must help prepare an attack and you must do so before dawn.

  Solon turned away from the anguish of his family and friends in the courtyard below. Focusing his mind, he listened to the old monk’s plan. And when the young apprentice was sure he understood exactly what had to be done, he set about doing it.

  First, he retrieved The Book of Beasts, slipping the still unfinished manuscript pages under his tunic, holding it in place with the leather strap cinched around his waist. Secondly, he gathered as many of the old monk’s inkwells as he could safely carry, placing them inside a goatskin pouch, then strapping it over his shoulder. Solon made sure the inks were protected under his arm when he engaged the scriptorium door, somersaulting safely to the outside hallway. He dropped the scriptorium key into the pouch.

  Pressing his back against the cold stone walls so as not to be seen, Solon crept down the spiral stairs and out into the passage that led to the Abbey’s great hall. He could see a Viking sentry pacing before the doors leading to the monastery courtyard, but the double doors leading out to the sea on the other side of the great hall were clear. No sentries.

  Slipping behind a tapestry hanging from the vaulted ceiling, Solon took stock of his position. He had to g
et to the other side of the hall and out to the sea. The sentry paced up and down, one minute facing into the great hall and the next facing away. Should Solon make a dash for it, hoping to make it to the other side before the sentry saw him? Or should he slither across the floor, giving himself a chance to hide among the footstools, animal skins, chairs and table legs should the guard turn sooner than expected?

  Solon sprinted.

  Without stopping to catch his breath, he used all his strength to push the sea-facing doors open and slipped out into the kitchen gardens, running until he reached the water’s edge, the inkwells bouncing against his chest, the pages scratching his skin, reminding him of his mission.

  Tossing oars into a small rowing boat that the monks used to get across to Era Mina, Solon pushed himself off from the dock. The currents from the channel pulled the boat to Era Mina with only the slightest effort on Solon’s part.

  The apprentice leaped from the boat as soon as it hit the sand, darting around the point of the island to a small bay dotted with dark caves. But instead of heading for the caves, he removed the skins wrapping his feet and began to scale the rocky cliff face. As he climbed, the pages from The Book of Beasts began to tingle against his bare skin.

  Are you close?

  Yes.

  The island was bathed in an eerie pre-dawn light; wisps of fog lingering around the distant cliff peaks like the breath of God. Solon counted as he climbed, knowing exactly how many hand-lengths he needed to take.

  At the count of thirteen, he stopped. Tearing at the carpet of moss that covered the cliff, Solon revealed an opening, a tunnel carved into the cliff.

  I’m inside the island.

  Good. Do you trust me, Solon?

  Yes … Yes, master, always and for ever.

  Good lad. Because you must let me have your imagination completely. Remember all that I’ve taught you.

  Solon set out his materials, the inkwells, the pages of vellum. Then he crouched in the heart of Era Mina, waiting for the sun to rise.

  When the dawn came, enough light spilled into the cave for Solon to see what surrounded him. He had known of the cave’s existence from the stories the monks told, but he had never been inside. Only the old monk and the Abbot were permitted to set foot in this damp and dangerous place, and given their ages even they had not ventured the climb in many years.

  With his brushes and inkwells at the ready, Solon stared up at the massive cave drawings etched deep into the slate-grey stone: beautiful, giant, monstrous things as old and as mysterious as the island itself. If the old monk knew who had created these magnificent images, he had not yet told Solon. The exquisite detail, the vibrant colours, the breathtaking beauty in each etching made Solon shiver in awe.

  Letting his bare finger trace the deep lines of one of the drawings, the boy felt the tingling again. All his life he’d heard minstrels sing of mythical monsters, telling tales of times in Scotland’s history when one or more of these beasts rose up from inside the island in times of need. Solon wondered: would he too become a story told around a fire late at night? Would minstrels sing of his courage? The possibility made him smile.

  He spread the page of vellum he’d lifted from the scriptorium across the damp moss floor, crouching at the ready.

  It is time, Solon! Paint. All our lives depend on it.

  Pressing his back against one particular cave drawing in the manner his master had instructed, Solon closed his eyes and began to paint. Using big bold strokes, his brush swept across the length of the page, dipping in and out of the inkwells in a series of frenzied movements. Inside his head, Solon let the image take its shape and the old monk take his imagination.

  The tingling washed over his entire body, making his legs want to jump and his fingers dance. But then it grew stronger, stinging Solon’s flesh as if he had fallen into a patch of nettles. His gut burned. He felt sick. Swallowing bile, Solon continued painting, his brush never lifting from the parchment. He could feel the wall behind him move, as though whatever was bound in the cave drawing was pushing itself out of the rock and peat and reaching through Solon’s body to his heart. As he convulsed uncontrollably, the brush fell from Solon’s hand.

  You cannot let the image control you, Solon. If you do, you will fail. We will fail.

  Squeezing tears from his eyes, Solon exhaled slowly and retrieved the brush. Pushing back against the cave wall, he tightened his grip on his imagination and his brush. The fire in his gut eased a little; the tremors stilled.

  A few minutes later, Solon’s nose began bleeding, but he was so lost to his imagination that he kept painting, his blood spilling across the vellum like crimson ink.

  In the monastery courtyard, Rurik’s eyes were thin white slits. He was tired of waiting.

  ‘Bring me that child,’ he howled, pointing his sword at Mary, Solon’s niece.

  Margaret screamed, lunging at Rurik. Two of the Viking guards forcefully restrained her, while a third tossed Mary to the ground in front of Rurik as if she were a rag doll.

  The sun was up.

  With the tip of his sword, Rurik swept a braid from Mary’s face, exposing her thin neck. Somewhere in the distance, a cock crowed. A crushing silence descended on the courtyard. Even the sounds of mothers weeping and the soft dirges of the monks were muted.

  The Abbot watched the old monk slump to the ground, noting the beads of perspiration bursting across his forehead, his breathing laboured, his eyelids fluttering as if a wind was blowing on his face. The old monk’s hands, tied behind his back, looked as if they were gripping an imaginary quill, his fingers twitching. The Abbot looked directly at Mary’s mother, who had dropped to her knees between her captors, her hands clenched in prayer.

  Rurik had lifted his sword high above his head, preparing to swing, when a shadow fell over the little girl – the shadow of a man in chain mail and laced boots. The sun was just high enough to cast Rurik’s own shadow low and long on the ground, but the more Rurik stared, the more confused he became. It was his shadow but it was somehow … stag-like.

  Above the Viking chief, a flying beast with the wings of a giant bird and the body of an enormous white stag swooped down into the courtyard, stabbing its antlers into Rurik the Red, lifting him into the early morning sky. The Viking’s sword clattered to the ground next to Mary. Her mother broke free of her captors, pulling her daughter to safety.

  Rurik didn’t even struggle. An antler had pierced his heart. The stunned villagers stared at the beast’s shadow on the courtyard cobbles morphing from the shape of Rurik the Red to that of a mighty winged stag.

  ‘Solon’s on its back!’ someone cried.

  The sight of Solon riding on the back of the peryton, Rurik the Red’s body still impaled on its antlers, roused the villagers from their panicked stupor. They lifted their weapons and attacked Rurik’s stunned men. Grabbing their pitchforks, spades and scythes, the men and women of the village charged after the Viking invaders as they fled in terror from the monastery into the forest.

  The Abbot comforted the old monk as only a Guardian could. ‘My dear Brother Renard, what have you done to yourself?’

  They watched Solon guide the peryton back towards Era Mina.

  ‘I had to be the one to awaken the cave paintings because I am oldest,’ Brother Renard sighed, resting his head on his friend’s lap. He paused, his breathing shallow and weak. ‘And because although he is destined for greatness, Solon can’t yet animate fully on his own, and I needed all the imaginary power I could muster.’

  ‘You used Solon as your quill?’ said the Abbot, stroking Brother Renard’s trembling hands and calming his spirit. ‘And through him you conjured one of the beasts bound in the sacred cave paintings?’

  The old monk nodded.

  The Abbot felt sad. ‘My friend, you know there will be a price to pay for that animation. You have broken the First Rule by creating an animated beast visible for all to see. And look at you. You may have broken your own mind.’

  Yo
u did well, Solon.

  Thank you, master.

  Animating the peryton through Solon’s imagination had drained the life out of Brother Renard. ‘A child’s life was at stake,’ he whispered, looking across at the girl being cradled by her mother. ‘And that’s worth more than ten of me.’

  ‘Why the peryton, old friend?’

  Images were streaking past Brother Renard’s eyes, as if everything he’d ever animated in his life was real once again. ‘The peryton is pure and noble. I couldn’t risk letting the worst of them loose on the world.’

  ‘Of course,’ said the Abbot, understanding at last as he watched Solon and the peryton soaring out over the horizon. ‘You had Solon draw Rurik’s shadow as the creature’s shadow, because a peryton kills only once in its lifetime – and only then in order to win its shadow back.’

  FIFTY-ONE

  Auchinmurn Isle

  Present Day

  ‘We should’ve looked inside the satchel when we had our chance,’ lamented Em, pacing in front of the fire in the upstairs sitting room. Every few steps, she’d kick the leg of the couch in frustration. Her toes were starting to hurt.

  ‘Would’ve, could’ve, should’ve … it doesn’t change anything,’ said Matt, sticking a slice of bread on a toasting fork and holding it in front of the flame.

  ‘You know we have a toaster for that,’ signed Zach, examining the charred piece of bread that Matt passed over. ‘It’s more efficient, and you’re less likely to burn the bread.’ He set his toast down on the arm of the chair.

  ‘But that’s the best part,’ said Em, accepting a scorched slice from her brother. ‘We used to make toast this way with Mum all the time in the flat in London.’

  Where was their mother right now? Was she safe? Would they ever see her again? Matt, it seemed, was trying not to think about it as he stuck another piece of bread on his fork.

  Zach pulled his chair closer to the fire. The storm earlier that day had left the Abbey damp and chilly despite the later warmth of the afternoon. ‘If Dad had discovered the satchel, he would have confronted us about it.’