by Susan Cooper
“Certainly not,” said Portia in a clear and extremely English voice. “I am Portia Clegg, and I work here.”
The bus driver chuckled, looking down at them all from his lofty window, and turned the chuckle hastily into a cough. He had learned fast that if you worked for Mr. Trout, you didn’t laugh when he made a mistake.
Sam Johnson was still gazing at Granda, like a very small boy asking for attention. “Angus,” he said plaintively.
“You didnae tell me about all this,” Granda said.
“I texted you. Twice.”
Jay said, “Granda doesn’t do texts.”
“And anyway there’s no reception here,” Allie said.
Mr. Trout nodded. “That’s unacceptable,” he said. “We’re putting up a cell tower for the resort.”
Portia said, “Mr. Johnson, these are Mr. Cameron’s grandchildren from Canada. Allie and Jay.”
Sam Johnson was instantly smiling and grateful; he looked, Allie thought, like a struggling swimmer who had been thrown a life belt. “Allie and Jay!” he said. “Welcome to Scotland! And to Castle Keep!”
“We’ve been here before,” Jay said.
Allie tried to cover the chill in his voice. “And it’s a beautiful castle,” she said.
“Thank you!” said Sam Johnson warmly. “I loved coming here when I was your age too, but now . . . well . . . I’m just taking Mr. Trout over there. Would you like to come?”
Jay said, “We were there yesterday. Vacuuming.”
“So it’s good and clean!” said Sam Johnson with a desperate little laugh.
“We’d love to come,” Allie said. “You aren’t really going to sell it, are you? Please please don’t.”
As if she had never spoken, William Trout said, “Sorry, Sam—I want two of my people with me, so there’s no room for the kids. They’re in the bus—I’ll give them a buzz.”
“No,” said Sam Johnson. He stood still, hands in his raincoat pockets.
“What?” said Mr. Trout. He looked at him as if he had just heard a sheep bark.
Sam Johnson said, “I’d like to show my castle just to you and these two kids today.”
Allie thought she heard just the faintest stress on the word “my,” and she watched with interest as Mr. Trout’s expression changed from command to careful agreement. He’s not really in charge yet, she thought.
“Sure,” Mr. Trout said.
And out on the loch a motorboat came churning up to the little wooden jetty at the edge of the parking area. Out of long habit Granda moved onto the jetty to stave off a bump, and to take its bow line. Then he paused.
“Dougal MacLean!” he said. His voice held a naked mixture of astonishment and scorn. “Has he hired your boat? Are ye workin’ for this man?”
The young man at the helm of the boat looked suddenly unhappy. “Good day, Angus. I’m—uh—it’s just a ferry job, you know. Just a job.”
Granda stood there holding the line, looking at him. He shook his head slowly, sadly.
“That’s what we’ll be doing for this area, Mr. Cameron!” cried William Trout, striding onto the jetty. “People love that I’ll be creating many, many jobs, in a place where there aren’t a lot, am I right? And to the man who photographed the Loch Ness Monster, Trout’s publicity department can offer an absolutely terrific job! You’re straight out of Central Casting, they’ll love you!”
He smiled confidently at Granda, as he reached past him to take Dougal’s outstretched arm for balance, and he stepped into the boat.
Granda said, “I’ve got a job. In my home. I’ve got a business, just like you, and I’m not about to give it up.”
“Just like me?” Mr. Trout said. He smiled. “Really?”
Holding the line, steadying the boat, Granda looked at Sam Johnson, and shook his white head again.
“Get in, Sam,” he said. “Take my twins with you, and bring ’em right back. They might as well make the best of their last chance to see the real Castle Keep.”
Portia said in Allie’s ear, “I’ll make sure he eats some porridge.”
* * *
Echoing through the upper corridor of Castle Keep, the voices rose and fell like a distant ocean. In his cozy space on the library shelf, the Boggart stirred.
The first voice was loud and assertive.
“So tell me, Sam, when were you last here?”
“It’s been six months, I’m ashamed to say. I’m a busy man.”
“I can relate to that. And your brother?”
“Eric never comes. He lives in New Zealand. Runs a fishing lodge.”
There was a deep Trout chuckle. “Got his own castle, eh? I bet he’ll be happy to sell me this one.”
“Oh yes, he’s all for it,” Sam Johnson said. “But my uncle’s trust . . . I don’t know . . .”
“Money’s more useful than an old place you never visit,” said Mr. Trout, his voice suddenly crisp and businesslike. “My lawyers are working on it—they’re in touch with yours. You’ll like the price.”
“Uh,” Sam Johnson said.
“No more maintenance. Think of it. Your brother will be so happy!”
The Boggart, bored, paying no attention, tried to yawn himself back into sleep, but the voices were coming closer.
“What’s in here?” demanded Mr. Trout. “Another bedroom?”
“This,” said Jay’s clear, cool voice, “was the private library of the last chieftain of the MacDevon clan.”
The Boggart blinked himself awake. That was the voice of the boy from the Seal Rocks, the singing boy! He must be here, and perhaps the other as well: those two children who had somehow reminded him of something long ago and far away, which his wispy memory still could not find.
He flittered out from his space on the shelf and into the lofty room, leaving his sleeping cousin behind. He had always liked children; it was easy to tease them, and they were always slow to recognize that a boggart might be at work. They were not suspicious by nature. Dogs were the same, though cats were another matter. He looked down at Jay and Allie, as the group came into the library, and smiled to himself.
William Trout stood in the middle of the big room, among the massive tables and armchairs and the walls of shelves, looking round expansively. “Nice old place. Great atmosphere. I could take the whole thing to my new house, lock, stock and barrel.” He grinned. “Got a new wife, you know. They always like to have their own mansion to decorate.”
Allie said in alarm to Sam Johnson, “He couldn’t do that, could he?”
Mr. Trout shouted with laughter. “I’m joking, honey! You can’t always take the Trout seriously—only in business. Always in business, oh yes indeed. I’m famous for it—anybody will tell you that!”
He looked round the library again, thoughtfully. “This’d make a good headquarters, though, for now. Good place to set up all the plans, good place for meetings.”
The Boggart looked at the expression on the faces of the twins, and felt a growing dislike for William Trout. He turned himself into a fly, and flew down and settled on the shining bald head. Trout reached up instinctively to brush him away. The Boggart flew up, gave a happy little buzz and settled again in the same place.
Trout swatted at him again. But the reactions of a Boggart are faster even than those of the sharp-eyed fly, faster than anything in this world, and he flew up and down again, several more times, while the twins and Sam Johnson watched in wonder as William Trout kept swatting at his own head.
And then suddenly the Boggart was bored, and switched back to his own invisible formless self. No boggart trick lasts for long. William Trout looked round at the ceiling uncertainly, his hand still raised.
“You got bugs in here!” he said. “Place needs fumigating!”
“Just a fly,” Sam Johnson said mildly. “It seems to like the top of your head. Aftershave, perhaps?”
The twins looked with a sudden new interest at Mr. Trout’s shining head, and Allie forgot the rule about not asking people pers
onal questions.
“Do you shave your head, Mr. Trout?”
“Of course,” said William Trout. He smiled. “I have incredible hair, but it looks ridiculous on camera if it’s blowing around.”
“You shave it every day?” said Jay.
“Does your dad shave every day?”
“Most days. But that’s his face.”
“Some men just shave their faces, some men shave their heads as well. Every day, in the shower.” Mr. Trout bent closer to Jay’s ear. “There’s a special razor!” he said.
“Wow,” Jay said.
“You can buy anything in this world, if you want it enough,” William Trout said with satisfaction. “Remember that, young man. It’s a good rule, and it’s true.”
The Boggart flittered invisibly round him, trying to think of something harmless but irritating. His trickery always began gently. He wafted himself outside the door, and made the insistent meow of a hungry cat.
The twins looked up in astonishment.
Mr. Trout frowned. “You didn’t tell me there was a cat,” he said. “It has to go. I’m allergic.”
“Meow!” called the Boggart from the corridor, pleased. Then he did it again, even more heartrendingly. Twice.
“There’s no cat in the castle,” Sam Johnson said. He turned to Allie and Jay. “Is there?”
“We’ll go see!” Allie said, and Jay hurried after her out of the door.
The Boggart flittered invisibly down the stairs, meowing as he went, trying not to giggle. He saw no reason to become a visible cat, since the sound was working so well. He led the twins to the kitchen.
Allie looked under the table. “Where is it?”
“And where did it come from? I haven’t seen a cat at all, not in the castle or anywhere else. Can cats swim?”
They stood still, listening. The room was silent, except for the soft murmur of the wind outside.
Without the satisfying sight of Mr. Trout’s concerned face, the Boggart was bored with being a cat. He began touring the kitchen shelves, hoping to find a snack.
Jay and Allie searched the kitchen, baffled.
“It must have got out.”
“The outside door’s closed.”
“But there’s a window open—look.”
Allie inspected the window above the kitchen sink, which had a gap of a few inches. “It sounded like a big cat,” she said.
“Well, it’s gone,” said Jay.
Allie said, “This is really weird.”
* * *
The Boggart flittered back to the library, passing Sam Johnson and Mr. Trout as they walked cautiously down the stairs.
“Wake up, cuz!” he called happily. “We’re going to have some real fun!”
* * *
“We couldn’t find that cat anywhere,” Allie said to Sam Johnson as he came into the kitchen. “Must have been a stray.”
“It was certainly very vocal,” Sam Johnson said.
William Trout marched in after him, businesslike again. “Well, Sam,” he said, “I think everything’s just fine for us to go ahead. My development guy loves the place, and my people have the announcement all ready—we’re all set for this tremendous addition to the Trout empire! You’re okay with the rental terms, right, till the purchase goes through?”
“They’re very satisfactory,” Sam Johnson said.
Mr. Trout looked cautiously round the kitchen and headed for the outer door. “We’ll add a clause about having no pets. Let’s go, huh? Got to set up for the press conference tomorrow.”
As they followed him out, Sam Johnson paused suddenly, looking round the high stone walls, so that Allie almost fell over his feet.
“That cat . . . ,” he said.
Allie stared at him.
“It takes me back, seeing you two here,” Sam Johnson said. “We were just about your age, the times I remember best. Tell me, do you and your brother play tricks on each other?”
Allie blinked. “Not really. Why?”
“My brother Eric was always playing tricks on me, here in the castle,” Sam Johnson said. “And he always pretended he didn’t, but he did, of course. That’s the thing I remember best of all—the tricks drove me crazy, but it was fun. The odd thing was, he never ever did it at home.”
FIVE
It was the sound of a bagpiper rehearsing that brought the Boggart across from the castle, the next day.
“Listen!” he called to Nessie, as the plaintive, unmistakable notes echoed over the water, and he shot out of the window into the cool air. And Nessie followed.
William Trout was about to hold his press conference. On the broad, rocky stretch of land that lay between the loch and the Port Appin Store, men from the Trout Corporation bus had spent half the morning setting up an enclosure of posts and yellow ribbons, like a kind of pretend corral. They trudged to and from the parking lot, carrying their loads, and Jay and Allie watched them from their bedroom window. The entrance to the corral was marked by two portable little gatehouses, set widely enough apart for the vans of television and sound equipment to come in. Three vans had arrived already.
Granda put his head round the bedroom door. “It’s nearly time—you coming?” He had been sitting at his office computer for hours, looking for stories about all the other Trout Corporation resorts, and the battles over the ways they damaged local people’s land and water and air.
Allie said, “Can I just check my e-mail?”
“Two minutes.” Granda disappeared, with Jay following him, and Allie dived into his office. She was looking for a reply to the report she had sent to her mother the night before, and she found it.
Tell Granda to fight him! said the e-mail. Condos and a hotel will pollute the loch and be a major environmental disaster! Aaargh! More later, with ammunition!!
Allie grinned. Emily Cameron was a lawyer, with very strong feelings about protecting the earth and its climate; almost as soon as her twins could walk, she had been carrying them off to meetings protesting pipelines or promoting solar energy. The only thing that had held her back from coming to Scotland was a Canadian government hearing about the quality of the water in Lake Ontario.
Allie typed, Go Mom! and ran down the stairs.
Outside, more reporters and cameramen were joining the crowd, brought in by a second Trout Corporation bus from other parts of Scotland. Granda headed out of the house to join them, with Allie and Jay at his heels. The twins knew they wouldn’t be allowed inside the bounds of the press conference, but there was nothing to stop them from listening.
Granda marched toward the gatehouses. As a freelance journalist he still wrote an occasional local story for the Glasgow Herald, but he was stopped at the entrance by an imposing Trout employee who was checking everyone’s credentials.
“You’re Mr. Cameron, from the store,” said the man accusingly.
“Aye,” said Granda. “And a paid-up member of the National Union of Journalists. Here’s my press card. Want to argue?”
The man examined both sides of the card with great care, and reluctantly handed it back. “Go on, then,” he said. And Granda did, with a wave to Allie and Jay, who hovered outside the enclosure, hoping that he would actually ask Mr. Trout the ferocious questions he had been practicing at the breakfast table.
Then suddenly there was the spooky little discordant groan that is the sound of a set of bagpipes waking up, and along the coastal path came a procession led by a splendidly uniformed piper, playing “Highland Laddie” and followed by William Trout. Mr. Trout looked serious and important, though he was dressed in an oddly shaped tartan cap, green knee socks and a green kilt. Behind him, walking slowly and carefully in shoes not suitable for rocky paths, came several men in dark suits, and last of all came four men wearing Trout Corporation jackets and awkwardly carrying a large table covered by a green cloth.
And from the direction of Castle Keep, circling over their heads, unseen and unheard by anyone except a herring gull gliding far above, came the Boggar
t and Nessie, watchful, curious.
Mr. Trout stopped at a microphone waiting on a portable metal stand. “Hello, everyone,” he said. “I’m very happy to be back in the homeland of my father’s mother—whose tartan this is, of course.” He indicated his kilt, smiling at them all expectantly.
The journalists looked at him in silence.
“Well,” said William Trout, undeterred, “I’m here to unveil for you the most important boost that Scotland’s economy will have this year, or even this decade. It’s going to be a huge success, huge, as every one of my enterprises has always been, and it’s going to transform this part of the Argyll coast! We’re bringing revitalization, we’re bringing hundreds of jobs and millions of pounds to this country! Ladies and gentlemen, the Trout Castle Resort!”
The four men had carefully set down their table beside him. Mr. Trout leaned sideways, and with a theatrical flourish he whisked away the green cloth that was covering it. Allie and Jay craned their necks, trying to see.
On the tabletop was a scale model of Loch Linnhe, Lismore Island, Castle Keep and the coast of Argyll, all green mountains and blue water. But from the modeled shoreline, at about the same point where they were all now standing, rose a large, elaborate, turreted hotel, with smaller buildings on either side. Groups of other buildings climbed up the hillside behind it, and down below, jutting into the loch near the castle’s island, was a long jetty with dozens of little model boats on either side, like a marina.
There was no sign of Granda’s store.
After a murmur of conversation, the journalists shifted closer, to take a look.
So did the Boggart and Nessie, flittering invisible overhead.
“Look, cuz, it’s a wee copy of the loch! There’s the castle!”
“But across from it, what’s all that? It’s another castle! An enemy castle, right next to ours!”
“As you’ll see,” said Mr. Trout into his microphone, “my world-famous architect friend Giorgio Tutti has designed another outstanding Trout hotel, this time in the style of an old Scottish mansion. I’m happy to say that he’s here to answer any questions you may have!” He waved a hand at one of the men in suits, but went on talking. “Every room in the hotel will have a superb, unmatchable view of Castle Keep, and we have two hundred acres on which to build an Olympic-size pool, a spa, all the traditional Trout resort amenities. With four exceptionally landscaped areas of condominiums in the second stage of the development. World-class restaurants, prestigious stores—it’ll be a magnet for the whole of Scotland!”