“He looked . . . different than normal men,” I said.
“Different . . . as in magical?” she asked.
I nodded. Sometimes it felt like she could read my mind. “Yes, that’s right,” I said. “Magical . . . and dangerous.”
To figure out who (or what) I’d seen in the field the previous night, Aiby brought me to her family’s library. Whenever Aiby needed information, she paged through her family’s extensive library in search of answers. The Lily family had specialized in books ever since their ancestors first opened their version of the Enchanted Emporium.
Just like the Lilys, each family of magical shopkeepers had different specialties. The Scarsellis, for example, specialized in clothing, accessories, and jewelry. The Tiago family focused on hot air balloons, magic tricks, and tools for divination, or reading the future. The Askells trafficked in the afterlife, and were known to do so in dangerous ways.
The Lily family’s library had books filled with magic spells and recipes (spells worked outside the body while recipes worked internally). They had maps of this world, and many others, along with countless tomes on other subjects. My favorite was the Book of Reading in the Dark, which could only be read when held in front of a mirror.
Aiby was standing on a wheeled ladder. She began to browse the highest shelves, under the section dedicated to the subject of “men.”
Aiby read the titles aloud. “Extraordinary Men, Blue Men, Men of Silence . . .”
It was impossible to tell how many different magical books were in that library. “How in the world did you and your father get all these books here?” I asked.
“We freeze-dried them with an old recipe from the Cathars,” she said. “Then we returned them to normal size with a special ink.”
“You’re kidding,” I said.
Aiby just smiled and kept searching. While she browsed the books, I examined a gorgeous porcelain pot that contained a single bonsai tree. I gently touched one of the fruits on its branches, and I heard a solemn voice: “Moldrige Lily, born in Leipzig on May 5, 1754. Died in Tangier on July 12, 1808.” Then it kept repeating itself, over and over.
“Ah!” I cried, taking a quick step back. “How do I turn this thing off?”
“Slap your hand on the pot,” Aiby said indifferently.
I did it, and the tree stopped repeating itself. “What was that?”
Aiby looked at me. “It’s our family tree,” she said, like it was the most normal thing in the world. Then she titled her head and added, “Ah! Good thing I looked at you — the book we need is right next to you!”
She climbed down quickly and grabbed a large book off a desk that was next to me. “Woodsmen!” she said proudly.
The book’s title, printed in red letters on the wooden cover, read:
The Black Book of the Woods:
Anomalies, Fires, and Fearsome Creatures
“Dang,” I muttered, turning the book over in my hands. “It would take me three months to read this whole thing . . .”
“Three months, or a Critical Strainer,” she whispered. “We should have one somewhere around here. Come with me!”
“Sprunfz!” the Gardener of Pages greeted us in the laboratory. Aiby produced a big rectangular strainer from under a table, then grabbed a handful of white paper.
We went to Aiby’s bedroom. She set the sheets of paper on the floor and held the book over them, face down. “Give me a hand?” she asked.
“Sure, but how?” I said.
“Hold the Critical Strainer,” she said. “And repeat this magic formula . . .”
“You know I can’t read the Enchanted Language, Aiby,” I said.
“It is in Latin, Finley,” Aiby said. “And you’ve spoken Latin before . . .”
Something clicked inside my head, as if a trapdoor had suddenly snapped open after being sealed shut for many years. I remembered what the words meant: Power arises from brevity.
Before I knew what was happening, the phrase sprang from my lips like it was my native tongue. Tiny black drops of ink began to fall from the Critical Strainer. As the drops hit the paper, they began to squirm around like gnats.
“More,” Aiby urged me.
I shivered, but repeated the phrase and waved the strainer.
“Again,” she said.
I shook the strainer faster and faster and the black ink drops began to rain down like sleet.
“That’s enough, Finley,” Aiby said. She bent down to pick up the papers, then showed them to me. They were completely covered with words! “Here is a summary of the parts of this book that might help us.”
“How the heck did the strainer know what we were interested in?” I asked.
Aiby snorted. “It’s a magical item, Finley. If you think too much about how it works, then it’ll stop working.”
I put down the Critical Strainer. “And how did you know that I’d already spoken Latin?” I asked.
Aiby hid her face behind her hair. Earlier, when she’d hugged me, she’d seemed older than me. She’d explained everything like she was my big sister. But now, she seemed smaller and frightened. And a little annoyed.
“Because . . . I talked to someone who taught you,” she said in a low voice. “Maybe in our dreams.”
I felt a long shiver run down my spine, and realized that some part of me understood even though I had no idea what Aiby was talking about. Someone from my dreams had taught me Latin, which was weird because I hardly ever remember my dreams. But I often remembered forgetting them, if that makes sense.
In any case, I knew I’d been dreaming for a very long time . . . I just didn’t know what I’d been dreaming about.
“I think I understand,” I said.
And once again, a voice inside my head whispered, Get out of there, Finley. Before it’s too late.
Get out of there.
We sat on the floor with the sheets of paper in our hands. Patches was glad we were working at his height, and thanked us with affectionate licks from time to time.
I read aloud. “‘Men who live in the woods are called Green Men, or sylvan men. Green is considered to be the color of the fairies, and for this reason many Scots refuse to wear green for fear of annoying the Green Men. Green is also the color of life and of nature, which is neither good nor evil.’”
Aiby began to read. “‘There is a poem called Sir Gawain and the Green Knight written by an unknown medieval author. In that story, Sir Gawain, nephew of King Arthur, is visited on New Year’s Eve by a strange, green man with a branch of holly in one hand and a large axe in the other.’”
“That’s interesting, I guess,” I said, “but that doesn’t sound like the man from last night. I did see him do something with his hands, though. Something like this.” I imitated his movements by rubbing my hands in front my chest.
Aiby shrugged, then continued reading. “‘The Green Man challenges Sir Gawain to strike him with his axe, but on one condition: the following year, Gawain must allow the Green Man to return the favor.’”
I chuckled. “That’s ridiculous. How could anyone possibly survive an axe wound?”
Aiby smiled. “‘Sir Gawain accepts the challenge,’” she read, “‘and lops off the Green Man’s head with a single blow.’”
“See?” I said. “The Green Man wasn’t too bright —”
Aiby holds up her finger to silence me and continues reading. “‘To Gawain’s surprise, the Green Man stands up, thanks him, picks up his own head, holds it under his arm, and makes an appointment for the following year to fulfill his end of the bargain. A year later, Sir Gawain goes to the meeting as promised, and the Green Man thanks him for having kept the agreement.’”
I raised an eyebrow. “Did the Green Man kill Gawain?” I asked.
Aiby scanned the text. “No,” she said. “It seems all that he wanted was to find an honorable man wh
o knew the importance of respecting agreements. To reward him, the Green Man gives Gawain great courage by revealing to him how to deal with any kind of fear. The text goes on to explain that the Green Man of the poem plays a dual role: challenge and reward, danger and safety, friend and enemy.”
I shivered, then went back to reading the sheets. “‘He can have many names,’” I read. “‘He is sometimes called the Silvano, the Woodwose, or just the Outlaw. He is a wild and unpredictable creature, endowed with supernatural strength. Men of this nature have been spotted all over the world.’” I looked up at Aiby. “It doesn’t mention anything about disappearing sheep or damaged farms.”
“Keep reading,” Aiby murmured.
“‘Whoever has met a Green Man inevitably describes him as a powerful creature with a face made of fog, and long, wild hair encrusted with chunks of bark. They are said to smell like soil, have rough and hasty manners, and have long, bushy beards.’”
Aiby elbowed me in the arm. “Does that sound like your strange man?” she asked.
“Maybe,” I whispered. “I saw that the grass seemed burned or singed where he’d been standing. I remember my dad saying that someone in the village found their bushes burnt as well. Do the papers mention anything like that?”
Aiby checked the pages. “No,” she said. “On the contrary, it says the Green Man is considered to be a guardian of nature, often armed with a bow, arrows, and a long horn.”
I shook my head. “That’s not right, then,” I said. “Maybe we’re on the wrong track here.”
“Did he wear a turban?” Aiby asked.
“What? No, why?”
“It says here that there’s an Eastern version of the Green Man, called the Khidr, and that he was the assistant to Alexander the Great. It says he came into possession of a copy of the will of Adam, the supposed first man.” Aiby looked at me with wide eyes. “And that the will contained directions to a miraculous fountain beyond Olaf Mountain in the center of a place named the Land of Darkness.”
“Cheerful,” I muttered, scratching my dog’s ears.
“I guess the Khidr found it and drank from it,” Aiby said. She read aloud again, “‘The liquid was watery, but whiter than milk, cooler than ice, sweeter than honey, softer than butter, and more fragrant than the scent of musk. Khidr became immortal . . . and completely green. Since then, he occasionally appears in the dreams of magical or mystical people to show them the way.’”
Aiby was staring at me. “Don’t look at me like that,” I said. “I’m not a magical or mystical person, and when I saw him I was wide awake, not dreaming. Just ask Patches.”
Aiby chuckled. “Right. I’ll keep reading,” she said. A moment later, she pointed at a specific part of a sheet. “It seems the Critical Strainer considered this story to be very important: it’s about two so-called green children, written by Thomas Keightley.”
“Who is he?” I asked.
“I’ve never heard of him before, but he writes about two siblings with green arms and legs who were found in the woods next to a cave.” Aiby read aloud, “‘The two children did not speak any known languages, nor did they eat meat. They were taken to the village of St. Mary, but the boy died a few days later. The female, however, lived a long time without ever growing old. Over the years, she learned to speak. She said that she came from a village where no one ever saw the sun, and that she had been in charge of the sheep — until their herds began to disappear.’”
“Here we go!” I exclaimed. “Keep reading.”
“‘One day, the girl and her brother saw some sheep enter a cave. As they neared the cave, they heard strange music coming from inside. The two children entered the cave and were soon lost in the dark, until they reached another entrance to the cave, where they were found . . .’”The text ran off the page. Aiby searched for the next sheet, but it was blank.
“Weird,” Aiby said. “The story seems to just end there.”
“No!” I said. “There has to be more — keep looking.”
Aiby shuffled through the pages. “I don’t see it here,” she said.
I sighed and stood. As I glanced out the window over the fields of grass, the wind seemed to be calling my name. It urged me to cross the fence and enter the woods. I felt a thrill run down my spine, accompanied by fear. I wondered if that story had more to do with Applecross’s recent events than I could ever imagine.
I rubbed my temples, thinking again about the reflection of the light I’d seen in the face of the strange man. I looked down at my open hands, remembering the strange gesture he had made. It was something familiar and foreign at the same time.
“Finley, look!” Aiby exclaimed. “Apparently there is a way to identify a Green Man!”
I saw she was pointing at the last paper. “But how?” I asked.
Aiby jumped off the floor and scurried over to The Big Book of Magical Objects. “We have to use the Sherwood Compass.”
“But how?” I repeated. “And what is that?”
“I don’t know,” Aiby said. “Which means we don’t have it here in the shop.”
Intrigued, I watched Aiby page through the BBMO. “Here it is!” she said. “Sherwood’s Compass.” She put a finger on the page and began to slide it down the rows of the spell.
“Is there only one book about magical items?” I asked.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I mean, do you pass this book from one family to another, or does each family have a different book?”
“There is only one book,” Aiby said, reading. “And every time the family closes shop, they deliver the book to the next family. This is interesting — take a look.” Aiby showed me a few lines of the spell. “We have to check in a book called the Grand Register of Sightings, but apparently the only Sherwood Compass that still exists is located right here in Applecross.”
“That can’t be a coincidence,” I said.
“Of course not,” Aiby said.
“Was it your grandfather’s?” I asked, remembering Aiby’s ancestor. He’d been shipwrecked under mysterious circumstances in the bay, which eventually took his name, Reginald.
“No,” Aiby said. “In fact, it’s even stranger. Apparently the Sherwood Compass belongs to the McBlack family.”
I jumped. “The McBlacks?!”
Aiby ignored me and continued reading. I thought back to Barragh McBlack, the man I’d heard arguing with my father the day before. There were lots of rumors about him, and most people said it was better to just avoid the McBlacks, as well as their so-called Scary Villa.
A ringing noise startled me. “What’s that?” I asked.
Aiby handed me the book and walked to the window. “Keep reading, jumpy,” she said, a mischievous smile dancing on her lips. “Someone’s at the door.”
I looked down at the open pages of the BBMO. The passage described a weather vane topped with a tin-plated dragon. I reached a point in the passage where the writing flickered before my eyes like tadpoles in a puddle. I realized it was the Enchanted Language. I tried to read some of it, but I couldn’t understand much.
“Need some help?” Aiby asked, startling me.
“No, thanks, I read it all just fine,” I lied. “Um, who was at the door?”
“The person we need right now,” Aiby said.
“Huh? Need for what?” I asked.
“Transportation to Scary Villa,” she said, taking the BBMO from my hands. “If you want to find the Green Man, then we have to find the Sherwood Compass first. And to find the Sherwood Compass . . .”
A familiar voice called Aiby’s name from outside the shop. My eyes went wide. “Doug?” I asked, fighting back a wave of anger. “What is my brother doing here? He should be working at the farm!”
“And you should be working at the beach, if I’m not mistaken,” Aiby said.
“Yeah, but
. . . that’s different!” I insisted.
Aiby shrugged. “Not really.”
She had a point. So I went outside to face my brother.
At just past noon, Reginald Bay looked as still and reflective as a mirror. Mr. Dogberry’s boat motor spat out puffs of smoke as it sliced through the otherwise motionless water. I glanced back at the coast, astonished by how different it looked from way out here.
Doug sat at the stern, controlling the motor by hand. He was gifted at using mechanical things, but I’d never tell him that. Aiby was seated at the bow, her legs crossed like a happy spider, seemingly enjoying the wind in her hair. In the middle of the boat, beneath Patches, was Aiby’s bag. She’d packed our lunches inside it, but I was pretty sure there was a magical object or two in there, as well.
From time to time, Doug threw me an awkward glance that seemed to say, “We’ll talk later, face to face.” I gulped.
After Aiby had explained to Doug that we wanted to leave for Scary Villa as soon as possible, Doug said that didn’t seem like a good idea. Aiby acted annoyed and made a few complaints, which quickly changed Doug’s mind. From watching her manipulate Doug, I realized she’d used the same trick on me many times before. A good lesson for me to learn, I guess.
Anyway, a little after 1 p.m. we reached a landing stone that had been eroded by the sea. It had two fraying ropes attached to it that led to the carcasses of two rotten boats. Doug slowed the boat while I moved to the side and prepared to jump onto the rock. A minute later, we were successfully moored.
We climbed up a path that had been invaded by weeds. Clearly no one had visited for many years. The trail eventually led to a grassy clearing full of white flowers that waved in the wind. I almost tripped several times because of the many mole holes. We passed a couple of boulders and eventually reached a dirt road that was dotted with holes.
We soon arrived at Scary Villa’s front gate. The gate’s black, pointy bars blocked passage to the two driveways beyond it. On each side of the gate was one continuous brick wall that surrounded the entire property. The yard itself was dotted with low trees and surrounded by a strange mist that the summer sun couldn’t quite seem to penetrate.
Compass of Dreams Page 6