The Daykeeper's Grimoire

by Christy Raedeke

  He raises his eyebrows and says, “They said you’ve been sleeping all afternoon.”

  “Why does it matter to them how long I nap?” I snap, instantly regretting using the word “nap” because it makes me sound like a toddler. “Sorry,” I say, “didn’t mean to shoot the messenger.”

  Alex waves it off. “I was eavesdropping, and just ’twixt you and me, they all think you’ve a touch of culture shock and that’s why you’re sleeping so much.”

  “Really?” I’m as surprised that they’re talking about me as I am that he said “’twixt.”

  “Do you?” he asks.

  “Do I what?”

  “Have culture shock?”

  “No!” I say with a laugh. “It’s not like we moved to Mongolia. We all speak the same language and eat the same food. Except for that weird pork-and-beans-in-the-morning thing.”

  Alex laughs. “Aye, I didn’t take you for the delicate constitution type.”

  Oh, so he thinks I’m not delicate? Of course, how could an Amazon girl be delicate? I hate those cropped jeans!

  Alex walks over to the fireplace. “It’s cold. Would you like me to start a fire for you?”

  Anything to keep him here longer, I think. “Wow, that would be great,” I say, turning away to wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, checking for any wayward nap drool.

  Looking over at my digital camera, I’m tempted to take a picture of him as he builds a kindling teepee around a wad of newspaper. He lights the wood and the smell of smoke rises in the air and mingles with the shepherd’s pie.

  Taking a seat in the leather chair by the fire, I say, “So are you over here helping Thomas with something?”

  “Aye, he wanted me to take a look at the fuse box.”

  “Are you an electrician?”

  He smiles. “Nae, but my dad was. I worked by his side for five summers before he died.”

  “Oh, God, I’m so sorry …” Way to ruin the mood, Caity.

  “That’s okay, I like talking about him. ’Twas nice to sit and talk with your father, too.”

  “You talked to my dad?” I ask.

  “They invited me to stay for dinner.”

  “Oh,” I say, terrified that Mom pulled out naked baby pictures of me or something.

  He gestures to the fireplace and says, “Well, the fire’s going. Need anything else?”

  I try to think of something to need so he will stay longer but I can’t come up with anything. I shrug. “I guess not. Thanks so much for bringing up dinner.”

  He bows and makes a sweeping gesture with his arm. “’Twas a pleasure,” he says, as if he’s addressing the Queen. I smile and feel warm from the inside out, like hot chocolate on a frosty day.

  Alex leaves and I daintily eat my shepherd’s pie by the fire, pretending that he is sitting in the chair next to me warming his feet by the flames. When I’m finished eating and my Alex haze fades, I remember I have to answer Dr. Middleford’s email. By now deception is second nature, so an answer comes to me right away. I sit down at my computer and open up my mail.

  From: caitymacfireland@gmail.com

  To: stephen@professormiddleford.com

  Subject: RE: Ancient text

  Dear Dr. Middleford,

  Thanks for your email! It’s nice to hear from you. I really appreciate you taking a look at that rubbing for me, but I’m afraid I might have wasted your time. I talked to our groundskeeper Thomas about it and he told me the story. Apparently the guy who carved it was crazy. He had caught something as a child that messed up his brain. Anyway, my super-great-grandfather Fergus, the one who built the castle, was really nice and hired him even though he wasn’t all there. He just set him free and let him carve, so these spirals are just random decorations. I’m really sorry that I even got you involved. I know you are very busy and I feel really silly about this. Please give my apology to your friend Dr. Tenzo as well. Have a fun summer!

  Sincerely,

  Caity

  The minute I hit the send button I see that Justine has come online and I IM her:

  Caitym: hey! what r u doing?

  Justinem: freaking out

  Caitym: Y?

  Justinem: David von Studley’s mom called my mom and asked her if I would help tutor him in chem.

  Caitym: Just like an arranged marriage …

  Justinem: ha! but he is hopeless

  Caitym: he’s good in English, what’s the prob?

  Justinem: doesn’t get science. Tragic. did u email Gramps?

  Caitym: oh, yeah. Sorry about all that. I don’t know exactly what’s going on with it, I’ll fill u in when I figure it out. sorry to get your grandfather involved.

  Justinem: well, I guess Tenzo found a tie to some lost language or something.

  Caitym: No!!! must be a mistake.

  Justinem: oh. ok, whatever. howz jcrew?

  Caitym: HE BROUGHT DINNER TO MY ROOM TONIGHT!

  Justinem: WHAT???????

  Caitym: yep, and he made me a fire and everything.

  Justinem: romance2 !!!!!!!!!

  Caitym: can u imagine any guy from Cruelties doing anything remotely gentlemanly?

  Justinem: no! David won’t even help me wash the chem lab beakers! like that’s “woman’s work” or something. u must send pix.

  Caitym: will work on covert pix. not sure when I will see him next. talk tomorrow?

  Justinem: for me it IS tomorrow. or is it yesterday?

  Caitym: I think u r behind-I just lived the day u are waking up to.

  Justinem: brain freeze.

  Caitym: ha! nitey nite, J.

  A tie to a lost language? You’ve got to be kidding me. I wish I had known this before I’d emailed Dr. Middleford; now they’ll know I was making all that up about the insane carver.

  ————

  In the morning I awaken to Mr. Papers thumping on my chest with his tiny fists. God, he’s cute. I scratch his little head, which always makes his legs twitch.

  Dad walks in with a cup of hot chocolate. “Mr. Papers was worried about you—he hadn’t seen you since teatime yesterday,” he says.

  Mr. Papers hops down, runs over to the carved wall, and tries to move the panel. “Hey, Mr. Papers, careful! That’s an antique!” I say as I run over and pull him away, terrified that Dad might see the panel move.

  “The more I know this monkey, the more I think he may answer you back one of these days,” Dad says.

  “That would be the ultimate!”

  “Then there’d be no difference between us and them. It would be just like having a really small, really ugly friend.”

  “He’s not ugly!”

  Dad laughs, “Right. He’s as cute as that young man who brought you dinner last night.”

  “Okay, maybe not that cute …”

  “Nice guy, too. Did you know he’s a bit of a math prodigy? He’s doing some interesting work, has real potential. His old computer is slowing down his progress so I might give him one of mine; I could use an upgrade anyway.”

  “That’s nice of you,” I say, wondering how Alex could be that beautiful and be smart.

  “Well, you should hear about the computer he’s working on. It’s all so … 1992 around here.”

  Suddenly I worry that if Alex becomes friendly with Dad, he’ll think of me more as a sister than the potential love of his life. I know I’m getting ahead of myself, but a girl has to plot these things out. “Is Alex going to be your Mr. Papers, Dad?” I ask.

  Dad looks confused. “What do you mean?”

  “Are you adopting him?”

  “Heavens no, Caity. I’m just offering him an old thing that I’d be getting rid of anyway.”

  I shrug. “Okay. That’s cool.”

  “Glad I have your approval,” he says, as if he’s irritated. “Terrible tragedy about his dad. Did you know he was killed right here at the castle?”

  “What? He was killed ?”

  “Yeah, apparently looters came by one night, turned off all the power
, and went looking for valuables. Hamish hid away and was able to call Alex’s dad, who came right over. He caught them by surprise and they shot him, and fled. They didn’t even end up taking anything.”

  “That’s horrible! Murdered right here in this castle?”

  Dad nods and says, “So don’t start giving me grief about supporting that poor boy’s math habit.”

  “Sorry,” I say, feeling like a schmuck.

  He pats my knee. “Get dressed and come down for breakfast.”

  When he leaves, I quickly check my email and there’s one from Justine’s grandfather. Nervous about whether or not he believed my story, I just stare at it in my inbox for a minute before I open it.

  From: stephen@professormiddleford.com

  To: caitymacfireland@gmail.com

  Subject: RE: RE: Ancient text

  Dear Caitrina, Thank you for your email. I completely understand how one can get overly excited with a new discovery. I sent your email explanation on to Dr. Tenzo, the professor who thought he recognized the symbols. After examining the facsimile of the rubbing for some time, he said that this was not actually ancient Drocane script as he had thought. I beg you though, don’t be discouraged by this, my budding etymologist!

  Best,

  Stephen Middleford

  I’m so relieved that he and this Tenzo guy believed me! It’s nice to have them off my case. Now I can concentrate on how I’m going to get those other spirals decoded. There’s really no other way: I have to have Dad rewrite his program and decode another set. Once that happens, I can get a copy of the new program and decode the rest myself. I can’t believe I didn’t just copy the program before I deleted it—clearly I’m not cut out for espionage.

  I trace another one of the rubbings exactly as I had done with the first one that I gave them. I roll it up and put it in the pocket of my “I SF” sweatshirt, then run down to the kitchen. Fortunately my parents are still there.

  When I walk in, Mom gets up and gives me a kiss on the cheek. “Feeling better?”

  “Totally. Must have been overtired or something,” I say. Mrs. Findlay brings over a large Scottish breakfast, which means the eggs are barely cooked, there’s lots of greasy sausage, and there’s a big pile of pork and beans sitting unapologetically next to a broiled tomato.

  I wish I’d said, “Just granola today, please,” right when I’d walked through the door.

  “Well, Caity, so much has happened since you pulled your Rip Van Winkle,” Mom says.

  “Really? What?”

  “We have business!” she replies. “A small group of retired Berkeley alumni is coming next week to scout the place for a trip they might offer through the Alumni Association. Won’t that be a riot?”

  “Not sure if ‘riot’ is the word I’d use,” I say. I’ve kind of enjoyed cruising around the castle without anyone around and I don’t know if I want to share it. At least it’s old people that are coming; they probably won’t get around much.

  “And when it rains it pours. Uncle Li is coming, too,” Dad says.

  “No way!” I scream. “That’s so great!”

  Uncle Li is my parents’ Feng Shui Master, whom they’ve known forever. Years ago he’d tracked Mom down and had her crack an old Chinese safe for him and they’ve been good friends ever since. Even though he’s a million years old, I think he’s really cool. He has a way of explaining things that makes you just get it, and I never feel like he’s talking to me like I’m beneath him just because I’m not an adult. We hung out a lot back in San Francisco.

  “He’s planning to stay awhile and help us get things arranged,” Mom says. “He’s done a couple castles in France and one in Spain, but he’s excited to do one in Scotland. He says islands produce a much different energy than the mainland does.”

  Suddenly a guy I’ve never seen walks by the kitchen window. He looks like a business cherub; he’s got the round, babyish face with rosy cheeks and pink lips that cherubs have but he’s all business, packed into a black suit that’s too small for him.

  “Who’s that?” I ask as I point to the window.

  “Oh, that’s Barend Schlacter,” Mom says, “from the Scottish Tourist Board. They do mandatory inspections before you can open an Inn.”

  “‘Barend Schlacter’ doesn’t sound very Scottish.”

  “He’s Bavarian, actually. Seems very thorough. He’ll be poking around so be really, really nice to him.”

  “Yep, the nicer you are, the more stars we get,” Dad adds.

  “How do you get rated before you even open?” I ask.

  “Who knows?” Mom says. “We just do what we’re told. We don’t want to be the rude Americans who push back on everything. All we know is that he has to spend twenty-four hours on site and we’re not supposed to bother him as he walks around inspecting the place.”

  “So how many guests will be here in all?” I ask.

  “Well, there are four from Berkeley, right?” Dad says. “Plus Li, so that’s five—”

  “Oh, and don’t forget that other guy who just emailed this morning,” Mom says. “The professor from Princeton …”

  “Did you advertise on that alumni website too?” I ask.

  “No, not sure how he found us,” Mom says. She turns to Dad “Honey, did you ask Professor Tenzo how he found the Inn?”

  Did you say Tenzo?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

  Both my parents look at me. Dad says, “Yes, why? Have you heard of him?”

  “No. I mean, I don’t know. I think maybe I’ve heard Justine’s grandpa mention him.”

  “That’s right, Middleford teaches at Princeton too,” Dad says. “Well, we’ve got a blueprint of the castle in the library and we’ll be figuring out where everyone will stay later today if you’d like to help.”

  Dad’s mention of the library reminds me of what I was coming downstairs to do, so I excuse myself to go to the bathroom.

  Walking quickly to the library, I try to piece this all together. My heart is pounding so hard I’m afraid they might just hear it. Why would Tenzo come all the way to the middle-of-nowhere Scotland if not to track down the rubbing? And why would he lie to Justine’s grandfather, saying that it was “of no significance” as he put it?

  The library is dark except for the eerie blue glow from all the computer screens, like a snowy Tahoe street before the sun comes up. I search for the piece of paper that I gave Mom and Dad the day before yesterday, the one with the symbols on it. I need to swap it with the new one so when Dad rewrites his decoding program he will start decoding this new set of symbols instead of the first one.

  I pull the sheet of symbols out of my pocket and make a copy for Mom. I then exchange the original for the one on Dad’s desk. Now they’ll assume that this spiral was the same one that they were already working on; since they have to re-scan it anyway they’ll never know the difference. I run up to Mom’s study and switch out that copy of the symbols as well.

  I stop in my room to burn the first tracing and its copy, trying not to think about my deception as I watch the paper turn into tiny glowing flakes that float like stars up the chimney.

  When I get back to the kitchen, Mom and Dad have already left. Mrs. Findlay is busy cleaning up and has put my breakfast on the big stove, this thing called an Aga. There are four ovens below and eight burners on top and the gas is always on so all you have to do is lift the covers off the burners and turn them up a little. Above it is a copper stove hood that is as big as a VW bug and when the fan is turned on it sounds just as loud. This would all seem strange in any normal kitchen, but this one is the size of our whole house in San Francisco. There are two fireplaces in the kitchen and a huge table in the center—bigger than a public library table—with two long benches on either side. The sink is the size of a small bathtub and every inch of the floors and walls is covered in pale green tile, which is so retro it’s hip again.

  I pick up my breakfast, happy to see that the Aga has taken my eggs from gelatinous to o
ver-easy and has dried out some of the greasy sausage.

  “You ready for all the guests to arrive, Mrs. Findlay?” I ask as I sit to eat.

  “Can hardly wait, dear. Have been planning the menus carefully,” she says, drying her hands on her apron. Mrs. Findlay has bright red hair and is even taller than I am. She’s not fat or anything but she definitely has a man’s build; her wrists are thick, her hands are huge, and she has really broad shoulders. She wears these striped dresses with buttons all the way down the front like a man’s shirt, and always has an apron on, like it’s a permanent fixture. She had worked here before, years ago, so she was the only cook comfortable with having Mr. Papers stay in the little wood cubby by the far fireplace.

  Mr. Papers loves her. In fact, the first time she came over to meet us (after two other cooks declined the job because they couldn’t handle having a monkey living in a tiny tile cubby hole above the firewood in the far end of the kitchen) he hopped on her shoulders and started pushing on her bun like a kid with a jack-in-the-box.

  “They’ll love whatever you cook, that’s for sure,” I say.

  “Aw, thanks Caity,” she says. “You know, I’m going to ask your parents if they’d like to hire Alex to serve when your guests arrive.”

  “Really?” I ask, almost before she even finishes her sentence.

  “Aye. Would do you good to have a mate your age around the castle too, methinks.”

  “People in this century still say ‘methinks’?” I joke, trying to hide my excitement at the thought of having Alex here every day.

  “Well, methinks you spend too much time alone, or with that little scoundrel,” she replies as she points to Mr. Papers, tucked away in his cubby eating a big piece of honeydew. It looks like he has an enormous green smile.