Angus MacBain and the Island of Sleeping Kings

by Angela J. Townsend

  “Where are we going?”

  “To Reilig Odhráin, tomb of the kings.”

  Angus swallowed his last bite of food and followed Vanora outside. They headed north out of the village down the narrow dirt road. The morning sun warmed their backs as they journeyed. Cottage chimneys puffed with remnants of turf fires from the night before and drapes were still drawn as they weaved through the lane to a walled cemetery.

  For a hundred feet, majestic Celtic crosses and flat stones jutted from the emerald green earth.

  Vanora nodded to an ancient stone chapel inside the graveyard, made of red and gray granite. “This is St. Odhrán chapel, the oldest site on the island. Near it lie the bodies of forty-eight Scottish kings, as well as four Irish and eight Norwegian kings. No one knows for sure how many more rulers are buried here. Most of the old headstones were taken to the Abby’s museum for safekeeping.”

  They hiked to the side of the chapel and Vanora ran her hand over the pitted wall. “Look, it’s a highland wildcat! Just like the one in your drawing.”

  Angus examined the feline chiseled into the stone. It looked identical to the one on the MacBain coat of arms. “It’s strange they’d have a cat for decoration on a chapel. It must signify something important.”

  Vanora cleared her throat. “Let’s go to the Abby Museum. I know I've seen this cat on more than one of the gravestones on display.”

  “Cool!” Angus said. “Maybe one of the inscriptions might tell us something about it. Let’s go.”

  5

  Vanora pointed to a lane that led from the cemetery to the Abbey. “That pathway is called the Street of the Dead. Ancients docked in the bay and passed along here carrying their kings for burial.”

  She started up the path of timeworn flat stones embedded deep in the soil. Angus tried to keep up but he kept getting distracted. With each gust of easterly wind, it seemed the ancient stones whispered to him, a soft murmur of words in a foreign tongue.

  Vanora turned around. “Hurry it up, slow poke. We’ve got loads of exploring to do.”

  Angus stepped from stone to stone, his whole body attuned to any sound. “Do you hear something?”

  She paused to listen then shook her head. “No, why?”

  “I thought I heard something.”

  “Like what?”

  He shook his head. “I’m not sure. It sounded like whispering.”

  Vanora cocked her head, listened for a moment, and shrugged. “I don’t hear anything. It’s probably just the wind.” She continued up the pathway.

  Something swooped at the top of Angus’ head. He ducked and spotted a fat crow coming around for another pass. The crow clacked its ugly beak, hovered for a moment, then glided past. It stopped to rest on top of a tall cross, shrieking. Angus could almost hear a subtle warning in its scathing cries.

  Vanora placed her hands on her hips. “It’s just a stupid bird. Come on.”

  “I’ve seen that bird before,” Angus said. “It has a patch over its eye.”

  Vanora took a step closer and squinted at the crow to examine it. “That is weird. But it’s probably just someone’s pet.” She laughed. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a bird?”

  “Of course not,” Angus said, feeling his temper rise. “It’s just strange to see the same bird again a hundred miles from where I saw it the first time. Like it’s following me.”

  “Why are you so paranoid? First you think your aunt is spying on you, and then you think birds are following you. Maybe it just looks like the same bird.”

  “I’m not paranoid,” Angus snapped.

  Vanora ignored him and took off at a jog. Angus followed, keeping an eye out for the crow while he hurried past a towering Celtic cross, carved from a single slab of gray stone and covered with intricate circles.

  They rounded the back of the Abbey and into the museum. Row after row of early Christian and medieval stones stood on display.

  Vanora hiked to a row of granite slabs. “Over here are the tombstones with the cat.”

  Angus hurried to her side. “These were all taken from the cemetery?”

  Vanora nodded. “Unfortunately, when they removed them they didn’t mark which one came off which grave. Now the great kings have to rest in anonymity. Now which one was it?” Vanora let out a shout. “Here it is.”

  Angus’ gaze traveled down the ancient stone slab the size of a door. It had a carving of a king wielding a sword and shield with a cat in the center. A sense of familiarity came over him. The MacBain shield! Angus reached into his jacket pocket, took out his grandfather’s book, and flipped through the pages. None of it made any sense to him. Just a jumble of drawings, maps, and pictures of swords.

  “What’s that?” Vanora asked.

  “It’s a book my grandfather made. I found it in an old trunk. It has the cat’s eye on the first page. The rest doesn’t make sense and the writing’s strange.”

  Vanora peered over Angus’ shoulder. “That’s because it’s written in Gaelic. I can only read a few words but it looks like some kind of treasure map,” Vanora said. “Whatever it leads to must have been really important for him to go to all this trouble.”

  Angus flipped back to the page with the map and pointed to a drawing. “This looks like the cemetery and this looks like the little chapel.” He pointed to another drawing. “These are grave stones, slabs like the ones here. Each stone has a king with a broadsword, the MacBain shield, and the wildcat. But every stone has something else in addition. See…some have symbols or other drawings.”

  “I bet all seven gravestones from your grandfather’s book are here in the museum,” Vanora said, pointing to a page in the book.

  A wasp buzzed past Angus’ ear and landed on the back of Vanora’s neck. Her hand flew up just as it drove in a gray stinger. “Ouch!”

  Angus rushed forward and swatted the insect to the ground. He made a move to step on it when it sprouted five thorns, each three inches long. Angus bent down and carefully picked it up by a wing. It looked identical to the one in the kitchen. He brought the twitching insect up closer to his eye. It looked metallic, like polished steel with all sorts of tiny gadgets attached to its thick body. The wasp sputtered in his hand and bit at his index finger with razor-like teeth. Angus flung it to the ground where it landed for only a moment, then righted itself and shot into the air. It made a tight circle and disappeared.

  Angus grabbed Vanora’s arm. “Are you all right?”

  She grimaced and held the back of her neck. “It burns like fire.”

  “Let me look.”

  She dropped her hand and Angus pulled down her jacket collar. A huge lump formed an angry welt. In the center was a shiny metal stinger.

  “Hold still,” Angus said. “I’ve got to get the stinger out.”

  Angus gripped it with his fingernails and pulled it out. It looked like a tiny gray dagger. Vanora let out a whimper and her eyes filled with tears.

  “I’m sorry,” Angus said.

  “Thanks,” Vanora said. She rubbed her neck and examined the stinger in Angus’ hand. “It does feel a bit better now.”

  “Glad to help. I just wish I knew what those things were.”

  “They’re just wasps. The village has been plagued with them all spring. They love the wildflowers.”

  “No, I don’t think they’re wasps at all. They’re made of metal, just look at that stinger.”

  Angus looked around and lowered his voice. “I know you think I’m a paranoid weirdo, but just listen to me. I think those things are watching me, just like my aunt and the crow. I first spotted them on the plane and then here on the island.” Angus raised his eyebrows. “I even saw one this morning, staring at me in the kitchen.”

  Vanora gave Angus an odd look. “But why would they want to spy on you? No offense, but it’s not like you’re famous.”

  “I don’t know,” Angus said, shaking his head. “But I’m going to find out.”

  “If you catch one, I could examine it unde
r my father’s microscope. Maybe they just look like metal because of their gray skin. I could at least tell you what type of bee it is.”

  “No, they have little gadgets attached to them,” Angus said. “And I think they’re much too big to be just a normal kind of insect.”

  “For the last month the only sounds I hear at night are bug zappers going off up and down the lane. I can’t imagine what sort of person would invent such terrible creatures.”

  Angus shrugged and turned his attention back to the tombstones. He found four other stones that bore his family shield resting on the far wall and three more at the end of the row.

  “What do you think all these symbols and drawings mean?”

  Vanora touched the welt on the back of her neck and winced. “I think each stone continues a story or legend of some kind, over generations or reign of several MacBain Kings. Let’s makes some sketches of each headstone so we can try to piece the story together. Do you have something to write with?”

  Angus borrowed a stub of a pencil from the suggestion box in the corner of the room and used some blank pages in the back of his grandfather’s book. He was almost finished with the last sketch when Vanora interrupted him.

  “I need to get home and put some ice on this bite. It’s starting to sting again. I’ll make us something to drink and we can go over what we found.”

  “Ok,” Angus said, returning the pencil.

  They worked their way down the lane, past the ruins of an ancient nunnery and back to Vanora’s house. She rushed inside, leaving the door open for Angus and jogged into the kitchen. He sat by the cozy hearth, still warm from the morning fire.

  Moments later, Vanora emerged with a bag of frozen peas and two cans of orange soda. She opened a can, took a large gulp, then placed the bag on her neck. Angus ripped the drawings he’d made from the book and handed them to Vanora.

  She grabbed them and tried to place them in order. “It’s like puzzle pieces. What we need to do is find the beginning of the story.” She thumped a forefinger on one of the drawings. “This stone looks the oldest. But then again, it’s hard to tell.”

  Angus rubbed his chin. “Maybe by dating the armor of the kings or the style of clothing, we can come close to putting them in some kind of order.”

  Vanora switched the sketches around and pointed to the first one. “I think the story’s pretty clear. This gravestone shows the MacBain crest with the cat, a sword and shield. The second stone shows a king in battle with an evil-looking man.” Vanora tapped on the third drawing. “And this stone shows the king in victory and the man imprisoned in a rocky jail or cairn. Then all the succeeding stones show only a king with the same shield and sword resting at his side.”

  Vanora took another drink of her soda. “When my father gets home, we can ask him what the carvings mean.”

  “Where is your dad?”

  “He went to Mull to study the body of a prehistoric seal that washed onshore. It’s supposed to have ten flippers and two tails. He should be home soon. It’s getting late.”

  Angus glanced outside. It was getting dark, and he wondered if his aunt would care whether he came home or not.

  “We have a spare room if you want to stay over,” Vanora said. “My father won’t mind. He’s been worried about you. Most people have never seen your aunt and those that have said she’s just plain mean. This island is a place of peace and worship. I can’t imagine why she lives here. Why don’t you just stay for the night?”

  “I’d love to, but she’d probably send Cudweed after me.” Angus thought for a moment. “How did Cudweed know I was here in the first place? And that weird crack he made about a bug telling him where I was. Maybe he’s behind some of this.”

  Vanora shrugged. “Maybe you’re right.”

  Angus went to the door and slipped on his shoes. “See you tomorrow. Thanks for the tour and the food.”

  “No problem, I’ll go over these sketches some more and let you know what my father says.”

  Angus left Vanora’s house, dreading the return trip home. The wind blew at his back as he followed the dirt path. He paused on the rocky trail and gazed at the ocean. The agitated sea hurled waves against the shore. A light mist fell onto his shoulders. The beginning of a storm. Even so, he didn’t hurry as he hiked to the top of the glen and down the trail that led to the stone house.

  A faint light glowed through the windows in Cudweed’s cottage, but the big house looked dark and as cold as his aunt’s heart. A figure appeared at the side of the house, bracing against the wind. Aunt Prudence. A tattered rain slicker flapped around her in the wind as she rummaged through a barrel filled with scraps of metal and rusted parts.

  “Cudweed,” she shrieked, “bring me more wire.”

  The grumpy caretaker stormed out of his shack carrying a roll of wire over his shoulder and muttering under his breath. Prudence turned when Angus approached. “Where have ye been?”

  “I was visiting a friend.”

  The scowl left her face and she flashed a fake smile that showed a crooked front tooth. “Did ye happen to find anything of interest?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Prudence, said. “One never knows what treasure they’ll stumble upon.”

  Angus noticed something different about her. Maybe it was just the light but she looked older. More wrinkled with a green tinge to her skin. She grabbed the roll of wire from Cudweed. “Get the buckets ready for the morning,” she snapped.

  Angus watched Cudweed push an empty cart to a pile of buckets. “What are those for?”

  Prudence glared at Angus and sneered. “For watering the sheep, of course.”

  “But I saw the sheep drinking from a spring near the house.”

  “Never ye mind, just help load them.”

  Angus stacked the empty pails into the cart. Cudweed pushed it into a shed and covered it all with a tarp. Rain drops poured from the sky and Angus sprinted inside and up to his room. He didn’t expect he’d be getting any dinner so he started a fire, found his Game Slayer and switched it on. A short while later he heard his aunt clop up the stairs and into her room. Her bedroom door slammed shut and within moments, the hammering sounds started. Angus cracked open his door, looked up and down the hall, then tiptoed across the corridor. He crouched in front of his aunt’s door and peered through the keyhole.

  What he saw made him sit back on his haunches.

  6

  Angus squinted through the keyhole. Every nerve in his body froze. Swarms of wasps buzzed past his eye. From what he could make out inside the room, there wasn’t even a bed, only a workbench, grinders, hammers, and saws. A dark shadow flashed past the keyhole, Aunt Prudence holding a pair of tin snips. She paused, whirled around, and stared at the door as if sensing his presence. Angus’ breath hitched in his throat. He crept backward and slipped into his room.

  He leaned against the door and frowned. His aunt was building those insects! But why? And why would she go to such lengths to spy on him? Something crawled across his wrist and up his arm. Hair lifted from his scalp. Angus slapped at it, yanking his sleeve up, but it was only a string from his shirt. Cringing, he rubbed his arms, remembering the wasps and their sharp stingers. He climbed into bed, pulled the covers over his head, and clamped his eyes shut. But how could he sleep knowing his aunt was a mad scientist? Maybe he’d wake up and it would all be just a bad dream.

  It seemed he had just laid his head on the soft pillow when someone pounded on the bedroom door, knocking so hard it shook the bed frame. Angus sat up, startled. What if it was his aunt, mad because he’d been spying on her?

  “Who is it?” Angus called out.

  The doorknob rattled and pounding continued with no answer. He threw back his covers, slipped out of bed and cracked opened the door.

  Cudweed’s shriveled face scowled at him. “Come, boy.”

  “Where?” Angus asked. He rubbed his eyes. “It’s not even morning yet.”

  His aunt b
ellowed from behind her bedroom door. “Do as ye are told, insolent boy!” Angus shrugged on his jacket, followed Cudweed downstairs into the entryway, and slipped on his shoes. The clock on the mantel struck 5:00 a.m. Where could they be going at this hour? He trudged outside behind Cudweed. A hazy moon hung in the sky like a great white stone. The briny air carried the scent of fresh mown hay, and a dampness that clung like a wet towel. Angus wrapped his arms around himself to try to stay warm. What he wouldn’t give to be back at home in the safety and comfort of his own room. In the front yard, the cart he’d filled with empty buckets the night before rested against a rock pile. Cudweed hobbled to it, grabbed the handle, and lugged the cart up the drive. Angus followed, shivering in misery.

  Cudweed shuffled ahead, pulling the cart behind him without stopping until they came to a steep hill. He grabbed two buckets and handed him one. Angus stared at the man’s craggy forearm. In the dim light it looked like he wore a patch of black feathers instead of skin. Cudweed glanced at his arm and yanked his coat sleeve down. “Stop gawking and come on,” he grunted.

  Angus followed him up the hill, struggling to keep up. By the time they reached the top, his chest burned and his knees ached. Cudweed pushed him to a fresh water spring bubbling on the hillside.

  Angus filled the buckets while the crabby caretaker packed them all the way down to the cart. What Angus found peculiar was that Cudweed seemed so fast. He would just get one bucket filled when the caretaker had his hand out for another. He watched as Cudweed scuttled like a mountain goat down the hill at lightning speed, only to return moments later, as if he were flying part of the way.

  After all the buckets were filled, they started back to the house. Angus tried some idle conversation, but Cudweed only grunted and hauled the cart to the front door. He handed Angus a bucket. Water sloshed onto his pant leg as he followed Cudweed into the house, up the stairs and to Aunt Prudence’s bedroom door. Cudweed set the buckets down in front of the closed door and went back for another load. When they had packed the last bucket up the stairs, Angus looked at Cudweed. “Didn’t you say the water was for the sheep?”