Angus MacBain and the Island of Sleeping Kings

by Angela J. Townsend

  Angus stared at Burt. “Quick, tell us the rest of what we need to know.”

  The tree’s eyes narrowed. “Hold your horses.”

  “Please! We’re running out of time.”

  The tree yawned. “Oh, all right. The Guardian of the Dead rests in the largest mausoleum on top of the hill, built for him by King MacBain. Inside his crypt you will find him asleep and clutching a sword. Remember that there are a great many empty graves in the cemetery, which can be like death traps if you happen to fall into them.” The tree glanced to the sky. “I’d hurry if I were you, not much daylight left.”

  Without saying goodbye Angus and Vanora darted through the trees and to a footbridge that crossed a dark bog. Hollow reeds like giant straws protruded near a tip of a massive rock. They ran across the bridge. Angus suddenly stopped.

  “What are you doing?” Vanora asked. “Come on.”

  He ignored her and ducked under the bridge. “We need something to shoot the powder at the giants.” He pointed to the hollow reeds. “And I think I just found the perfect thing.”

  “Yeah, but who’s going to volunteer to wade in that muck?”

  Angus examined the rock. “Stand back. I think I can make it to that boulder.”

  He took a running leap and landed right in the center of the rock. He reached down and plucked two of the hollow stalks. The boulder suddenly lurched toward the shoreline. Angus swung his arms to keep his balance. When it got close enough he leaped to safety.

  A stony tortoise-like creature emerged from the water. Wayward strands of swamp grass covered its green head. A large flap of skin resembling a turkey wattle jiggled from the underside of its long neck. “What do you think you’re doing pulling out a bloke’s hair like that?”

  “Sorry,” Angus stammered. “I didn’t realize.”

  “Well next time ask. Or I may not take you back to shore a second time.” It submerged and disappeared into the swamp, leaving only a trail of bubbles behind.

  “What was that creature?” Vanora asked.

  Angus grabbed her arm. “I don’t know. Let’s get out of here.”

  They ran up a well-worn path until they came to the outskirts of the weed-choked graveyard. A mournful howl echoed in the distance and Angus felt the ground tremble beneath his feet. Then it shook again. Footsteps, giant-sized footsteps.

  19

  Angus and Vanora sprinted down an overgrown path choked with ivy and briar. They rounded a sharp bend and ducked between two wrought-iron gates suspended between limestone slabs.

  Grave markers carved of stone studded the lumpy ground. Mournful lambs, praying angels and weeping cherubs peeped from clusters of overgrown crabgrass. The winding footpath coiled through the main body of the cemetery and threaded between rows of crumbling mausoleums.

  “Wait,” Vanora said. “Listen.”

  Angus stopped running and bent over, resting his hands on his knees to catch his breath. “What is it?”

  “The footsteps have stopped.” She swallowed hard. “At least for now.”

  “Good, I need to get the sword before they find us.”

  Angus hiked deeper into the graveyard with Vanora at his heels, hurrying past statues of lions, angels with outstretched arms, and hooded men wielding axes.

  “Who’s the tubby kid?” a squeaky voice whispered.

  “I don’t know, but get a load of that frizz-head he’s with,” a baritone voice boomed.

  Vanora latched onto Angus’ arm. “Who said that?”

  Angus whirled around and scanned the cemetery. “I don’t know.”

  He inspected the headstones again and the trees draped with moss. “Who’s there?”

  “Nobody,” the squeaky voice answered.

  Vanora pointed to a fat ghost lounging on top of a crypt. “Look!”

  The apparition spotted her and a confused expression formed on its pasty white face. It glanced at a skinny ghost leaning up against a tombstone. “The frizz-head saw me! Pointed right at me. I thought they couldn’t see us.”

  “Of course they can’t!” the skinny ghost said. “Why should you care anyhow?”

  “Because it gives me the willies, the way she’s looking at me. Like someone just dug up my grave.”

  Another ghost dressed in a tattered kilt and linen shirt stepped from behind a Celtic monument. “People cannae see ghosts!”

  Vanora crossed her arms. “I can see you.”

  “I dannae believe ye lassie,” the kilted specter said.

  “I’ll prove it,” Vanora said. “You’re wearing a kilt with a wilted daisy tucked into your shirt pocket.”

  The ghost opened its mouth to say something, then whipped the flower from his lapel and floated away in a huff. The fat and skinny ghosts followed, filtering away, leaving only mumbling echoes behind.

  Vanora groaned and turned to Angus. “Can you believe the nerve of those things?”

  Angus gazed at the sky. “We have more to worry about than ghosts right now. Remember what the tree said about the Guardian? We have to get the sword before nightfall.”

  Vanora scanned the cemetery and pointed to the largest crypt at the top of a hill. “There! That’s got to be it.”

  They rushed up the path, dodging a specter of an old woman with a phantom cat tucked under her arm. They stopped suddenly, to let a ghostly horse-drawn hearse, clatter past. Through the glass sides of the carriage, they watched as the lid of a wooden coffin opened slightly and a bony hand held out a cotton hankie and waved.

  Angus didn’t know whether to wave or not.

  The skeleton in the coffin raised its skull and dried pretend tears. The coachman snapped the reins and the doom buggy hurried out of sight, disappearing into the rising mist.

  Angus snorted. “Geesh, nothing like mourning for yourself.”

  Vanora gulped. “Maybe it’s mourning for us.”

  A dark shadow passed overhead, followed by a high-pitched squawk.

  Vanora pointed to the sky. “It’s Cudweed again!”

  Angus narrowed his eyes. “Let’s go!”

  They jogged to the top of the hill and stood before the decrepit mausoleum. A gothic door handle shaped like the mouth of a cat yawned in the center. Vines wove around the twisted ring pull. Angus cleared away some of the ivy revealing a carving underneath. He yanked more plants away and ran his hand over the dusty stone door. His heart leapt at the site of a cat and a shield.

  “The MacBain crest!” Angus exclaimed. “This is it for sure.”

  Worry lines creased Vanora’s brow. “I guess we have to knock in order to get in. I just hope it doesn’t wake the Guardian.”

  Angus adjusted his backpack higher on his shoulder. “It should be okay. The tree said he won’t turn evil until nighttime.” He examined the horizon. “We still have some daylight left.”

  He gripped the knocker and rapped three times against the stone door. A deep echo bellowed from inside. But the door remained closed.

  Vanora pointed to a slot just below the knocker. “It looks like some kind of lock. Try your dragon charm.”

  Angus inserted the dragon tail into the hole. A loud click sounded as the lock released and the door groaned open. Stale air and the smell of damp soil wafted out. Darkness encased every corner inside.

  Vanora peeked over his shoulder. “Is there a torch?”

  “I don’t know. It’s too dark to see. Guess I’ll have to go inside and feel along the wall.”

  He took a deep breath and set a cautious foot inside. The smell of mold and rot made his throat sting and his eyes water. Pinholes of light came from a boarded up window to his left. He ventured farther inside and jerked the boards from the wall. Daylight burst through, sweeping across the dark chamber and coming to rest on a set of chiseled granite steps. Angus crept to the stairwell. It wound down to a lower level where torchlight flickered below. His skin prickled. What dark things lived at the bottom of those stairs?

  Vanora came to his side. “I suppose we have to go down there, ri
ght?”

  “Yeah, guess so.”

  Side by side they descended the stone staircase. The closer to the bottom they got the stronger the smell of mildew and moist earth. At the landing they came to a catacomb. Human bones and long-forgotten coffins filled niches in the walls. Hurrying down the dimly lit tunnel, they came to a circular room. Oil lamps and stubs of candles flickered on tall pillars. A stone sarcophagus covered in moss, dust, and cobwebs rested in the center.

  Angus picked up a lamp and held it over the coffin. Etched deep into the sandstone lid, a dragon matching the one on his pendant stood guard.

  Angus handed the oil lamp to Vanora. “Hold this while I try to open it.”

  He leaned against the lid and pushed hard. It budged, but only slightly. He gave it another shove, using all his weight, and the top slid open. Angus took the light from Vanora and lowered it into the coffin. His hand shook. Wobbly shadows danced inside the murky interior. A film of dust escaped, floated in the air, spinning gloomy circles around a bony frame.

  Finally the dusty grime settled. A corpse dressed in a rotted shroud, dark hood, and a pair of gold wrist gauntlets rested in the coffin. It held a giant claymore sword to its chest.

  Angus ran the lamplight along the blade, studying the two-handed weapon with his family crest on the hilt. “This is the right one! He has the MacBain sword.”

  He studied the crusty hand that cradled the weapon to its moldy chest. “I guess I’ll have to reach my hand inside and grab it, huh?”

  Vanora nodded. “No telling what will happen when you do. He might wake up and come after us.” After a second she added, “Better be quick about it.”

  Angus groaned. “You’re not making this any easier, you know.”

  “Sorry.”

  Holding his breath, Angus grasped the handle and pulled. The Guardian’s skeletal hand flashed up and seized his wrist. Long black fingernails dug into his flesh. In the other, he raised his ghoulish whip. Angus flinched back and tried to jerk his wrist free. The grasp tightened. It pulled him forward as though trying to bring him into the coffin with it. Angus bumped hard into the stone lid. It fell and smashed to pieces on the floor. The sound echoed off the solid walls.

  “Help me!”

  “Stop struggling,” Vanora shouted.

  “What?”

  Vanora raised her eyebrows. “I don’t think he’ll hurt you. He just doesn’t want you to take the sword.”

  “Really? And I thought he just wanted an extra shin-bone to find furniture with in the dark. Now help me!”

  The Guardian cracked the whip, missing Angus’ head by inches.

  “We just have to prove you’re the rightful heir.” Vanora took hold of the shield and held it to the skeleton’s face. “The sword belongs to Angus. See? Look at it. Now let him go.”

  In the presence of the shield the claymore glowed, taking on a greenish hue. The Guardian released its grip on Angus’ hand. It sat upright, with eye sockets blazing in the same eerie green light. The skull tilted one way and then the other as though assessing Angus. He backed several steps in case it tried to get hold of him again.

  Suddenly, with skeletal fingers, the Guardian grasped the sides of the coffin and climbed out. Shoulder to shoulder, Angus and Vanora backed until they could go no farther. The skeleton tucked his whip under his arm, knelt on one knee and held out the sword.

  Angus crept forward, using only his fingertips, took the claymore. “Thank you.”

  The Guardian stood, its bones snapping. It bowed and shuffled back to the stone coffin, climbed inside, and crossed his moldering hands over his chest. The blazing eye sockets turned dark.

  Angus examined the sword. It weighed more than he imagined. But it easily balanced in his large hand. For the first time in his life he understood why he’d been bigger than most kids his age. Only a man of considerable size could wield such a weapon. Maybe being big wasn’t so bad after all.

  Vanora handed Angus the shield. “You better take this also.”

  Angus slipped his hand into the leather strap on the back of the shield and gripped the claymore in the other. The shield sang. Together the weapons produced a light that filled the gloomy room with a bright green glow.

  A swirling column of white ectoplasm circled around them. Angus stood rooted to the spot as it looped tighter and tighter until a perfect Celtic knot formed. In the middle, several luminous orbs floated, changed shape and transformed into images of Scottish kings each sitting on a golden throne, clad in kilts and cloaks. They all held swords, large and warlike with the MacBain crest gleaming on the blades.

  Vanora clutched Angus’ arm and whispered. “It’s the kings! The sword must have wakened them!”

  Angus and Vanora bowed. When they stood up, the oldest looking of the MacBain Kings held Angus with hard, dark eyes. A heavy, white beard partially concealed his thin lips. He leaned forward and spoke in an ancient tongue.

  Angus strained to understand, but couldn’t. He opened his mouth to ask the king to repeat what he’d said, but stopped as a new ball of ectoplasm formed to one side. The phosphorous orb materialized beside the archaic king, where it transformed into a familiar shape. Grandfather! He nodded to Angus, whose throat clogged with emotion. “With the sword and shield,” his grandfather translated, “you now possess the true power of the kings: Wisdom, Bravery, Endurance, Strength and the Will to oppose all those who love the dark and fear the light.”

  Before Angus could respond, the spirit of his grandfather faded. Angus’ heart sank. “Please don’t go.”

  His grandfather’s voice floated on the wind. “Just because you can’t see me doesn’t mean I’m not with you. You must believe in yourself, laddie, and in things that you cannot see. It isn’t only by magic that you and I are bound.” The voice fell silent.

  The ghost kings rose from their seats, and in unison hoisted their broadswords and raised a powerful war cry. They formed a single swirling white mass that rushed at Angus as if he were the enemy. Angus held the shield high, to protect himself and Vanora from their wrath. The swirling white mass, spun faster and faster and disappeared inside the sword and shield. Angus sank to his knees, the weapons vibrating in his hands. When the vibrations stopped, he rose to his feet. Confidence pulsed in his veins.

  A terrific boom shook the mausoleum.

  Vanora’s eyes widened. “What was that?”

  Dirt and sand filtered from the ceiling. Another boom sounded, this one louder. Rocks and mortar tumbled from the walls.

  “It’s footsteps!” Angus yelled. “The giants are getting closer.”

  Vanora took hold of Angus’ sleeve and pulled him toward the stone steps. “We better get out of here before this thing collapses.”

  They sprinted up the stairs, out of the crypt and into daylight. Angus scanned the cemetery for a hiding place.

  “What should we do?” Vanora asked.

  Before he could answer, three giants broke through the trees. Standing at least twenty-feet tall and three yards around the waist. Moss hung from their downturned horns. Their tangled curly hair reminded Angus of coiled cobras. Wrapped in crude hides, each giant carried a different weapon: a knotted iron club, twisted barbed wire on a rope, and a long dagger stained with something brown. Nobody needed to tell Angus it was blood. Snot dripped from their snouts and saliva from their gaping mouths.

  The one with the club smashed it into the ground. The shock waves nearly knocked Angus off his feet, while the other two opened gaping mouths and roared like claps of thunder. The shield sang louder, adjusting its pitch to be heard over the giants roaring voices.

  The giants spotted them.

  “Run!”

  They sprinted away with thundering footsteps inches from their heels.

  Angus snatched Vanora’s arm and yanked her inside a rotting crypt whose door hung on rusty hinges. They sped down into a labyrinth of catacombs. With a single blow, the giant with the club destroyed the tunnels.

  Without breaking stride, A
ngus tucked the sword into his belt, grabbed Vanora’s hand and ran to a walled grave. He reached up and yanked a skeleton out, climbed inside, and pulled Vanora in with him.

  He scrambled to the back of the grave. “Scoot in here,” he said.

  Vanora crawled to where Angus sat hunched up against the back wall. He tore off his backpack and fished out his grandfather’s book.

  “What are you doing? We don’t have time for reading.”

  Angus ripped out a few blank pages of the book. “Who said anything about reading?” He shoved the paper into his mouth and chewed hard and fast. He pulled the wad from his mouth, tore it into several pieces, and covered them with the sleeping powder. He loaded them into the hair straws from the swamp.

  “Spit wads?” Vanora asked.

  “Yep, ya gotta learn something in school.”

  He quickly made a dozen more and loaded Vanora’s straw.

  As Angus poked his head out, the giant made another swing. Angus ducked back and then stuck his head out again. He inhaled a huge breath—and blew. The spit wad flew from the reed-straw into the giant’s gaping snout.

  The giant wrinkled his nose, and let out a thunderous sneeze, but the spit wad remained stuck in one nostril. The giant staggered, and with every breath, grew weaker and weaker until he collapsed. The ground trembled with the force of an earthquake. Its cavernous body almost covered the hole where Angus and Vanora hid.

  The other two giants leaned over, frowning at their downed partner. One kicked at him. The other poked him with filthy fingers. When they couldn’t rouse him, they bent and grasped his thick legs and dragged him away.

  Angus breathed a sigh of relief. They would take their fallen comrade back to wherever they lived, mourn for a while, then be surprised when he woke up. Angus stepped from their hiding place.

  “You sure it’s safe?” Vanora asked.

  “I think so. Come on.”

  They’d moved from the stone enclosure when Vanora stopped.

  “What’s wrong? Come on, we have to hurry before they figure out he’s only sleeping.”