Angus MacBain and the Island of Sleeping Kings

by Angela J. Townsend

  For a few heartbeats, Angus was almost too happy to speak. Then, after exhaling a long sigh of contentment, he said, “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you. How worried I was, and how many questions I have.”

  They held hands and walked to his grandfather’s house. She wrapped her arm around him and kissed the top of his head. “We’ll have plenty of time to catch up. I’ll go inside and put a kettle on, make you something warm to drink.” She nodded in Vanora’s direction. “I see your friend is waiting and I’m sure she’s eager to return home as well. I’ll be waiting in the house for you.”

  Angus stood uncertain, reluctant to leave her side.

  “Go on. I won’t disappear again.”

  Angus nodded and smiled. “I’ll be right back.”

  He jogged to Vanora. “Thanks for waiting.”

  Vanora’s eyes watered. “No problem Angus. Your mother is beautiful. I’m so happy for you both.” She gave Angus a tired smile. “I can’t wait to see my dad and tell him about our trip. I just hope he believes me.”

  “Yeah, it’s pretty hard to believe.” Angus laughed and stuck the tip of his sword into the earth. The handle snapped open on a silver hinge and an agate stone shaped like a cat’s eye popped out and rolled to the ground.

  “What is it?” Vanora asked.

  Angus picked it up and snapped the handle back together again. “I don’t know.” He cradled the stone in his palm, watching it catch the waning daylight. Then he held it to his eye. Inside, a faint picture formed. “I think it’s some sort of looking glass.”

  Angus stared into the agate and sucked in a breath.

  “What do you see?”

  “Something terrifying,” Angus said. His chin quivered.

  “What? Tell me.”

  He turned the looking glass slightly and grinned. “Sorry, false alarm! Thought it was killer seaweed attacking your head, but then I realized it was just your hair-do.”

  Vanora rolled her eyes. “Very funny.”

  “You know, I figured something out during the past few days,” Angus said. “No one’s perfect. Yeah, I might be bigger than most kids, but some kids are short, or have ears that stick out, or have messy hair.” He tugged on one of Vanora’s frizzed-out locks. “But it’s okay.”

  “You’re right, Angus,” Vanora said. “It’s about accepting who we are.”

  “But, it’s also about accepting others. Not only did you become my friend, but you believed in me and you helped me. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Vanora said. “I knew you could do it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I better get going,” Vanora said. “I’ll be by tomorrow and we can mess around with that eyeglass.”

  “All right, see you tomorrow.”

  Vanora hurried away. Angus put the glass to his eye; through it, he watched her hike down the path. The curvature of the stone bent her body in strange and awkward ways—like a funhouse mirror.

  The sun dipped behind the clouds and, in the dimness of the evening light, something else took form in the stone. A glowing light that flickered then disappeared. He looked again and whatever it had been was now gone.

  “Angus?” his mother called.

  “Coming, Mom.”

  He liked the way the word “mom” echoed down the meadow almost as much as he liked saying it. Angus faced the gentle winds and inhaled the salty air. He pulled the sword from the rich earth and thought of his grandfather. A proud smile tickled the corners of his mouth. Angus tucked the eyeglass into his tunic pocket and ran down the beaten path to home.

  Darting across the evening sky, a crow flew silently past.

  I would like to thank everyone at Clean Teen Publishing for making Angus Macbain come alive in print. I would also like to thank my cover artist, Lisa Amowitz and my editors Cindy Davis, Emily White and Mariah McGarvey. I would also like to acknowledge my publicists David Henderson, Patricia Margaret Henderson, Alicia Henderson and marketing director Marlo Clark.

  Everyone in my local critique group and at Operation Awesome.

  A very special thank you to my boss, Dale L. McGarvey, who taught me that the law is the will of the people.

  In memory of my ancestors from ancient Hibernia and Caledonia~~thank you for the gift of storytelling.

  Angela Townsend was born in the beautiful Rocky Mountains of Missoula, Montana. As a child, Angela grew up listening to stories told by her grandparents, ancient tales and legends of faraway places. Influenced by her Irish and Scottish heritage, Angela became an avid research historian, specializing in Celtic mythology. Her gift for storytelling finally led her to a full time career in historical research and writing. A writer in local community circulations, Angela is also a published genealogical and historical resource writer who has taught numerous research seminars. Currently, Angela divides her time between writing, playing Celtic music on her fiddle, and Irish dancing.

  Angela’s first novel, Amarok, was published through Spencer Hill Press in 2012. Her newest novel, Angus MacBain and The Island of Sleeping Kings, was signed for publication with Clean Teen Publishing in 2013.

  Angela resides on a ranch, in rural Northwestern Montana, with her two children Levi and Grant.

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  If you enjoyed Angus MacBain and the Island of Sleeping Kings, we recommend you check out Moonflower by Angela J. Townsend. Read the first chapter here!

  Seattle, Washington

  The shadows came for me at night, in my sleep, evoking demons as they crept over me, pressing down, tangling around my arms, my legs, my neck. I struggled to open my eyes. To move. To breathe. Panic swelled. Twisting and thrashing, I battled to break free. The shadows turned to vapor, and it was my mother who held me now, clutching me to her bloody body as we huddled together. Her ragged, uneven breath feathered across the back of my neck.

  She whispered one last Russian lullaby.

  My father appeared in the doorway, his heavy boots dripping snow on the oak floor. His eyes were cold, vacant, a rifle tight in his hands. He advanced, yelling Siberian curses that fell from his lips like hissing snakes. He snarled and aimed the weapon at my mother’s chest. Her eyes stretched wide in horror, her lips twisted in a final scream as she pushed me to safety.

  A bullet exploded through her torso, shattering my existence in a mixture of steel, blood and bone, colliding at the speed of light. My father lowered the gun, grabbed my mother’s wrist and checked for a pulse. A satisfied smile crept across his lips as he dropped her lifeless arm.

  A whimper escaped my throat. He spotted me cowering in the corner, his eyes blazing with scalding fury. He raised the weapon, aimed it at my forehead, and the shadows came for me again…

  I jerked awake, gasping for breath and clammy with sweat. The images of my dying mother still clinging to my mind. I shielded my eyes from the brilliant beams of sunlight seeping into my room, letting it trickle between my fingers to warm my face. From a cracked windowpane in the corner, a scatter of diamond-shaped patterns laced the floor in an intricate dance. I stared at the kaleidoscope of colors, willing my heartbeat to return to normal, tracing each shape, forcing the recurring nightmare from my mind. I closed my eyes and counted backward from twenty and by the time I had reached ten, the tightness in my chest had relaxed and I was able to breathe again.

  I threw back the covers and climbed out of bed, my toes warm in the dancing sunlight. Daytime brought me peace, chased away the dreams of a past better left forgotten. You’d think I’d be used to it by now. I'd suffered the same horrible dream every single night. Maybe someday it would leave, but I had a feeling things wouldn’t change until I knew everything that had happened: my mother’s murder, how I survived getting shipped off all the way from Russia to an orphanage in Seattle. I was only two years old when my mother died—but even at that tender age the horrible memory had taken root in my
subconscious, sprouted limbs, and grown into a monster over the years. I didn’t know what was real anymore.

  The worn cotton robe I’d slept in slid from my trembling shoulders, exposing my nightgown, long and pale like my Siberian blonde hair—a color I inherited from some ancient ancestor whose bones rested under a layer of Russian ice.

  From the kitchen came clinking glass and the gargle of a blender. Bambi, my foster mom, was no doubt mixing up a bomb squad. Or at least that’s what she called it. It took the edge off her constant hangovers and kept her head from exploding.

  On an end table near the bed, my alarm clock blared. And before I could switch it off, Bambi bellowed, “Natasha! Turn that blasted thing down! How many times have I told you….”

  I hit the snooze button and waited until she retreated down the hallway, her footsteps heavy across the worn shag carpet as she entered her bedroom at the end of the double-wide. I knew she’d probably gone back to bed with a pair of blinders over her eyes to keep the shards of light out.

  Bambi came into my life the summer I turned twelve, when I was a flightless bird trapped in a sewer called Bellingham—a group home for throwaway kids. On a Friday afternoon, Bambi’s big white Lincoln roared into the driveway, a rooster tail of dust behind it. She stepped out wearing tortoiseshell sunglasses, a pink mini-skirt with matching heels, and low cut halter-top. Her long hair shone in the afternoon sun, a rich mane of licorice black cinched in a ponytail at the top of her head like a genie.

  She spotted me staring at her through the glass, removed her sunglasses, and winked. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. I’d only seen women like that in magazines, leaning against cars. She looked sharp and dangerous, like the curve of a blade. She came inside, her spiked heels clicking across the tiled floor. She bent down to eye me, the top of her breasts spilling over the “V” of her tank-top. I stared up at her. What did she want?

  She reached out and smoothed a stray piece of hair dangling in front of my eyes. “Well, hello there, Missy.” She pressed her hand into mine. “You must be Natasha.”

  I recoiled, not used to being touched. I only knew the palms of rough hands pressed against my back, urging me to and from a bedroom with cement walls like a prison, rubber sheets that crinkled beneath me and a roommate who screamed in her sleep.

  I stared up at her, into those intense green eyes. “Who are you?”

  “My name’s Bambi.” She batted her sooty lashes. “Run along and get your things. You’re coming with me.”

  I took off to my room and threw everything I owned into a big plastic garbage bag. I hated that cheap sack. A parting shot from Bellingham. A reminder that foster kids were worthless. Not even important enough for a real bag. When I’d watched other kids get placed, I always thought that throwing all your stuff in those plastic trash sacks would feel like one of two things. Either throwing away your old life, the bad memories, the fear and hate of Bellingham; or the feeling of a refugee, so blinded by freedom that it didn’t matter. I was wrong. It felt like admitting you didn’t matter, like saying you weren’t worthy of the freedom you’d always dreamed of. I told myself not to worry about it, to focus on the fact that I was getting out, but the thought lingered as I hurried out the door to Bambi’s car. She was perched behind the wheel when I got there, wiping lipstick off her teeth in the rear-view mirror. I tried the door and it was locked. She leaned over, flung it open, and waved me inside with her long red press-on nails.

  “Hurry it up, Missy. Don’t have all day—got me a tiki party to go to tonight.”

  I slid into the cushy white interior and snapped on my seatbelt. On the way home, Bambi chatted endlessly about how she used to be a drug addict and stripper at a gentleman’s club before she found Jesus. “You know what, Missy? Jesus loves everybody, even prostitutes.” She slipped a cigarette into her mouth and lit the tip. “Says so right in the bible. Did you know Lazarus’ sister was a lady of the night, before she got saved?” Bambi exhaled a cloud of smoke. “If it wasn’t for Jesus, I’d sure as hell be dead by now.”

  I stared at her, trying to think of something to say. In the close confines of the car, I saw the glue of her false eyelashes dotting her lids, a thick layer of foundation and face powder over fine lines near her nose and mouth. There was a roughness to her beauty, more from hard mileage than time. She reminded me of a pretty doll, broken and patched together again.

  We stopped at a red light. Bambi slid her gaze in my direction. “Have you been saved, Missy?” Before I could answer she squealed and cranked up the radio, singing along at the top of her lungs to Paradise City, by Gun’s N’ Rose’s. The light turned green and she hit the gas, music blaring out the windows as we sped onto the freeway.

  A little old lady in a big Buick cut in front of us, gray hair and curlers barely visible over the wheel. Bambi slammed on the brakes, punishing the old woman with a loud blare of her horn, honking and swearing over the music. My gut twisted. For someone who was religious, she sure could cuss. A sigh crept past my lips. I hoped Bambi wasn’t some kind of phony, that this time it might be different and I wouldn’t have to be brought back to that place where I barely existed. Nameless. Faceless. Nobody’s child.

  We exited to a narrow street that evened out along shabby houses with chaotic yards and sagging, cluttered porches. A steel factory. Cars without wheels. Houses boarded up. Bambi drove under a metal sign suspended by iron chains, Sunny Ridge Trailer Court. I didn’t see anything sunny about it with its rusty trailers, faded lawn ornaments, and abandoned cars. It looked more like a junk yard than a place to live.

  None of it mattered. I didn’t care where we lived or where we were going. Bambi would be the perfect placement for me. I didn’t want to live with a nuclear family, where pretend mothers and fathers ended up not wanting you because you wouldn’t bond with them. For me, it was impossible. I didn’t know how to love—and it turned out that Bambi didn’t either. I was a means to an end, a paycheck waiting in the mailbox on the third of every month. Spare change. Beer money.

  As it happened, weeks of uncertainty became years of bingo on Saturday nights, wild weekend parties, and a string of bad boyfriends Bambi picked up along the way. Through it all, I somehow managed to turn seventeen.

  I glanced at my alarm clock again and the glaring blank screen. I had no idea what time it was since I had jerked the cord out of the wall. Great. Better hurry if I wanted to meet the bus on time. I struggled to open the top drawer of my dresser, pushing back piles of messy clothes stuck in the sides, and selected a pair of cutoffs to wear over my leggings, a tank-top and long black sweater. Underneath a pile of dirty clothes, I unearthed my combat boots and slipped them on. I loved the weight of them. They made me feel grounded, like I could climb a mountain if I had to. I tied my hair in a messy knot, gathered my school books that had been littered across my desk, and tucked them into an army bag. My fingers traced the lines in the smooth canvas. I loved the worn pack, covered in peace signs and denim patches. It carried everything that was important to me, my art supplies, my drawings, pictures I’d cut out of magazines.

  Being an artist was my whole life. It was all I cared about. All I wanted to be. Art saved me, spoke to me, kept me company at night when I would lay in my bed at the group home listening to the endless, unanswered cries of children mixed with the ceaseless drone of the television in the common area. My palette of assorted acrylics in a spray of vivid colors gave me fresh flowers and the bittersweet scent of autumn leaves when in reality my world was surrounded by smells of detergent, floor wax, and urine. Art was a way out, a universe of my own creation.

  The bus rumbled to a stop in front of our lighthouse-shaped mailbox, a glaring false idol of hope in a rundown trailer park. Bambi was as crazy about lighthouses as she was about Jesus. Our house was packed with them.

  The bus door hissed open and I begrudgingly climbed aboard. Fighting my way down the crowded aisle, I found a seat near the front, my bag at my feet. Behind me a group of cheerleaders gossiped
about boys, makeup, and sex, their shrill laughter drilling into the back of my head. I slipped on my earbuds, drowning them out with the deep, dark tones of Rachmaninoff, my favorite Russian composer. Girls my own age were a different species, their everyday problems so trivial. I didn’t really know anyone, and didn’t want to. I liked being alone and I suspected my independence suited me better than it should. Worse yet, I hated crowds. I had this raw, primitive urge to live in some secluded cave and do nothing but paint.

  So far I’d made it through almost three years of high school, yet my junior year seemed endless. It wasn’t that I hated school, it was the structure I loathed—just another institution. Another form of control. Another obstacle in the way of me being able to do my artwork.

  School dragged on forever. When the final bell finally rang, I leapt from my seat, my army bag slung over my shoulder, and I fought my way through a sea of teens clogging the hallway. I opened the double doors to the exit with both hands and escaped into the parking lot, dodging through the train of cars and buses. Finally I could breathe again. I hurried across the street, every cell inside my body tingled. I couldn’t wait to get to the theater where I made costumes for the stage, drawing and painting—creating intricate designs on simple fabrics. There I could lose myself in my artwork and in the magic of the old, massive, ivory-columned structure.

  Sunshine spilled across the pavement as I worked my way downtown on foot. It took fifteen minutes to get to Pike Place Market. Springtime in Seattle was acting totally schizophrenic as usual. One minute it was super sunny, transforming winter-burnt stems and wilting plants into an emerald green carpet, then a second later rain and melting ice gargled down the raspy throats of muddy drains.