The Fourteenth Summer of Angus Jack

by Jen Storer

  Quietly, his gaze fixed on the harpy, he rested the sword against the wall.

  Confusion flickered across the harpy’s face. Confusion ... and interest.

  ‘You were human once,’ said Angus, his mouth dry with fear. ‘You still are, deep inside. Maybe we can do a deal. Maybe we can work together, Varla the Vanishing Lady ...’

  The harpy cricked its neck. Its wings quivered.

  Angus reached into the case and took out the narrare. The harpy’s eyes gleamed. It licked its lips with a fat, white tongue. Temptation had it enthralled.

  Angus offered up the narrare. Inside the glass, the snowflakes whirled and danced.

  ‘Take it,’ he said. ‘And then we can both be free.’

  The harpy reached out, the stump of its severed finger dripping blood.

  Angus held the narrare closer.

  The harpy faltered. It withdrew its ugly hands. ‘This is a trick,’ it hissed.

  Angus shook his head. ‘What chance have we got against you?’ he said. ‘My father is dying in the veil. My friend is dying in the hallway. Take this rotten thing. Take it and leave us be. Leave all of us be.’

  Quietly, unobserved by the harpy, Angus ran his thumb along the silver serpent’s back. Its scales rippled in response. Angus felt a twinge of excitement.

  Without warning, the harpy extended its wings, arched its back and screeched. It swooped on Angus, slashing and tearing.

  ‘Take it!’ he yelled, and as the harpy’s claws tore at his chest, he slammed the narrare into its face.

  With lightning speed, the serpent uncoiled from the base of the narrare and spun itself around the harpy’s neck like a collar. The harpy staggered back, clutching and clawing at its throat, gagging and gasping as the serpent tightened its grip.

  Angus scooped up the narrare. ‘Hold the narrare, Varla!’ he yelled. ‘Hold it and shake it.’

  The harpy backed away further.

  ‘Don’t you want to remember?’ said Angus. ‘Don’t you want to remember what it was like to be human, to have a heart, a soul? Don’t you want to remember what it’s like to miss the people you love?’

  The harpy began to writhe and spit. Once again Varla was transforming, but the serpent simply readjusted its grip. The harpy screeched. The noise was excruciating. Angus covered his head with his arms. The walls of the old shack rattled, showering them with dust.

  When all was still again, Angus looked up. Varla’s human form had returned.

  She was hunched on the floor, draped in the long, white fur coat with the silver serpent still wound around her neck. She looked drained. But he knew there was not much time before her old strength, her old venom, returned.

  ‘You wanted the narrare,’ said Angus, getting up quickly, ‘you wanted access to Mevras.’ He stood over her. ‘Here.’

  Varla glared at him with pure hatred. But in her weakened state she could not resist his offer. She seized the narrare greedily. The serpent slithered about her throat and hissed in her ear.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, almost swooning. ‘I feel it, I feel the magick, the power of Mevras!’

  Angus took a step back, his fingers gripping the sword, poised, ready to strike should the witch suddenly turn on him.

  Varla shook the narrare, gently, tentatively — and as she did, she closed her eyes, unwillingly it seemed to Angus. It was as if she were suddenly in the grip of a greater power, of magick more potent than her own. She smiled indulgently.

  ‘He guides me,’ she murmured. ‘Mevras knows my power. He recognises one who has devoted her life to the Wild Magick ...’

  Angus took another step back.

  ‘Do not move!’ screeched Varla. ‘Stay where you are!’

  Angus stopped dead.

  Surely this was not how it would be? The Mevras he had glimpsed, the Mevras who was his direct ancestor, would not pander to the will of someone like Varla. Someone in love with Wild Magick.

  But it did seem that Varla was communing with Mevras, basking in the glory of his spirit. Any moment her strength would return. Any moment she would shake off the serpent collar and all would be lost. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have thought a plan like this would work?

  In his panic he raised the sword and lurched forward ...

  ‘Stop!’ she screeched and kicked out, knocking him off balance. The sword went clattering across the floor.

  Angus scrambled after it and leaped up. He spun around, ready to fight. Ready to do whatever he had to ...

  But Varla’s expression was faltering. Concern, doubt, fear, all began to line her face. For a moment she seemed lost inside her own dark mind.

  ‘Oh!’ Varla tried to drop the narrare, to toss it on the floor and be rid of it, but she could not. She threw back her head but she could not open her eyes. She was in the grip of another force.

  Angus reconsidered. Perhaps his plan was working after all. Perhaps, when she first held the narrare, Varla only saw what she wanted to see. He stared at her, transfixed.

  Varla gasped, a throaty, strangulated noise. What memories, what nightmares, would the narrare stir in such a vile being? Worse still, how would she react? Angus felt his heart thudding with terror as he steadied himself and gripped the sword.

  To his dismay, her first reaction was ... delight. Innocent delight. It spread across her face like dawn on a summer’s day, transforming her features so that Angus saw the striking, intelligent woman she had once been, and the young, inquisitive girl who still lingered behind those eyes. An odd feeling came over him. It wasn’t exactly sadness. It was a kind of regret or longing.

  Then, with a rush, confusion replaced delight — followed in a heartbeat by horror. Varla wailed as if she could not believe what she was seeing. She clutched the narrare, kept shaking it madly, as if by shaking it she could escape what she saw.

  Finally, as Varla was reminded of the simple joys she had sacrificed, all the wonders she had turned her back on, all the everyday pleasures she had ignored or scorned, the love, the kindness, the friendships she had forgone, despair overwhelmed her.

  Varla’s memories had become the fractured mirrors of her soul and she finally saw who she had become.

  She dropped the narrare and opened her eyes, staring at Angus as if for the first time. ‘What? How?’ she whispered.

  She covered her face and began to weep. But her tears froze like tiny seed pearls. ‘The tears of a witch,’ said Varla, looking at her hands. ‘So ... pretty.’

  Still holding the sword, Angus came and knelt beside her.

  Varla looked at him again, quizzically now, as slowly, painlessly, she began to transform one last time.

  Angus caught his breath. She was turning into ice — ice as thin and brittle, as flimsy as rime on a puddle. Ice as insubstantial as her empty heart.

  The hot morning sun poured through the roof shingles and glanced off her forehead.

  Angus let the sword drop to the floor as right before his eyes Varla dissolved into the mists of time.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  ____________________________________________

  Stranded

  Martha was pounding on the door. Angus gathered up the narrare, fixed the silver serpent back onto its base, then kicked the plank away from the door. Martha fell into the room.

  She looked about quickly, saw the white fur coat in a heap. ‘Is she ...? Did you ...?’

  ‘She’s gone,’ said Angus.

  Martha stared at the long, jagged cut on his chest. ‘It’s nothing,’ he said, pulling at his bloodstained T-shirt. ‘I’ll be fine.’ Martha nodded. ‘Quick,’ she said. ‘The Donut Lady. I’ve been sitting with her the whole time. But, Angus, she won’t wake up!’

  Martha’s voice was tight with fear.

  It was only now that Angus remembered how badly the Donut Lady had been injured. They rushed out of the room.

  The Donut Lady remained slumped against the wall in the hallway. Her forehead was damp, her skin pale. She looked somehow smaller. Angus
feared the worst. He checked the wound on her stomach. There seemed to be blood everywhere.

  ‘We’ll never get her back to the mainland in time,’ he said. ‘The tide will be in by now. We’re stuck, Martha.’

  Martha shook her head furiously. ‘No ... No way.’

  Angus bowed his head. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. He didn’t have the heart to tell her straight. He didn’t have the heart to say, the Donut Lady is dying and there’s nothing we can do.

  Martha kissed the Donut Lady on the forehead, then got up and headed for the door.

  ‘Where are you going?’ said Angus in surprise. ‘We can’t just leave her here!’

  But Martha kept walking.

  ‘Sorry,’ whispered Angus to the Donut Lady. ‘We’ll be back in a second. I promise.’

  He touched her cold hand gently. The Donut Lady did not open her eyes. But he thought he saw the flicker of a frown. She was conscious. But only barely.

  He ran outside. Martha was at the front of the shack. She stood on a mound of crunchy brown kelp, looking out to sea. Angus stood beside her. He was right. The tide was high. They were surrounded. Stranded.

  Martha raised her hand and pointed. ‘Look,’ she said.

  Angus looked out to sea.

  At first he could see nothing. Then he noticed a couple of gulls circling and swooping and squawking. Something was heading toward the island. It was an old wooden skiff. It looked like a wreck. But it moved quickly, rolling and pitching, slapping confidently against the waves.

  Angus studied the skiff. Could it be? He squinted his eyes — and saw something else entirely.

  It was the boat! The boat from Ava’s notebook.

  ‘It’s Nydo,’ said Martha. ‘Nydo will take us home.’

  The boat drew nearer, moving ever more quickly as the kids jumped up and down, waving and hollering. The wind whipped across their faces and Martha’s hair blew across her eyes. She flicked the green curl.

  ‘I knew it would come,’ she cried. ‘I called out to Graini with my mind. I called out to her and asked her to send the boat!’

  But as the boat came into clear view, they both stopped shouting and let their hands drop at their sides. There was someone in the boat. But it wasn’t Graini. And it certainly wasn’t Ava.

  Lynch, thought Angus with a thud. Now what would they do?

  ‘No,’ said Martha woefully. ‘Not Lynch. Please, please, please, not him.’ She moved closer to her brother.

  But still Angus was not so sure — the figure in the boat was obscured, hidden by the tall, elegant serpent’s head.

  At last they saw clearly and the kids caught their breath. Standing at the prow, scanning the shore anxiously, was a haggard, desperate-looking man. Angus and Martha watched speechlessly as the boat sailed smoothly up onto the shore and the man clambered over the side. He waded through the shallows.

  Halfway up the beach, the man stopped in his tracks and stared at them. His face was lined with heartache. His chin was covered in grey stubble and his pale red hair was windswept.

  He opened his arms.

  ‘Dad!’ Martha bounded down off the kelp and ran to her father. She leaped into his arms.

  ‘My girl,’ said the Prof, holding her close. ‘Oh, my girl.’ He stroked her filthy hair. ‘My dear little Martha.’

  ‘Dad,’ she said again, and for the first time in many years Martha Jack began to cry.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  ____________________________________________

  Moment by moment

  The sea was flat. Dawn was only just peeping above the horizon. The day since their return to the house on Anchor Street had passed quickly. There were explanations and exclamations. There were revelations and healing sessions. There was even great hilarity. Especially when the Donut Lady, still weak from her wound but slightly energised by Ava’s Singing Stones, described her encounter with Lynch. ‘This is no man,’ said the Donut Lady, sipping her iced tea. ‘This is an insect!’

  She went on to describe in great detail and with much enthusiasm her expert karate chops and upper cuts, her high kicks, the punches she had landed, and the backward headbutt that had finally brought Lynch to his knees.

  ‘So, where is he now?’ asked the Prof. ‘I’d like a word or two with him.’

  The Donut Lady gave a dismissive shrug. ‘I would say he is groping about on the floor of Berkeley’s Shanty, wailing over the puddle that was once his Varla. His spirit is broken ... and his cane is snapped and washed out to sea. You will never see Lynch again.’

  ‘More’s the pity,’ said the Prof, his voice loaded with threat.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Graini. ‘I would like to wallop him severely.’

  ‘Graini,’ warned Ava.

  The conversations ebbed and flowed. They learned how the Prof had suddenly, without warning, fallen out of the veil and onto the floor of his study. As they discussed the possibilities, they realised that his release must have occurred at the moment Varla began to shake the narrare. The moment the poison in her mind began to clear and her magick began to unravel. Ava had been quick to assist him and direct him to the boat and so to Berkeley’s Shanty.

  And now it was ... tomorrow — nearly a whole day since Varla had disappeared forever. Everyone was back on the beach. No-one had slept much. They had all been dreading this moment.

  ‘Do you really have to go now?’ said Martha for the umpteenth time. She stood in the shallows, the cold water tickling her feet and ankles.

  Graini nodded. ‘Already we are stupendously late,’ she said. ‘We have a long way to travel. A long way before we sail through the veil and back to our homeland. We must hurry. We must not miss our opportunity.’

  ‘Verdens Ende,’ said Angus wistfully. ‘World’s End.’

  ‘Correct,’ said Ava. ‘It is indeed the end of the world. Well, the end of your world.’

  ‘Are you sure it won’t take months?’ he said doubtfully. ‘Norway’s the other side of the globe.’

  ‘Goblins can move very quickly when unobserved,’ said Graini. ‘Surely you have observed this for yourself, Angus Jack? We know many secret portholes too.’

  ‘And dear, sweet Nydo is highly skilled,’ said Ava, stroking the side of the boat.

  Angus looked back at the Prof. He and his father had spent many hours the previous night talking and laughing and, for the first time in their lives, reminiscing. His father was intensely proud of Angus, but Angus insisted he’d only done what he had to do ... He thought about what the Donut Lady had once said: ‘We are all little heroes. Each and every one of us.’ And looking around now, Angus reckoned that was true. Everyone had a role to play and every role was vital.

  His father was escorting Reafen and her luggage to the boat. In her turquoise vinyl mod coat, blonde beehive wig and thick make-up, Reafen’s outfit was, as always, wildly inappropriate. But it gave her pleasure and the goblin girls had decided to let it pass (although they drew the line at her Honey Crumble collection). Reafen looked frail as she shuffled toward them but she would eventually recover. As soon as she returned to her homeland, she would receive the care she needed. And the love she had missed. Reafen had in her own clumsy way protected ‘the pretty’, the Narrare of Mevras, for years and effectively lured Varla to her demise. The goblin elders would see this and appreciate it. Reafen had only ever acted in the best interests of her people — and she had taken risks none of them had even dared contemplate. Although the adventure had left her potty, she was already forgiven. In fact, in the not-too-distant future, some of the younger goblins would begin to revere her ... There would be stories. Songs. And when she finally passed on, Reafen’s narrare would hold a special place in the ice caverns.

  In the meantime, she struggled on, her Glomesh handbag slung over her elbow, large plastic baubles swinging from her earlobes. As they waded into the shallows, the Prof placed her bags in the boat. Then he turned and lifted Reafen into the boat too.

  ‘Oh!’ she said gratefully as he sc
ooped her up. She threw her arms around his neck and fluttered her lashes like a Hollywood starlet. ‘Are you seeing anyone?’ she asked coyly.

  The Prof laughed. ‘No, Reafen,’ he said. ‘I only have eyes for you.’

  Martha grinned, not only because this was funny but because it was true. The Prof had told her so last night. The thing with the colleague had not worked out and the Prof had made a decision: he was taking a long break from ‘all that dating stuff’ ... That way of life, it had never suited him anyway.

  ‘Barney,’ said the Donut Lady softly, and Barney stepped forward. Regal the monkey sat on his shoulder, gibbering happily, revelling in the care of its new owner.

  ‘Take good care,’ said the Donut Lady, and to everyone’s surprise her eyes glistened with tears. She had been thrilled at the idea of returning to the Old Realm — especially in the hands of such skilled guides as the goblin girls. A ‘holiday of a lifetime’, she had called it. But even so, now that it was happening, a niggling sadness had settled upon her.

  Barney stroked her face tenderly. ‘You take care, you hear?’ he said. ‘Till we meet again. A deal?’

  The Donut Lady nodded and turned back to the boat.

  Angus offered her his hand — and was surprised when she took it. He hoped she didn’t expect him to lift her too ...

  She leaned on him and grunted stiffly as she climbed into the boat. ‘Ah, Reafen,’ she sighed, ‘you and me, we are a pair of old war camels ...’

  ‘Warhorses,’ said Martha. ‘You are a pair of old warhorses.’

  Angus nudged his sister.

  But the Donut Lady only laughed. ‘Look after Vlad,’ she said to Martha, and Martha nodded eagerly.

  ‘Jarly really likes him,’ she said. ‘I think they’re best friends.’

  Angus seriously doubted that. Jarly? That cat had never liked anyone. Except for an old goblin.