The Bone Quill

by Barrowman, John

  Sandie hiked her dress and her cloak up under her arms and followed Em to the top of the hill.

  ‘Em, stop!’ she hissed, when they were halfway to the top. ‘Did you hear something?’

  Em stopped and listened. She could hear the last gasp of the storm rustling through the white birch and the spindly pine trees, spraying the ground with rain from the branches when it did, and she could hear the waves crashing against the shore directly beneath them.

  ‘I don’t hear anything unusual,’ she said, taking two more steps up the hillside.

  And then she did. A low, feral growling.

  ‘What is that?’

  Sandie looked pale. ‘I don’t know … but faster, Em. Faster.’

  When they reached the place where Matt and Simon were crouched behind thick briar bushes, they were breathless, and the hem of Sandie’s dress was filthy.

  ‘Did you hear the growling?’ Simon asked.

  Em and Sandie nodded.

  ‘Why did we have to get out of the monastery so fast?’ asked Matt, as Sandie ripped the bottom half of her dress away so that she could move her legs more easily.

  ‘The Abbot is afraid the rebel monks may be taking over the monastery tonight.’

  ‘You mean like a coup?’ asked Matt.

  Sandie nodded. ‘The Abbot told us to hide in one of the empty cottages on the other side of the island, but I think we need to return to the present. Get Renard’s advice. Figure out what to do next. We’re not prepared to take this on if the rebel monks already have the quill.’

  ‘Did you ask the Abbot about getting the quill and the book off the island?’ asked Simon, using the opera glasses Duncan had given them to scan the dark monastery and its outer buildings tucked in the forest beneath them.

  ‘He was retrieving the quill from its hiding place when he discovered a murdered monk.’

  Another keening howl, a blood-curdling sound, shook the ground beneath them. Em screamed. Matt scowled at her, then looked down at the monastery buildings.

  Two black double-headed hellhound gargoyles were growing out from the monastery wall in a strobe of white light. Two monks stood illuminated on the nearest parapet, one in a stunning purple robe and the other in a plain brown sackcloth cassock. Both had their cowls over their heads, the wind from the passing storm barely shifting the cloth.

  With bone-chilling howls, the hellhounds wrenched themselves from the stone and headed directly towards the twins, Sandie and Simon. ‘Run!’ screamed Sandie.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  The hounds galloped up the hillside, their grotesque heads more mountain lion than dog, the scent of Animare sending them into a frenzy. Their paws slapped the ground like drums of war, and their sabre teeth snapped loud enough to rustle starlings and cormorants from the trees. Their nostrils flared smoke, their eyes burned, and their black coats trailed white-hot flames.

  The four of them sprinted down the other side of the hill, Matt in the lead, Simon close by, and Em and Sandie directly behind them.

  ‘Get out the drawing of Duncan’s tapestry, Matt,’ yelled Sandie. ‘When you and Simon get to the beach, tear yours up.’

  Matt lost his footing so many times, he gave up and gave in to gravity, sliding down through the undergrowth, branches smacking at his face when he couldn’t duck fast enough.

  Sandie and Em were holding hands, balancing each other against the rough terrain. Sandie’s dress caught on a buried tree branch, slowing the two of them even more.

  ‘Can’t we draw something?’ screamed Em.

  ‘No time, Em,’ her mum panted. ‘Those beasts are coming too fast.’

  The hellhounds broke through the line of trees at the top of the hill. Pausing for a beat at the cusp of the hill, they raised their steaming snouts into the cold wind, letting out a keening howl that carried forever in the wind, as they caught the scent of their terrified prey.

  Matt was ahead of everyone. He turned in time to see the lead hound pounce into the air, its body the size of a Siberian tiger.

  Em! Look out!

  Em let go of her mum’s hand, whipped the knife Duncan had given her from the band of her tunic and pivoted on the rocky ground just as the beast came down on top of her. Squeezing her eyes closed, Em lunged, shoving the blade deep into its chest. Instead of the animation exploding in light and colour, the hellhound fractured into shards that froze above Em’s head for a second and then began to reassemble.

  Neither Em nor Sandie waited to see the result. Sandie grabbed Em’s hand and dragged her on down the hillside.

  ‘Don’t look back!’ yelled Simon to Matt. ‘Keep going!’

  Em couldn’t help it. She turned and saw the reformed hellhound flying over the undergrowth again with every leap and bound. Her heart was racing, her face bleeding from whipping branches. Her legs were like rubber.

  She wasn’t going to make it.

  ‘Whose animation is this?’ Matt shouted at Simon.

  ‘I don’t know!’ yelled Simon.

  The second hellhound had taken a liking to Matt. It was almost running parallel with him, its two heads cocked as if taunting Matt with its speed, the flames from its back searing Matt’s tunic. Up ahead, Matt spotted a narrow path through a copse of hawthorn trees. If he hit the incline correctly, he could kick-flip over the undergrowth and gain a little distance.

  Matt squeezed his eyes closed and thought of the incline as his skateboard. He hit the hard ground and went into a tight flip, somersaulting over the brush and landing on his feet on the hard sand, seconds before the hound. Simon broke through the woods a few metres further down the hill, sprinting over the rocks towards Matt.

  On the hillside, Sandie and Em were trying desperately to get to the beach. Simon’s hand was already gripping Matt’s arm. Matt had his drawing out, ready to tear it up. The hound was readying itself to pounce on both of them.

  And then, out of the darkness, from the Abbot’s tower came a volley of fiery arrows slicing through the sky towards Matt and Simon. Simon shoved Matt to the ground, throwing himself on top of him. Two arrows, one splitting the shaft of the other, pierced Simon’s shoulder, the flames collapsing into ash when they hit Simon’s back.

  ‘Tear up your drawing, Matt!’ screamed Sandie, a hundred yards behind them. ‘We’ll be right behind you!’

  Blood was gushing from Simon’s shoulder.

  ‘I’ll be okay, Matt,’ gasped Simon, calming the boy’s terror. ‘When we get home, the arrows will vanish.’

  ‘What about the wound?’

  ‘A few stitches will sort it. Do what your mum says. We need to get back to the Abbey. Em and your mum will follow us.’

  The hound now stood on four massive, flaming paws on a flat rock in front of Matt. Thick green spit frothed from its two mouths, flying at Simon and Matt. When a blob hit Matt’s arm, it burned into his skin. Matt yelped and ripped it off, noticing a puddle-shaped tattoo of green left on his bleeding arm.

  The other hound was at Em’s heels, its hot breath singeing her ankles, sabre teeth snagging the skin on her leggings. Em’s legs were cramping as she raced onwards. She was really not going to make it. She tried to swallow back her tears, but they came anyway.

  Sandie’s drawing was inside the bodice of her dress. She pulled it out, waving at Matt that she was ready.

  ‘Tear up your drawing!’ she screamed at Matt again. ‘We’ll follow with ours. When you get to 1848, use the picture in the skull’s mouth to get home. Don’t worry about us.’

  Sandie knew the picture she’d painted to take her to 1848 in the first place was still in Fox’s studio.

  The two-headed hound snapped at the back of Em’s legs, taking a chunk out of her calf. She dropped to her knees in pain, sliding forward on her stomach.

  Their panicked running had shifted them away from the beach, and the ground was rising again. A rocky cliff-edge lay ahead of them. Em pushed her mother violently over the top.

  Matt, tear up your picture, DO IT!

  S
imon grabbed the drawing from Matt’s hands and tore it up.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  The Abbey

  Present Day

  Simon and Matt skated along a shimmering wave of light from the still-life into the Abbey library. Simon landed clumsily on his side. The wound on his back was still bleeding, but the animated arrows had vanished. Matt managed to land on his feet, took three hops and slammed into two chairs.

  Renard, Jeannie and Zach were sitting at the fire, all three dozing, wrapped in their dressing gowns and pyjamas, their feet resting on the hearth. Jeannie bolted up and dashed from the library in search of her first-aid kit.

  ‘Thank God you’re all okay—’ Renard’s voice changed. ‘Where’s Em?’

  Simon was staggering to his feet when Matt charged at him, screaming and knocking him back against a table.

  ‘You left them! How could you leave them!’ He pounded on Simon’s chest, worsening the wound on his back. Simon grabbed Matt’s wrists as the boy yelled again. ‘And you tore up the picture in the skull’s mouth!’

  ‘Your mum is with Em, Matt. We were about to be mauled to death! You heard your mother – there’s another picture they can use to get home. Look at me, son—’

  ‘I’m not your son,’ yelled Matt. ‘If I was, then maybe you wouldn’t have left your daughter behind!’

  ‘Where is Em?’ Zach signed urgently.

  ‘He left them. He left them! Simon tore up my drawing. I could feel that Em wasn’t coming. I sensed she was not coming,’ Matt wailed. ‘He left Mum there, too.’

  Renard’s eyes widened in shock. With a gasp, Jeannie stopped at the door, her hands full of medical supplies.

  ‘Turns out Sandie shares the twins’ ability to time-travel through paintings.’ Simon coughed, doubling over in pain. ‘She’s been hiding out in 1848 with Fox, travelling with him to the Abbey in the Middle Ages to find the rest of The Book of Beasts and the bone quill. She was hoping that the Abbot …’

  Simon slumped against Renard and passed out.

  ‘I need to go back,’ said Matt, frantically looking around for paper and a pencil. ‘We can’t leave them there. Rebel monks have taken control of the islands. They need my help!’

  Zach grabbed Matt’s shoulders and forced him on to a chair. Matt slumped where he sat, head in his hands, finally too exhausted to argue or fight any more. He started laughing instead.

  Outside, the rain and wind pelted against the tall windows as if the storm had followed them across the centuries, while Renard and Jeannie helped the semi-conscious Simon up the stairs to bed. The security spotlights were flooding the grounds, white-capped waves crashing on to the beach. The island’s protective shield turned the water into silver, white and black ink, dripping down the wall like a Jackson Pollock painting.

  Matt was still laughing.

  ‘What the hell’s so funny?’ Zach signed, angry and upset.

  ‘The burn on my arm! How do I explain to a doctor that I’ve been gobbed on by a myth?’ Matt finally got a frantic grip on himself. ‘We need to go back, Zach. Hollow Earth will open if the rebel monks also get their hands on The Book of Beasts. Em and Mum can’t be there when that happens.’

  ‘Matt, you’re exhausted,’ Renard observed, coming back into the room. ‘Simon’s shoulder is wounded and Zach is in no position to go on his own. Jeannie’s talents are not only in her cooking. She trained as a nurse many years ago. She’ll stitch up Simon’s wound and then fix up your burn as good as new. I promise. Then you need to heal, and we need to prepare ourselves. Now that we know what we’re up against, we can prepare.’

  FORTY-NINE

  Half an hour later, Jeannie marched into the kitchen in her blood-spattered dressing gown with Simon’s soiled T-shirt in her hands. She tossed the shirt into the laundry basket.

  ‘Your father will be fine, Zach,’ she signed, as Zach filled the kettle. ‘A cup of tea would be grand, son, but first let’s look at that injury of yours, Matt.’

  Matt shifted off the corner of the couch to let Jeannie sit close to the hearth. The Abbey may have been updated and modernized down the years, but underneath all the caulk and central heating it was still a big draughty old castle in its bones. He held out his injured arm for Jeannie to examine.

  ‘That’s nasty,’ said Jeannie at last. ‘Burning saliva from a hellhound, I’ll warrant?’

  Matt shrugged. Jeannie put her warm, calloused hand on his knee. ‘Son, I know you’re hurting, but your grandpa is right. None of you is in any condition tonight to charge back into the Middle Ages.’

  After Matt’s wound was dressed, Jeannie took off her slippers, holding her thick-stockinged feet as close to the flames as she could without melting her toes.

  ‘How bad is Dad, Jeannie?’ signed Zach.

  ‘He’ll be fine. I’ve given him something to help him sleep, so he’ll be out for a while. I’ve stitched up the wound.’ She reached into her dressing gown pocket and pulled out a plastic bag. ‘But I thought you might like to have this.’

  She handed a segment of a flint arrowhead to Zach.

  ‘Thanks.’ Looking sick, Zach stared at the thing that had come centimetres from stealing his dad from him. Then, putting it down on the table, he went to the cooker to silence the keening kettle.

  Matt picked up the sharpened flint. ‘How can this have remained, if the arrows disappeared?’

  ‘I don’t know, Matt,’ Renard admitted. ‘I’ve never experienced anything like it.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Jeannie, setting out the milk and sugar, ‘it’s the combination of being caught in Simon’s shoulder and the power of the weans’ time-travel abilities.’

  Renard, Jeannie and Matt launched into a discussion of time-travel and its many unknowns. Zach was still dealing with the kettle. Matt switched off and thought about what might be happening to his mum and Em. The longer he sat in front of this cosy hearth in comfort and safety, the deeper his worries grew. He felt sick.

  ‘Calm yourself, my boy,’ said Renard softly.

  Matt knew he was being inspirited but he was too tired to resist. Besides, his Guardian abilities did not yet equal his powers as an Animare. But before his rage had completely evaporated, he had one last thought.

  If they wouldn’t help him save Em and his mum, he’d find someone who would.

  FIFTY

  Much later that night, Matt lay awake in bed. The shadows on the ceiling were mocking him. No matter which way he looked, he could see Em in the shapes darting across his bedroom wall, and he could see his mum in the elongated figures folded in the swaying curtains. Pulling the duvet over his head, he squeezed his eyes closed.

  It didn’t help.

  His arm throbbed with every toss and turn. It was inevitable that the hellhounds had caught his mum and Em. Perhaps even torn them to pieces. Even if they had survived, the monks had them now. What would they do to them?

  Matt kicked off the duvet. He was too hot. He was too tired. He was too tense. He dragged his hands through his hair, rubbing at the sharp pain behind his eyes. Then he climbed from his bed and pulled open the curtains.

  The lawn was brightly lit by the security lights, while the pulsing light from the tower on Era Mina flashed across the rest of the island’s wind-blown landscape. The rain had stopped, but the wind was howling, battering the small island with waves.

  Is it stormy where you are, Em?

  His twin sister loved nights like this. She would listen to the crashing sea, imagining the waves rising up as beautiful sirens calling to her. Matt swiped his hand across his eyes. He would not cry.

  He went over to the desk where he’d left his sketchpad and folder stuffed with a couple of the old maps and ancient prints that he’d been looking at in the library before they’d gone into the still-life.

  Switching on his desk lamp, Matt sat and flipped through the folder with the maps and sketches. He noticed one that he hadn’t paid much attention to before. It looked like a set of plans for the construction of the mo
nastery and its catacombs.

  Dragging the light closer, he knocked over his parents’ wedding photograph, which he kept framed on his desk. He set it carefully upright again. Then he turned back to the drawing.

  He traced his fingers along the smudged ink lines of the catacombs running beneath the monastery, noticing that the tunnels formed an Apostles’ cross with soft clover-leaf shapes at the end of each arm. Matt guessed that one of those clover-leaves had held the crypt where the Abbot had discovered the murdered monk and the loss of the quill.

  The main tunnel started from the south wing of the Abbey, which had been converted in the last twenty years to a swimming pool. It passed under the lawn and the main part of the building, ending beneath Renard’s tower at another clover-leaf that today, Matt knew, held the art vault.

  An idea began to form. He took the plans of the tunnels and climbed back into his bed to think it through. Suddenly, thoughts of rescuing his mother and sister changed from an abstract notion to a tangible plan.

  FIFTY-ONE

  The Monastery of Era Mina

  Middle Ages

  The hellhound sat back on its massive haunches, taking the position it normally held on the monastery’s balustrade. Its steaming breath smelled of rotten eggs and burnt leaves, its inky black coat covered in a sticky tar-like substance. The hound bared both sets of sabre teeth at Em, a growl rising from deep in its body.

  As soon as she felt in her mind that Matt had torn up the drawing, Em had thrown herself into a hollowed-out tree and shimmied her back up against the curving shell of the trunk, her knees pulled up to her chin. The hellhound made no attempt to reach its massive paw into the hole and drag her out.

  ‘Em! Can you hear me?’ called Sandie hysterically. She had scrambled free from the bracken that had cushioned her fall and was running back up the hill. ‘The others have gone! The hound that was chasing them has gone, too!’