So far, he felt as if he’d done everything holding his breath, afraid he’d make a mistake and lose his chance.
The wind had picked up, bringing squalls of rain across the bay. Matt fastened his parka and pulled on a black hat. He shoved his hands in his pockets, finding a pair of fingerless gloves and pulling them on.
You’re stalling, Matt Calder, he thought to himself.
The next part of his plan was the part that scared him most of all. Stealing the painting from the vault had been easy. He had known what to expect and done his research in preparation. To unbind his dad from a painting was another task all together.
To bind someone in a painting called for the combined powers of both Animare and Guardian. It was a safe guess to assume that both were needed to achieve the reverse as well. Matt was starting to doubt he was powerful enough to pull it off on his own.
Stop dwelling on failure. You’re better and stronger than that, he thought.
He could feel the intensity of the painting throbbing against his back, where it was tucked inside his rucksack. He would succeed. He’d free his dad, and together they would rescue Sandie and Em. Then they could be a family again.
A family.
Pulling the rucksack tighter on his shoulders, Matt jogged down towards the bay.
At the end of the jetty, he unknotted the tether on the Abbey’s rowing boat, climbed aboard and pushed it away from the dock. He pulled his sketchpad from his front pocket. Closing his eyes for a second, concentrating on the lines and the shading of his drawing, he let his imagination and his fingers take over.
A lantern flared into life on the prow of the boat. Grabbing the oars from under the seat, Matt shoved them one at a time through the rowlocks and began to row towards the smaller island of Era Mina.
From the long tower window, Renard lifted his binoculars, scanning the lawn, the stables, the pool wing and the jetty, and then out across the bay. Zach was doing the same from the front windows, scanning the edge of the thick woods that created a natural barrier between the Abbey and the main road around the island. There was no sign of Matt anywhere.
Renard tapped Zach on the shoulder. ‘Did you lock up the rowing boat after you and the twins last used it?’
‘I think so,’ replied Zach cautiously. He wasn’t sure he had remembered to lock up the boat at all.
Renard looked out at the bay again. The moon was hidden behind a bank of heavy clouds spitting rain on the island and fogging up the tower windows. The bay was a band of black water, with only the distant lights on the islands of Arran and Bute giving the scene any perspective.
‘Go and activate the lighthouse on Era Mina, Zach,’ said Renard. ‘The switch is in the boathouse. If Matt’s taken to the water, we can use the light to try to track him.’
As Zach darted from the room, Renard kept scanning the water, back and forth, concentrating on any change in the waves and shifts in the moonlit shadows.
Where are you, Matt? he thought. Where are you?
Then Renard saw it – a glowing silver thread of light floating ethereally across the water.
‘Got you,’ he said, dropping his binoculars to his chest in relief. ‘You can’t hide an animation from me, son.’
Matt was having a difficult time keeping on course, what with the wind, the rain and the building anxiety about what he was about to do. He was under no illusion that his grandfather would be tracking him. But if his plan worked, he’d be back in the Middle Ages before Renard discovered where he had gone.
Matt tore up the sketch of the lantern, shoving the pieces into his pocket with the other scraps. As the boat hit ground, he jumped out and dragged it up on to the rocky beach, stabbing its iron anchor into the sand. Then he dodged as fast as he could across the wet rocks, concentrating on his footing.
He was counting on the fact that he couldn’t hide an animation from his grandfather.
SIXTY-TWO
The kitchen was buzzing with activity when Renard ran in to grab his raincoat and boots, despite it being three o’clock in the morning. Jeannie hadn’t returned to bed. A roaring fire was blazing in the hearth, the kettle was whistling, Jeannie was making toast, and Zach was buttering it with a mug of hot chocolate topped with melting marshmallows set in front of him. A swoosh of light from the Era Mina lighthouse was beaming across the lawn every three minutes.
Simon suddenly marched into the kitchen, dressed in his rain gear.
‘What are you doing out of bed?’ Renard asked with surprise.
‘You need me,’ Simon answered. His eyes were still heavy with sleep, the cut above his eye a rainbow of blues, pinks and yellows. He held his arm stiffly.
‘Matt’s gone to Era Mina with The Demon Within,’ said Renard. ‘He’s going to try and unbind his father.’
‘I know,’ said Simon. ‘I felt the whole thing. Let’s go.’
Zach started up from the table.
Renard shook his head firmly. ‘No, Zach. Not this time.’
‘Malcolm is dangerous,’ Simon told his son. ‘Very dangerous. And if Matt manages to unbind him, Malcolm will not only be dangerous but unstable.’
‘Because he’s been bound for so long?’ prompted Zach.
Renard fastened his coat and headed to the French doors. ‘Because no one has ever been unbound and survived,’ he said.
‘Matt doesn’t know that!’ Zach signed, aghast. ‘We need to stop him.’
‘And we will,’ said Simon. ‘But you need to leave it to us.’
Jeannie walked with Simon and Renard to the doors, talking to them as she went. They had their backs to Zach, making it impossible for him to read their lips. He felt a rush of anger. They had turned away from him on purpose.
Matt lurked in the darkness until he saw Simon and Renard unlock the boathouse, pull the cover from the speedboat and shoot out into the bay towards Era Mina, with Simon behind the wheel.
Matt climbed on a jet ski he’d animated in advance, copying the design he and Em had drawn to rescue Zach in 1871. With the speedboat’s engine masking the jet ski’s roar, Matt cut through the darkness, keeping well away from Simon and Renard, back towards Auchinmurn.
He almost blew his whole plan when he crashed the jet ski on to the Auchinmurn shore faster and harder than he intended, the momentum propelling him across the boulders shored up against the tide and planting him face-down on the rocks. He lay in the cold and wet for a minute or two, suddenly feeling sorry for himself. He didn’t want to do this alone any more. He was not good alone. He needed Em. He needed someone – anyone. He needed his dad.
Climbing back on to his feet, Matt wiped the tears and the rain from his eyes and set off into the interior of the island.
Zach paced in front of the kitchen fire, his adrenalin spiking from a combination of caffeine, sugar and a large dose of irritation. Why did the adults have to treat him like such a child? He was as capable as they were, maybe more, of talking Matt out of this. They should at least have given him a chance.
He closed his eyes and stilled his breathing. It was always difficult to track Matt in his mind, but he gave it his best shot. Concentrating hard, he thought he could feel a flash of grief and emotion. Then the image of a putrid swamp glimmered through.
Zach snapped his eyes open. Matt wasn’t on Era Mina.
Sprinting into the utility room, he grabbed his parka, falling over himself as he tried to pull on his boots while hopping to the French doors.
‘Wait just one wee minute!’ said Jeannie, blocking his way. ‘Where do you think yer going?’
‘I know where he is!’ Zach signed, dropping his left boot. ‘By the time my dad and Renard figure out that Matt’s tricked them, it’ll be too late. Jeannie, I’m the best possible person to talk Matt out of this. Let me go!’
He put his hand on Jeannie’s forearm and held her gaze, concentrating, drawing her distress and her determination from her, absorbing her feelings in his own psyche the way he had been learning from his dad. When he believe
d he had inspirited her enough to make his escape, he lifted his hand away.
He had hardly taken two steps when Jeannie’s hand shot out and grabbed him again.
‘I’m chuffed that ye thought you could persuade me with your abilities, but you forget I’ve been running this place since yer dad was a wean, and you’re still not going anywhere.’
Zach slumped on to the couch, angry and frustrated, and watched Jeannie answer the phone. When she hung up, she lifted her own coat from its peg and her orange safety vest, pulled on her boots and waved Zach to the door.
‘That was your dad,’ said Jeannie. ‘You were right. Matt tricked them and he seems to have done something to the petrol tank on the boat. They’re stuck on Era Mina. I’m taking the small fishing boat over wi’ some petrol and you’ve to go find Matt.’ She leaned close to Zach. ‘Yer dad says under no circumstances are you to do anything other than try to stop him from unbinding his dad. Promise?’
Nodding emphatically, Zach pulled open the French doors.
Jeannie put her hand on Zach’s shoulder. ‘We need to know where Matt is,’ she said gently.
Zach looked at Jeannie. ‘He’s gone to Skinner’s Bog.’
SIXTY-THREE
The rain was making progress difficult. Every three or four steps Matt made, he’d slip back another two or three. When the climb became so steep that he was going backwards more than forwards, he got on his hands and knees and battled onwards on all fours. He felt acutely grateful for the head torch that he had animated.
Skinner’s Bog was high within the densest part of the forest, almost at the pinnacle of Auchinmurn Isle. Matt, Em and Zach had explored the site exhaustively over the summer, while avoiding the small patch of bog that still existed. The swamp was hidden behind the ruins of a megalith of standing stones called the Devil’s Dyke, a couple of which still remained upright.
When Matt reached the stones, he ducked behind the upright stones, pulling his binoculars from under his parka and checking to be sure he was not being followed. He had a faint, rainy view of Era Mina and the old pencil tower across the moonlit water, together with the northern side of the Abbey.
Matt moved nimbly across the planks of wood that he and Zach had put down in the summer as a makeshift bridge over the swampy ground, ducking into the opening of the only cave left exposed on the hillside. A small stone bench sat under the canopy of the rock, cut from the cave wall by one of Matt’s ancestors to enjoy the breathtaking views.
The rain had finally stopped, but the wind was blowing at gale force. Matt checked his watch. It would be daylight soon. He needed to do this while he was still under the cover of darkness.
He pulled his sketchpad and a metal biscuit tin layered with skateboard and gamer stickers from his backpack, double-checking that the painting was still secure in his pack’s inside pocket. A glimmer of yellow light spilled from the flap of the pocket.
‘Soon, Dad. Promise,’ Matt whispered.
Popping open the top of the tin, he lifted out his charcoals. Then he took the rolled-up picture from the pocket of his parka, remembering Duncan Fox’s words:
‘I myself have used the tapestry to make several painting trips. Only the other day, I found myself in an awkward situation with one of our mutual ancestors.’
Fox had made this painting on one of his medieval trips, unwittingly providing Matt with a new way into the past.
Animating through a painting was not an exact science. He worked out that this painting had actually been created a little lower down the hill. Matt hoped he wasn’t about to confront Duncan Fox as he was painting it.
Matt’s plan was to animate through the top left section of the painting, where Fox had captured the standing stones and the Devil’s Dyke in brilliant hues of brown and green. Concentrating on the bold brush strokes and sweeping lines, Matt used a blue charcoal crayon to animate the scene. He hoped he could draw on the island’s own mystical resonance at this sacred spot, near these standing stones, to amplify and boost the animation.
As soon as his fingers touched the page, a white light flooded his imagination, flaring to brilliance when he shaded the peak of the tallest standing stone.
SIXTY-FOUR
Skinner’s Bog
Auchinmurn Isle
Middle Ages
Matt shot on to the Scottish hillside in an explosion of light shavings and gold dust, as if he’d been fired from an invisible cannon. The island was shrouded in the bleak mist of early dawn, its craggy peak cloaked beneath the creeping gloom.
Unable to control his forward momentum, he hit the stony hillside hard, tumbling head first into a thick tangle of bramble bushes at the edge of the Devil’s Dyke. Scrambling to his knees, Matt crawled quickly under the cover of the thicket, glancing back to the spot that was still shimmering with a pale yellow light. He counted to three before taking a moment to breathe, settle and take stock.
Simon, Renard and Zach were all Guardians, not Animare. There was no one else who would be able to follow him through time.
Wriggling through the dense undergrowth, Matt peered out at the landscape. He had landed on the perimeter of Skinner’s Bog as he had hoped he would. In this time, it filled the entire space before him, a green, fetid marsh within the tight circle of standing stones. The stones were all the size of trees, not the least bit like the ruins of the present day.
Yanking his zip up to his chin, Matt was glad he had taken the time to dress warmly. The air was cold and damp, the fog soaking every surface around him in small drops of water.
He looked beyond the bog at the waves crashing against the rocky coastline, the monastery and its fortressed wall dominating the landscape. Beyond the wall, curling towers of smoke rose from village chimneys like grey ghosts.
Em and his mum were down there somewhere. Matt hoped they had survived the chase and had found a place to hide.
Em! Can you hear me?
Nothing.
With the rising sun came strange noises from deep within the bog, a low, guttural gurgling. It was followed by a wild, frenzied howl, like a wolf or a wild boar, then a slurping sort of swallow.
Blocking out these disturbing sounds, Matt unwrapped his mum’s copy of The Demon Within from his rucksack. The figure of the demon pulsed with more brilliance than Matt had ever seen. It looked as if it were about to burst out of the frame on its own.
Last chance to change your mind, Matt thought to himself.
Sitting cross-legged in front of the painting, he flipped open his sketchbook. Unsure what he needed to do to unbind an Animare, he thought he’d begin by copying the demon and concentrating with all the power of his imagination so that his dad would appear and not the demon itself.
Matt began to sketch, slowly at first, outlining precisely the lines of Fox’s drawing and letting the horrible demon enter his imagination and form itself, large and scaly, in the palette of his mind. Red, blue, yellow, copper and brown, curved lines, pulsing circles and sharp angles exploded in Matt’s brain. His eyes ached as if they were burning into the back of his head. He squeezed them closed.
Something deep inside Matt’s brain was calling to him, a distant voice telling him that he must keep the actual demon from animating or all would be lost. The demon was pushing against his temples. He felt its claws ripping at his flesh, trying to escape from his imagination. He had to hold it in place.
Matt was hurting. His head felt like it was about to burst.
Then he lost control of his fingers. They were skating across the page, driven by the beast within him. Matt’s eyes were on fire. The voice grew more insistent.
A minute more. A minute more.
The demon was dissolving into rainbows of light, each colour stabbing his mind like a laser. Matt’s eyes felt ten times too big for his head. He couldn’t take the pain any more. His whole being was on fire.
I’m sorry, Dad. I’m so sorry. I can’t do this alone. I need Em—
Matt’s eyes flew open. A torrent of white light po
ured from them, burning into the painting, bands of light and waves of colour expanding from the picture. Matt was thrown backwards by the force of the illumination, landing hard against one of the standing stones. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, buckling him over, gasping and choking.
Then, as if a curtain was slowly closing on his imagination, the light in Matt’s head dimmed. Before everything went black, an image tugged at his exhausted mind – something in the landscape when he’d appeared on the hillside. A mistake in his surroundings.
What had happened to the tower on Era Mina? When he’d scanned the landscape a few minutes ago, there had been no tower. No stonemasons laying stone, no campfires or boats carrying supplies back and forth. Not as it had been when he had left Em and his mother on that hillside.
Matt was too exhausted to move or to think clearly. But one thought hung in his head, as clear as a bell.
He had arrived too soon.
Then he passed out.
PART FOUR
SIXTY-FIVE
Skinner’s Bog
Auchinmurn Isle
Middle Ages
Malcolm Calder loomed over an unconscious Matt, taking a moment to process that this boy was his son. With no memory of his time locked in the painting, his body and spirit having been in a kind of pause mode, Malcolm’s mind was resetting like a video game. As he took in his surroundings, his consciousness was slowly reforming the same set of opinions, biases, ambitions and festering resentments that he had held before he had been bound.
Malcolm looked down at his shirt and his jeans. They were paint-splattered and covered in grime. Then he held his hands out in front of his face, flexing and cracking his stiff knuckles, stretching his back, twisting his head back and forth, loosening his neck muscles. Lifting his fingers to his face, he tentatively touched his cheek, feeling a furrow of unfinished flesh scoring across his eye and skating down through his cheekbone. His cheek was soft and spongy to his touch. When Malcolm stared at his fingers, they were covered in a red, gummy substance, like a melted crayon. He felt no pain – just an odd tingling sensation behind his empty eye socket.
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