I turned it over and over in my hands. (“Oh, wow! A baby stone carrot. Why can’t she give me a CD, like other moms?”) I know nothing of fossils, it has to be said. But when I held it in my hands, I knew this must be it.
Not a fossil at all. Just something that Mom thought was a fossil, all those weeks ago before she’d got caught up in all of this. A tooth, a long fang, encrusted with tiny sea crustaceans and stuff from many years under the ocean.
But I didn’t have time for this! Hurry, Jess, hurry! I put the relic in my pocket and thought of what Epsilon had just said. “The cave of the second bird.”
As I tore the papers out of my jeans pocket—the star chart and the map—I heard something that made me whirl around in fright. A scream—Mom’s scream. A shrill, alone, terrified scream. It rang in my head; it hadn’t come from nearby, I was sure of that. And a dim crashing, like water falling from a great height. It smashed into the room, and her scream echoed round and round, like she was inside an enormous cave. Then it was gone. I knew with great certainty that that falling water was the sound Mom was hearing at this very minute. A wild, dangerous sound.
The sick feeling came back. My hands began to tremble. I felt like I was cracking open, splitting in two. As I smoothed out the star chart and stared at it, my chin started wobbling.
Don’t cry! Stop it! Get on with it!
The riddle. Go back to the riddle. The one that had led me to the first cave when I laid the chart over the map.
The Riddle of the Two
At the feathered head,
I hang my bed.
At the feathered breast,
An ancient rest.
At the feathered wing,
The whale doth sing.
Right. It was called “The Riddle of THE TWO.” Two kinds of feathered birds. Two constellations on the star chart. Cygnus and Aquila. Two birds. The eagle and the swan. So maybe—two caves.
And when I laid the star chart over the map again, I saw them at once—the points of the map that lay underneath Cygnus. Cygnus this time—not Aquila.
“At the feathered head, I hang my bed.” Let’s see, let’s see. The swan’s head lined up with . . . Milton House. Where Milton C. Parker had his bed. But why “I hang my bed”? Hammocks again? Noooo. How about . . . the hanging garden? Yes!
I thought of the hanging flower bed that Milton C. Parker had made long ago, swaying on its verdigris chains in the Italian arbor. Not a bed bed at all—a flower bed. Another point on the map that fitted.
So. Next?
“At the feathered breast, an ancient rest.” The Miradel! The folly, which Milton C. Parker built on an old, old site and was now buried near. “An ancient rest!” Not a stone seat or anything else you take a temporary rest on. A grave—a place to lie down forever.
And finally “At the feathered wing, the whale doth sing.” A cave was marked on the map—under the very tip of the swan’s wing.
It was just behind Coscoroba Rock—the cave where Mom was! At the end of Long Beach, in the bay marked with whales. The place the whales used to come. Not a blowhole in a rock, like at the last cave. A cave in the actual bay that used to be visited by real whales and dolphins and porpoises.
As I straightened up, Domino ran to the window and began to bark furiously.
I heard it, too—the sound of a great bird, crying on the wing. I ran out into the garden and stared up.
A swan was flying over the cottage. Just one black swan, her wings lit up by the moon.
She was flying steadily toward Long Beach.
I left the house running.
Chapter Twenty-five
MY DIARY—FINDING MOM
The thin sea drizzle had stopped. Now the moon bathed the whole of Long Beach silver. It all lay before me: the long bite of sand, the surf churning madly, the fires, reduced now to red embers.
As I ran on, the darkness thickened. Clouds were rushing toward the moon, engulfing it. Just before the moon was covered, I saw them, far out to sea. The swans were flying. Hundreds of them, silent, wheeling in a great circle over the black water.
By the time I got to the last fire, the moon was totally covered. It was too dark to see. I shone my flashlight all around.
Nothing. Nobody there. Just Domino, snuffling in the seaweed. And Coscoroba Rock, sticking out into the sea. According to the map, the cave was somewhere behind this rock, in the main cliff face.
Frantically I flashed my light all over the base of the cliff. Nothing. The face of the rock was solid. I raised my flashlight higher.
The only thing visible was a small dark gash about ten feet up the cliff face. It couldn’t be that—it was far too slender to get into, surely? But I had to try—there was nothing else at all.
I went to the base of the cliff and put the flashlight strap between my teeth. Then, with it swinging madly, I began to climb. Domino stood at the bottom and whined up at me. Up and up I went, until I got to the slim aperture.
Now that I was there, I could see it was just possible to squeeze in. But I really, really didn’t want to go in there. Because this wasn’t any ordinary cave, I knew. This was the same cave Sebastian’s mama had wandered into and never come out of. The same cave Mom must have been drawn toward, several hours ago now, alone and confused and in that strange, half-asleep state.
But just then, a cry came from over the sea. The swans were no longer silent and circling. They turned as I watched them—flew honking and calling, straight toward Coscoroba Rock.
The swans were coming.
I hung on to that cliff, mesmerized as they flew closer and closer. Then I turned sideways and shouldered my way in.
A small entrance. A smelly tunnel. The beam of my flashlight lit it up, but I couldn’t see the end. I set off down it, slipping in the slime.
It went on and on, curving and turning this way and then that. It was like being inside a huge black shell. It was very cold. The farther I walked, the icier the air became. And the farther in I went, the worse I felt.
It wasn’t just how cold I was. My teeth were chattering uncontrollably; I was still soaked to the skin, the legs of my jeans wet through from the last cave. But it wasn’t just that. There was a horrible feeling emanating from somewhere in front of me. A feeling of menace, of evil. It grew and grew until I had to fight the urge to turn and run away.
I walked forever down that revolting tunnel.
After a while I could hear water. But not trickling water, or that constant, steady dripping. Falling water, somewhere ahead—a huge, steady splashing that grew clearer as I walked.
Until finally the tunnel widened out, far ahead. Beyond it I saw a gleam of silver.
I crept, very quietly now, down the last of the tunnel. Then I peered out and sagged back against the rock in shock.
It was a cavern—breathtakingly big. I inched forward onto a small rocky beach that led to a flat, silver expanse. My light bounced off the surface of a huge lake, eerily flat and still. It covered the entire floor of the cavern.
But at the far back of the cavern, I found the source of that splashing sound. A waterfall, pouring out from somewhere near the top of the cave. A wide ribbon of silver against the black rock, and at its feet the water of the lake frothed and foamed in a great semicircle.
Yet the rest of the lake was oddly still, with a faint light glowing in the middle of it. The only other light was a dim blue haze—like moonlight. But there couldn’t be moonlight in a subterranean cave, surely?
Awed, I shone the flashlight around—caught sight of something twining round the cavern walls. Steps. Steps that began just behind me, I could see now. Hewn into the rock, they went round and round the cavern. I followed the curve of them with my light. Higher and higher they rose.
Finally, right at the very top, the natural rock of the cavern stopped.
But the steps went on.
In a smaller, tighter coil, the steps climbed up the inner walls of a curved structure. Round and round it they went, until—barely visib
le at the very top—they leveled out into a narrow parapet running all around.
At four points along this parapet were dark shapes jutting out—the backs of stones on which four gargoyles were built. I could even see the faint glow where starlight shone through the open mouths. And in the center, like one big eye, a perfectly round circle of the night sky, with the moon framed right in the middle of it.
I was underneath the Miradel.
Now I could see why the Eye of Miradel (whoever he is) would use this tower to watch from. Its four gargoyles pointed to each point of the compass—north, south, east, and west. But it wasn’t just the gargoyles that could look out. From the narrow parapet running all around, anyone could stand and peep through the open mouths of the gargoyles themselves. One to watch over the western sea. One to watch over Milton House. One to watch over Coscoroba Rock. And one to watch over our land.
As I realized this, words came skidding back into my head—words spoken by the doctor, weeks ago now. That day when I’d been sick, and he’d first seen the bucket. “Meanwhile, young lady—no more running about these cliffs in the dead heat, eh? This is a heat wave, Jessica. Even in the early morning, you have to respect it.”
How could he possibly have known that I went down to the cottage so early in the mornings? Not even Mom and Dad knew that! There was only one way he could have known. If he had been watching me.
As I stared up at that small circle of the night sky way above my head, I saw that from down here, it was an eye to the stars. But from up there, standing on the parapet, it was an eye into this subterranean cavern. The Eye of Miradel—able to see the earth, the heavens, and the underworld.
Quickly I shone my light back at ground level.
There was something unsettling about such silver water under that black roof. Something unearthly. A stench rose up from it, of decay and fungus, of dead things steadily rotting.
Creeping forward at last, I peered at the faint light in the middle of the lake.
Was it—Mom’s oil lamp? It was! Mom’s oil lamp that she used on her midnight walks to the shore. It was perched alone, on a flat rock in the middle of the lake. It sent out a brave little circle of light.
In the circle I could see other stones, stretching across the water. Flat stepping-stones. They led from where I stood all the way across to the center of the waterfall. But the reason I was standing in shock, staring at the stepping-stones, was the fact that they were no longer empty.
My flashlight moved around from stone to stone. A swan now stood on each rock. But the swans weren’t preening and fussing and dabbling and doing the things swans normally do. They were standing very still, looking my way. There was an air of expectancy, of tension, of something long waited for. Minutes passed, but I just waited. I was unnerved by those silent swans. But I sensed that soon, something would happen. And it did.
A faint silver light began to glow behind the waterfall. Slightly to the right of the wide ribbon of water, the light shimmered and grew. The waterfall lit up with thousands of sparkling blue gleams. As it did, it was as if the whole sheet of falling water became sleek and clear. As if the waterfall itself was a screen—a thin, moving window. Behind the sheet of silver, something unearthly began to take form. I watched as it grew clearer. Until finally I could see through the water to what it was.
A woman stood there.
A beautiful woman. The most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my life.
Her hair was pale and lit all over with tiny white-blue flowers woven in. She wore a gown of silver and gray, the colors of sea with starlight on it. In the palms of her hands, the light shone from something pale she was holding. It looked like a white shell, all laid in coils. The unearthly flame shone out through this. It lit up her face, and I began to shake all over.
But not with fear exactly—no one could be truly scared of her, no one. For her face held the sweetest expression I have ever seen. The most loving of faces. And her eyes—they shone violet in the light of the flame. With a look of infinite tenderness, she smiled down on me.
“Welcome, my child,” she said, and her voice set something in motion inside me—something good and true, something wild and musical. “I am here to protect your mother. My name is Yolandë.”
The echoes in the cave said, “Yolandë-andë-andë.”
“My—my mother? Where is she?” I said.
But it came out as a whisper. I couldn’t talk properly, couldn’t take my eyes off her.
As if in reply, small gleams appeared on the ground. Small specks of light, they shot away from me toward the dark water. They glowed faintly. I recognized them at once.
Shells. A row of tiny shells, all lined up.
They led from my feet to the lake. They led all the way across the stepping-stones, between the feet of each swan and on. Right to the waterfall.
As I stared down at those shells gleaming so oddly, I knew the light they reflected was not from this world. And I knew suddenly that Epsilon was right—we are surrounded by things we do not know or see or understand. Others live in our world, as well as people. Others live here, too, all around us. Dark Beings. Bright Beings.
As soon as this thought came, I heard them—their voices, whispering in the dark. Many voices, some whispering and some singing, but very far away, as if heard through many layers of rock. Sweet voices, voices I wanted to listen to.
“Who are they?” I gasped.
“Do you not recognize the song?” she said.
Words came and went—jumbled words, all mixed up. Silvered choices. Catted night. Plumes of princes. North, south, east, and west. Lemon Squire. And music—strange, wild music that seeped into me and made me glad and dizzy.
“The Ballad of Yolandë.” At last I was hearing the tune! I wanted it to go on and on. But it stopped, all too soon.
“Where’s my mother?”
“She lies buried.”
“BURIED!”
I shouted it out, and my voice rang round and round. Buried, buried, buried! From up in the darkness above my head, a sudden flapping, a huge, noisy whirring of wings. One feather drifted down. A white feather. I shone my flashlight up and screamed.
Swans were pouring through the top of the Miradel.
Dozens of white swans, hundreds of them. They flew through the gaping circle and down, to come to rest on the upper steps spiraling round the cavern. More and more came pouring through the dark circle and flew circling down. Until all the upper steps were lined with swans. They landed, flapped their wings, then went still.
The beam of my flashlight lit them up, a ghostly white. Silent, strangely still swans, they stretched their long necks down and stared at me. The thought of them standing in rows up there made me tremble.
“Shh!” said Yolandë, and she pressed her finger to her beautiful lips. “Your mother lies buried in a dark sleep. The sleep is taking her deeper and deeper away. For the Dark Beings want her dead.”
“Mom? Mom!” I yelled.
“She cannot hear you. She will wake only when she has the relic. Then she will be safe again.”
“Where is she buried?”
Through the shimmering water, I watched her graceful arm gesture.
“She is here. Right next to me.”
I came alive then, plunged my hand into my pocket. My fingers folded round the relic. I held it out toward the waterfall, yelled.
“It’s here, Mom! I’ve found it! The relic is here!”
“She cannot hear you,” she said. “You must bring it to her. Then you can lead her safely out again.”
Through the ethereal screen of water I saw her hold out her hand toward me. I looked at her hand—slender, pale, the hand of a musician, fingers that could take up a harp and play lovely music. Then that music began to rise. That unearthly music! It radiated from her, swelled out and out. That music—oh! Delicate music like the wind in pipes, like a sea breeze thrumming strings. And all the time, Yolandë stared down at me with love in her face.
All
the trust I have ever felt rose up in me then.
She was here to protect Mom.
She was the most beautiful thing I ever saw.
I wanted that love in her eyes.
I moved forward to the edge of the water and looked down. The swans on all their stones just moved their heads slightly, to follow me with their eyes. The stepping-stones stretched out before me, flat and large.
But I was scared of the swans. Swans are territorial, aren’t they? They attack people who come too close. But the thought of Mom buried behind the waterfall was an even scarier thought.
I stepped onto the first stone. The swan on it slipped into the water at once. But it didn’t swim away. It stayed there, watching me. Nervously I stepped onto the next stone. And the next. And the next.
Each time I stepped onto a stone, the swan standing on it glided silently into the water to join the other swans there. As I moved forward, all the swans swam together, quietly, keeping pace with me as I stepped right into the middle of the lake.
Finally I stepped onto the center stone. Mom’s little lamp looked alone and feeble on it. But when I picked it up, it was as if it was a signal, a trigger. That familiar crackling returned, that sharp energy in the air. And when I looked up, someone else was there in the cave.
A figure had appeared to the left of the waterfall.
A man, standing high up, in the shadows.
A tall man in dark clothing. His clothes shimmered as he moved.
“Epsilon?” I whispered.
“It is I,” he said. “You have a choice to make. I am here to guide you.”
Yolandë did not even look at him. She just went on gazing down at me.
“He will guide you to your death!” she said. “He is a Dark Being. But I will protect you from him. Come.”
“Epsilon? A Dark Being?”
“Look closer!” she said, and she raised her hands so that the flame lit him up fully.
The Riddles of Epsilon Page 18