by RD Le Coeur
From within the walls where I do dwell
A message to he that can read my spell
My gift to you in moonlights glade
Against all evils here is my shade
As he finished reading it out in mumbled tones, he felt a crackling in the air as if something had just occurred, but he did not know what. He looked about him but could see nothing. What the heck was that all about? He loved puzzles since he could ever remember, but riddles drove him crazy.
He wondered if there was an unriddling spell, but quickly realised how stupid that would be.
"Sunshine is that you?" came a squeaky high pitched voice that belonged to his mother.
"Yes Mum."
"What you doing home in the middle of the day?"
"Been expelled again."
"Cool," came the absent-minded reply.
What was cool about it? He knew she or his dad would say it, they always said it and about any misfortune that befell him. Like it was some God given sign that everything in the world was all right. He quickly concealed his book and the bottle before anyone else could see it. He pushed the riddle into his pocket to read again later when he was alone.
Tea was as normal, extremely late. It was the usual mixture of various vegetarian dishes cooked over the open camp fire since spring had come. Winter had brought the almost perpetual diet of stews and soda bread. His Mother was an excellent baker of bread, although some of the seeds she used to coat the crust had weird flavours and stuck in your teeth. Some made you go to the toilet on a much more regular basis, which was a pain. Winter nights were long and with no telly, and only an ancient battery driven cassette radio for entertainment, it was also a bit repetitive.
The real world mostly passed them by, here in this rural idyll, as his mum put it, and that was no mean achievement. Winter nights brought the prospect of avid reading and Sunny had built up a huge collection of books, which were strewn all around his tepee. He often went to the library and if he particularly liked a book he would look out for it at a boot sale. You could often pick one up for 5p or 10p, which suited his tight budget. He loved history and he loved puzzles. He had once bought a book of the Daily Telegraph quick crosswords that some numbskull had been unable to complete any of for 1p. Admittedly it was quite old and you needed to understand the eighties, to answer some of the clues, but it had proved an invaluable source of mental amusement for many days.
"I made more of your favourites today, Sunshine," said his Mum.
Sunny looked around for the oatmeal flapjacks made with syrup and honey that he adored. He could eat a whole biscuit tin of them in one go and often did. "I also made some parsnip crisps for you to snack on when you are reading." Ugh! thought Sunny. These were so greasy, you had to let them dry out for a day in the sun to make them edible, and then they weren't crisp. Still they were all right in a sandwich with home-made Damson jam. You couldn't taste them then. He gathered up his flapjacks and returned to his tepee. It was getting dark now and the small fire needed more fuel. He looked at his fuel stocks and they were all wet from the sea mist and because he had been caught up with the riddle he had not thought to bring some in for later. He sneaked to his parents stash under the tarpaulin and robbed a few decent dry logs. It was naughty, and as he was personally charged with supplying his own fuel, he knew he would have to replace them. It was one thing that was not 'cool' in his Dad's eyes.
He put the logs on the fire, lit his candles and settled down with his riddle. He often collected washed up bottles on the seashore and examined them for messages. Some were stupid and had been thrown in for a laugh; some read like suicide notes from desperate people, and then there was this one which had him puzzled. It was the first one ever that had him stumped, and the evident ancient nature of it had his brain working overtime. Where did it come from he wondered? Taking the flask up in his hand again he searched the outer surface for clues. He could see none. A magnifying glass was the answer, he thought, and embarked on a half-hour search for the implement. He turned the tepee upside down looking for it and eventually found it in the last place he looked, which was in his toilet bag. Why he had left it in there he would never remember. He scanned the flask's surface again for clues, but found none. He scrutinized the ancient scroll for any signs of secrets that could be revealed between the lines, but found none either. It was a conundrum. He fished out a book on the history of the county and found nothing in there apart from ancient legends, regarding a sunken town, supposedly off this coastline. He had heard the stories often enough, but in this day and age and with all the modern technologies and diving stuff around he had dismissed the idea as balderdash.
He read his translation of the clue again. Absolutely nothing. He thought he would scour the beach again tomorrow and see if he could find another clue, which would give him a clue for this one, but he wasn't very hopeful. After all, he had waited years for this particular one to turn up. He opened his well thumbed copy of the Mabignon and read a few pages of Celtic mythology, silently searching for more clues. Then he blew his candles out, saw to the fire and curled up in his sleeping bag. He dreamed vividly all night, but could remember nothing when he awoke in the morning.