The Bone Quill (27 page)

Carefully, he slid Matt’s black hat from his head. If he unrolled it all the way down, it covered enough of his incomplete cheek and eye socket, until he could find something better.

‘You did your best,’ he whispered, brushing hair from Matt’s face. ‘And I can live with the flaws.’ He poked his finger into the cavity where his cheek should have been, caressing the exposed bone and the sharp points of his incisor teeth. ‘Besides, this incomplete visage may work to my advantage.

‘I will be back for you soon, son. But for now, I can’t have you wandering through the Middle Ages without me.’

Malcolm made sure that Matt’s parka was fastened tightly and he was well protected from the elements. Who knew how long it might be before he could return to fetch him?

Heavy clouds sailed across the brightening sky. Malcolm rolled up the little landscape painting he guessed Matt had used to travel here, and stuck it into the waistband of his paint-splattered jeans. He couldn’t risk it being destroyed. It was the only way home.

Kissing the tips of his fingers, he set the kiss on his son’s lips. Then he jogged quickly into the woods and down the hillside towards the water, the Abbey’s towers lit by the sun now breaking through the mist. He paused at a group of tall birch trees.

Better wait until dark
, he thought. No reason to put himself at risk.

Pulling some branches over himself for cover, he curled in a nest of leaves in the middle of the tall trees. In this position, Malcolm Calder slept the sleep of the dead.

When
the moon was rising and dusk was cloaking the islands, Malcolm started down the hillside again. At the bay, he rolled up his jeans and jogged through the shallow water, looking for a way to cross to Era Mina without calling attention to his presence.

He spotted a primitive rowing boat tied up beneath a willow tree, its hull bouncing in the choppy water, its oars under the plank seat. Knowing he was now virtually invisible in the dark, he climbed aboard, using an oar to push off.

As he rowed into the channel between the islands, Malcolm set his oars across his lap, letting the craft bob lazily in the waves. He was stunned by the brilliant display of stars in the medieval sky above. Behind him, the monastery was a shadowy outline, the noises from the monks and their animals muted and distant.

Pulling Matt’s hat down over his head, Malcolm picked up the oars and headed on towards the dark side of Era Mina.

Three Days Later ...

S
olon
summoned the peryton the moment he realized that the glow at the peak of Auchinmurn by Skinner’s Bog was coming from a powerful animation. He and Carik had flown low to avoid any watchful eyes. Now Solon jumped from the peryton’s back before the beast’s hooves hit the ground at the ridge of trees on the outer edge of Skinner’s Bog, close to the Devil’s Dyke.

Solon found the source of the light almost immediately. It was a small painting of a demon, a scaly, red, hairless monster. Turning it over, he saw scribbles in a language that he didn’t understand.

How had such an evil-looking painting arrived at this isolated spot?

‘Solon,’ Carik called in a low voice. ‘Over here. There’s a boy.’

They studied the boy and his strange bag of belongings tucked under the brambles. Was he under the same sleeping spell as the monks at the monastery?

‘He’s been here since today’s storm at least, maybe longer,’ said Carik, noting the wet leaves covering his clothing and the wind burn on the boy’s cheeks. ‘He’s soaked.’

A bubble of fetid air hissed to the surface of the bog and floated towards them.

‘We mustn’t stay here,’ said Solon, tucking the painting of the demon inside his shirt. ‘Nor must the boy, unless he wants to be a meal for the Grendel.’

They lifted the drenched boy on to the peryton’s back. Carik fetched his belongings. After puzzling over how to open the strange bag for a while, she gave up, hooked one of the straps over her shoulder and joined Solon on the peryton’s back.

Solon supported the boy in front of him, the boy’s arms flopping across the peryton’s shimmering antlers.

‘The peryton’s never flown with three of us. Hold on tight,’ Solon warned.

Carik wrapped her arms tightly round Solon’s waist, as the peryton rose up on its hind legs, gracefully pivoting and then galloping along the hillside to the cliff. With its silver wings expanding, the beast lifted its forelegs into the air and flew up over moonlit Auchinmurn and the bay. Then it turned and swooped inland again, towards an abandoned cottage on the northern tip of the island.

‘Who do you think he is?’ asked Carik, her breath warm on Solon’s ear.

‘I don’t know,’ replied Solon. The peryton was carrying them across the wind as if they weighed little more than a feather. ‘But I think he may have something to do with what’s going on in the monastery.’

T
he
next morning, Matt woke up to the stench of horse manure and the sensation of a sheep chewing slowly on the sleeve of his parka. He felt loose and strange.

‘Hey!’ he croaked.

Rolling away from the sheep, he landed directly on the offending pile of manure. He got unsteadily to his feet, straw and stalks of grass sticking to his hair. His arm was thick with muck.

He was in a stable, still in the clothes he’d been wearing when he’d sneaked down into the catacombs. The wind was chilly, howling in through the wide cracks in the stone. The odour in the hut grew even more disgusting as it mingled with the smell of the sea.

‘Awake at last?’

‘Where did you come from?’ asked Matt groggily.

‘We slept in the caves, though we did not sleep as well as you.’

Matt gawked at the speaker with her white-blonde hair wrapped loosely in a scarf and her deep blue eyes twinkling with laughter. Her smile was amazing. Matt knew he was staring, but he couldn’t help himself. She was dressed in a brown shift under a loose, black, wool tunic and leggings tucked in laced sheepskin boots. One arm looked injured, and was bound with clean cloths.

‘I have food,’ she said. ‘Come outside. It’s a beautiful morning.’

Stepping outside, Matt was blinded by the radiant sunlight. The girl handed him an apple, which he accepted and bit into hungrily.

‘I am Carik from the north.’ She pointed out over the distant islands. ‘Solon and I found you last night at Skinner’s Bog.’

Matt was still gawking at the girl. She looked fragile, yet she addressed him with purpose and carried herself with strength. He finished the apple in three bites. It was sweet and delicious.

A tall, blond young man, his hair shaggy but shorter than Matt’s, was leaning against the outside wall of the stable, watching him with narrowed eyes. Solon, presumably. He didn’t look happy.

‘Where am I?’ Matt asked.

‘You are on the island of Auchinmurn,’ said Carik.

‘We are hiding,’ said Solon abruptly. ‘The monastery has been taken over by rebels. Their leader, ‘the prophet’ as they’re calling him, is a stranger to the islands, but somehow he is wearing the purple robes of the Order’s first martyr.’

‘This prophet has put a sleeping spell on all of the monks who are not on his side,’ added Carik. ‘We wondered if you were under the same spell.’

‘The monastery’s been taken over already?’ said Matt, aghast. ‘How long was I asleep?’

Solon and Carik both looked puzzled.

‘We are not aware of how long you were asleep or even how you came to be at Skinner’s Bog,’ said Carik, ‘but—’

‘You say, “already”,’ Solon interrupted. ‘You knew about this attack?’

In one fluid movement, he had reached behind his back, pulled a sword from his belt and thrust its tip against Matt’s chest. Matt slapped the blade away, backing against a tree. Solon held his position.

Matt was beside himself. Had he missed his chance? Were his mother and Em already dead? Could you cross paths with yourself in a different time? His head was tumbling with possibilities.

He suddenly remembered the last thought he’d had before sliding into unconsciousness.

‘The tower,’ he said urgently. ‘The one on Era Mina. Have you started building it?’

Suddenly, Matt wished he’d read more of Em’s science fiction books. As soon as that thought jumped into his head, he felt a twinge in his heart. What he really wished was for Em to be here with him, to help him figure out what he should do next.

Solon was looking more and more suspicious. ‘We started the tower for my master Brother Renard four days ago, the day after the Viking attack.’

Matt felt ill. Everything was flooding back. Stealing the painting, unbinding his father. He and his dad must have arrived at dawn four days ago, just after the Viking attack, and just before they started building the tower. Jeez. He’d been asleep for four days. And his dad ... What had happened to his dad?

A terrifying thought hit him squarely between the eyes.

What if his dad was the prophet, the leader of the rebels? What if his dad was the person out of time that his mum and Duncan Fox had detected? What if his dad was the one searching for the bone quill?

What if everything that was happening was all Matt’s fault?

‘Brother Renard?’ he said, grasping the only thing Solon had said that didn’t make him feel like puking. ‘My grandfather’s called Renard. It means fox, I think.’ Another thought struck him. ‘Duncan
Fox
. Of course. Names change over time. I should have put this together before.’

Solon and Carik exchanged glances. Matt knew he was rambling.

‘Have you seen this rebel leader?’ he asked, trying to swallow on a sandpaper throat.

‘The villagers say he is a horrible demon,’ Carik answered. ‘I heard them talking two days after the attack, as I made my way to this place to fetch berries for the wound I sustained in the battle.’ She gestured at her bound arm.

‘I heard them talking then, too, in the chapel,’ said Solon. ‘I have seen only glimpses of him, like tonight, on the hillside. He has been rousing rebellion and anarchy in the other monks since he arrived.’

Four days.

‘You know who this man is,’ Solon said, watching Matt’s expression.

Matt flinched. ‘Does it matter?’

‘Yes. This island has secrets that must be protected. It’s a dangerous place and it does not take kindly to strangers. Is he an Animare?’

Matt put his head in his hands. ‘No,’ he said through his fingers. ‘He’s a Guardian. He ... protects Animare.’

‘I don’t think he was protecting Brother Thomas on the parapet last night,’ said Solon. ‘I think he was controlling him, making him animate the hellhounds from the carvings on our ramparts. Is this possible?’

Matt nodded again. Anything was possible. He couldn’t think straight.

Em! Can you hear me? Please say you can hear me?

‘And you are also an Animare?’ asked Solon, his tone guarded.

‘My name’s Matt ... Matt Calder and I’m a hybrid,’ said Matt dully. ‘A freak of nature. My mum is an Animare and my dad ... my dad is a Guardian. I have a mixture of their talents.’

‘Where have you come from?’ prodded Solon.