The Book of Beasts (25 page)

The worst section of the tapestry was the one that Em could not bear to look at for more than a second. Matt lay slumped and bleeding, the bone quill jutting from the flesh above his hip.

‘Why are you showing me this?' she choked.

‘Isn't it obvious?' said Henrietta, removing her gloves. ‘We need you to take us to Malcolm. We plan to help him finish his quest, and then we need you to return us to the present where, in return for your help, you and your brother will be spared the same consequences as the rest of your family.'

‘I don't know of any way to get back to the Middle Ages,' Em stuttered. ‘If I did, I would have returned for my brother before now.'

‘Ah,' said Henrietta softly, ‘but I think you do. And if you choose not to tell me of your own volition, then I will have to persuade you.'

The older woman's fingers pressed into Em's head, melding to her flesh and feeling their way into her imagination. Em screamed in anguish.

‘Stop! Please!'

The pain was excruciating.

And then it wasn't.

Em was walking on the beach with the sun a blazing orange ball above rugged cliffs. The sea was calm and shimmering in the light. She waved at two boys dressed in rags, fishing off the shore in a rickety rowing boat piled with nets. They looked curiously familiar. Em studied the landscape surrounding the bay, the high peaked cliffs, the tiny cove. This wasn't Auchinmurn.

Where was she?

Another stab of pain jolted her.

‘My, she is a strong one,' she heard Henrietta say in surprise. ‘She must take after her grandmother. She's blocking me.'

Em recognized the boys now. They were from Winslow Homer's painting,
Boys Fishing
. The painting was in Renard's study, hanging near Van Gogh's
Poppy Fields
. Em remembered with a shock of excitement how she and Matt had projected themselves into
Poppy Fields
when their grandfather was in a coma. She had clearly done something similar just now, fading into Homer's image to get away from Henrietta. Her mind rushed on in exciting leaps. If she could escape into
Boys Fishing
without even looking at it, what could she do with a picture of her own?

‘I may have underestimated your abilities, Em, my dear,' said Henrietta. ‘But do not underestimate mine. What are you planning?'

She put both hands on Em's head this time. The resulting pain scalded Em's temples for a moment. Then suddenly they felt soft and warm and comforting, and the pain disappeared. Em missed Matt so much. He was all alone, and so far, far away…

Em gulped at the air. ‘I won't tell you!'

Her chin dropped to her chest, her breathing slowed.

‘Damn it! She's gone,' said Henrietta, lifting her hand from Em's head. ‘I pushed too hard.'

‘She'll wake in time. Did you learn how she plans to travel back to the Middle Ages to fetch her brother?' Tanan asked eagerly.

Em remained still. It was important that Henrietta and the others believed her to be in a deep inspirited sleep. She detected anger emanating from her grandmother, but admiration too, and another oddly disconcerting emotion – pride in a job well done, in having somehow been responsible for her own granddaughter's considerable powers.

‘Nothing yet,' Henrietta said. ‘Watch her closely, Tanan. This is not over.'

‘Her hands are bound, Henrietta,' said Tanan with a disbelieving laugh. ‘Her eyes are covered and you've inspirited her. She's not going anywhere.'

Em heard her grandmother snort with derision. ‘Tanan, you may be a powerful Animare, but sometimes you are a fool. She and her brother are unique. We do not fully know what they can do.'

Em sensed her grandmother probing her mind again. She stiffened, but it was too late.

‘Not sleeping after all?' inquired Henrietta, giving Em a cruel pinch. ‘Then let us continue. My son needs me and I will not let him down.'

Auchinmurn Isle
The Middle Ages

Malcolm dragged Carik away from the machine and dumped her in the corner beside the old monk's body. He pried Matt's fist open, shoving it away from the parchment. Matt's sketch of the Grendel was visibly throbbing.

‘It's not an animation,' Matt said defiantly as his father made to snatch the parchment from the machine. ‘I've summoned it. It's coming to get you whether you tear that up or not.'

‘You stupid boy!' he roared, spitting globs of ink on to his chin and neck. ‘What have you done?'

‘Exactly what Jeannie told me to do,' snapped Matt, his voice muffled behind the mask.

Malcolm slapped his hand on the side of the mask in fury, bouncing Matt's forehead against the unyielding metal. ‘Then you will draw something else to fight it for me.'

He put a fresh piece of parchment in the machine and shoved a nub of charcoal between Matt's fingers, then hurried round the wooden contraption.

The iron glove prevented Matt from throwing the charcoal away. The gears began to grind, the belts and pulleys stretching and turning as the machine sparked to life. With Malcolm's first few steps, Matt didn't feel anything. But as his father walked faster, Matt's fingers curled against the charcoal, his skin tight and on fire. He could feel his father's malevolence worming into his thoughts.

Matt bit back the pain, the burning sensation spreading up his arms. He felt as if he was being immersed in boiling water. His dad's presence in his head was overpowering. Malcolm was pushing an image into Matt's mind, and Matt could no longer block it.

At first the image was merely a silhouette, a black-and-white outline of a beast. Then the image fattened and fleshed out. Its hindquarters became the heavy haunches of a lion with a tail as thick as cable. Its head and chest grew into the body of a majestic eagle, its wings tipped with white, its eyes blazing green.

‘The griffin is one of the guardian beasts of Hollow Earth,' snarled Malcolm, his movements on the treadle becoming erratic. ‘It will fight for us. Animate the griffin or the girl will truly suffer!'

Matt couldn't stop himself. The iron glove creaked and groaned as he sketched the bottom half of the griffin, then its wings and finally its head with its ferocious hooked beak. But before he could bring it to life, a rumbling shook the chamber and a stench worse than rotting meat seeped through the walls.

With a crash, the Grendel – the death-eater, the mud-monster – entered the chamber, smashing through the rock as easily as if it were made of paper. Its boneless, hulking, stinking shape began sucking hungrily towards them. Carik woke, screamed and scrambled across the rocky floor to take shelter behind the wooden machine.

Malcolm was galloping on the treadle now. ‘Faster!' he screamed. ‘Faster!'

Matt felt as if he was suffocating from the pain. His hand was moving in a blur. The griffin was taking shape, filling in and flexing its wings.

The Grendel's ape-like head scanned its surroundings. It raised its nostrils into the air, scenting death. Lumbering across the chamber, it hovered over the old monk. Matt watched, paralyzed with horror, as the beast sucked out old Brother Renard's heart, then spilled its thick muddy torso over the old man's body and absorbed the rest of his flesh.

Behind him, Matt could hear Carik slipping her knife from the strap at her ankle. With the little strength he had left, he whispered to her.

‘Don't, Carik. I know what I'm doing, and I need that monster to do it.'

He heard the slow sheathing of the knife again, and exhaled. If he could just stop drawing the griffin… One monster he could handle. Two, he wasn't so sure.

At that moment, Jeannie dropped into the cave, screaming like a banshee.

‘Malcolm Renard Calder, release those weans or I'll make you feel pain like you've never felt before!'

Malcolm stumbled in shock and slipped from the treadle. Matt's fingers slowed and stopped as Jeannie advanced across the cavern.

‘Yer schemes will come to naught, son,' she warned. ‘Stop all of this and I can help ye make good the damage.'

‘This isn't damage!' Malcolm screamed. ‘This is my destiny!'

He threw himself in fury at Jeannie, but she was expecting his attack and dodged out of the way. Carik's knife flashed from its sheath again as, stumbling and roaring, Malcolm bore down on Jeannie once more.

The Grendel sniffed the air and roared, filling the cavern with noxious fumes its oozing body threshing from side to side in search of a fresh victim. There was was one more thing Matt needed to do.

Control the beast, son. You can do it.

Matt spat on the parchment and erased the Grendel's eyes. In their place, he imagined his own.

All at once Matt's perspective fractured, as if he was looking through the thick glass bottom of a bottle. He saw himself, lashed to the foul machine. He saw Jeannie and Malcolm weaving from side to side, Carik's knife poised and ready to slash. He had done it. He was the Grendel.

He looked down at the corpulent mass of festering muck that was the Grendel's body. Across the cavern he saw his human body gagging, and he tasted bile. The Grendel was a conflagration of millions of sucking, faceless mouths, like flames licking out from the thick black sludge. Matt felt them all pressing in on him. Swallowing his disgust, he urged the beast forward, controlling its will… controlling its hunger.

The Grendel lumbered towards Malcolm who stood defiantly in front of Jeannie, his eyes darting between Matt's blank eyes and the monster's ravenous ones.

‘Very clever, Mattie. I knew you wouldn't disappoint. Your abilities are beyond what I ever could have imagined.'

The Grendel moved closer. Malcolm stepped back. ‘Mattie, think about what we could achieve together, you and I! Father and son.'

Matt heard his father's words as if he was under water. This man in front of him, this abomination, was no longer his father. Never really had been.

‘Lass,' said Jeannie to Carik, ‘help me get Matt out of this contraption. Then ye must leave. Any minute now, a whole world of terrible is going to break open, and I'd like you not to be here when that happens.'

‘I'm not leaving,' said Carik at once as she helped Jeannie wrench open the locks binding Matt's ankles and feet, tearing off the vile metal gloves on his fingers. ‘I can fight.'

‘This isn't yer battle, lass,' said Jeannie.

Controlling the Grendel, keeping Malcolm pinned in the corner of the cavern, was draining Matt of everything he had.

‘Jeannie, I feel sick,' he whispered. ‘I don't know how long I can do this.'

Jeannie squeezed his hand. ‘Not much longer, son. Promise.'

Matt felt the smash of something heavy breaking open the clasp on his iron mask, the blessed relief of air on his face. Still he held the Grendel's mind, and watched Malcolm with the Grendel's eyes.

‘Go,' Jeannie ordered Carik.