The Riddles of Epsilon (13 page)

MY DIARY

It's hard to run away when you're pushing a bike with a buckled wheel. But I did it at breakneck speed.

Taking the path round the ruins, I hurried off, panting, thinking of those horrid little eyes peering at me through the greenery. Stalked by a swan. Now who's cracking up? Then I staggered up the hill to the tower.

In the day, the tower isn't half as creepy. But it was still there, somewhere in the background—that strange, faraway rushing of water. Yet there was no river nearby. No water at all.

It's not a wonder my hands were so stung, though—as I said, the base of the tower is thick with nettles. Nothing much else—a few small white moths flitting about, that's all. So I turned my attention to the gargoyles themselves.

Well! Talk about secrets written in stone! The gargoyles leered down and seemed to be mocking me. I walked all
round the tower, staring up at those stone faces.

First, the north gargoyle, the one overlooking our land. I had glimpsed it correctly in the moonlight—those weren't hands at all, framing that ugly face. They were wings. Swan's wings, curved about a birdlike head. A horrible gaping beak. The top curve of the beak looked as sharp as a scimitar. And around its neck—the Ouroborus, draped there like a necklace. The eyes were enormous in the birdlike head. Sharply cut in the center, they bulged out obscenely. And on its breast, the letter N. N for north.

So . . . a hideous swan, permanently overlooking our house. Great. After my experience at the pond, this was the last thing I wanted to see.

I walked to the back and looked at the next gargoyle. W for west. This one stared out to sea—a watcher of the ocean, I could tell that from the face. It was a huge fish creature, scaled and all writhed up in itself. Seaweed dripped from its fins. Round, fishy eyes and barnacle skin, and an anchor and chain around its neck. Yuck.

S for south. The south gargoyle was lovely compared to the others. It was a beautiful woman, with her long hair streaming out behind her. A bit like the figurehead of a ship. Her eyes were dreamy, with a calm, gentle gaze. Held in the crook of her elbow was a lyre. A musician.

Around her neck, a necklace of delicate spring flowers.
Her slender hands were held at either side of her mouth, as if she was about to call out to someone. To someone directly ahead, but far away. Looking at the map, I searched for whatever lay in the direction she gazed toward.

Just a large house. Milton House. Dr. Parker's house.

But the east gargoyle was the worst of all. It wasn't just ugly. It was evil. Even the E carved on its chest was horrible, made up of small, writhing human figures, their tiny mouths stretched open in agony. The gargoyle was in the form of a devil, with a face so appalling that it made me start to shiver. Its eyes held a look of great cunning. It was a gloating, leering face with terrible, all-seeing eyes that glared outward toward the east. Its open mouth had fangs rather than teeth. But one of the fangs was missing; the other curved down, sharp and glinting in the sunlight. Even its hands were horrible. They were talons, and the forefinger of the right hand pointed to something far away. The left hand held one end of a noose, which dangled down under the whole figure. In the crook of its arm, a mirror. And round the gargoyle's neck was a necklace made of tiny baby skulls.

So. A swan, spying on us.

A fish creature, watching the western sea.

A lovely woman—Yolandë perhaps—watching the doctor's house.

And a creature with one fang missing, watching the east.
Who else could this be but Cimul? The Lord of Inversion, carrying his mirror.

I checked on the map for what he could be pointing at.

Coscoroba Rock.

The place he had fled to in his myth, after he had been cursed. The same rock the tooth had been taken from, snatched from his hand by a porpoise long ago and carried into the depths of the sea.

The wind touched the nodding grasses around the tower and made them shimmer. Such a peaceful place. Such a strange tower, with terrible stories told in its stone. I remembered something Dad had told me once, about gargoyles. That some believed they awoke at night and left their stone plinths. That they had the power to fly, to cause mischief, but they were always back again by sunrise, to sit the day through in total stillness. Meanwhile the tops of their heads caught the rain and spat it out of their open mouths, down to the ground far below. So they watered the land they watched over, the land they flew out over each night.

I was glad to get away.

 

I was pretty shaky by the time I got to the doctor's, I can tell you. And it didn't help when I saw the plaque on the front door—
MILTON HOUSE
. I remembered the first time I'd seen this name—in Sebastian's first diary entry. Seb had been
taking settles and benches over to Milton House. Which is now the doctor's place, where the garden fete is going to be held tomorrow, apparently. Then later, we'll all go down to the beach for a massive barbecue and for the ceremony of the Coscoroba pole. Just like Sebastian did, more than a hundred years ago. Just like people have been doing on this island for hundreds of years before that, even. An ancient tradition. A ceremony. To celebrate what?

I stared up at the plaque and felt scared. Whatever it was, the Greet was
tomorrow
. And I sensed that something would happen that couldn't be stopped.
“Once power comes to the surface,
” Epsilon had said,
“there is no stopping it.”
That was what I felt like now—like I was just one small cog in a great machine that had been set into action and could not now be switched off.

Finally I left the plaque and did what Mom had said. Round the back, park the bike, unpack the bags, through the gate (stroke the cat), onto the back porch, take a deep breath—
yell!

“DOCTOR PARKER!”

“Great heavens! You scared me out of my wits, girl!”

Poor Dr. Parker. He hadn't been upstairs in his study at all—he was right behind the back door!

“Good thing I have a stout heart, isn't it?” he said, looking weak with fright.

“Sorry, Dr. Parker. Mom said this one has to go straight into the freezer—it's prawns.”

“Charles. Call me Charles. Makes me feel old, all this Dr. Parker stuff. What have you been up to then? Look as white as a sheet.”

“Oh . . . just walking.”

His freezer was filled to the brim with small packages wrapped in newspaper. Hundreds of them, in fact. He saw me staring down at them and grinned.

“Every fisherman in the place seems to bring me a share of his catch. Mackerel, mostly. I give Mrs. Shilling most of it, or use it for pike bait. Here—cram it in!”

Pike bait. So maybe he had been fishing that night, after all? I started to relax a bit.

“Don't you like mackerel then?

He stared down ruefully at all the fishy parcels.

“Hate the stuff. Allergic.”

That started me off, and him, too. I never thought an adult could laugh like that. For such a big man, he has this daft little giggle that makes you want to join in, just to hear it again. It was the same all afternoon. He took me driving round the island on his rounds, said the bike looked like a death trap, and anyway, he could do with the company. We laughed at anything and everything. It started as soon as we set off in the car.

“So how old is Mrs. Shilling?”

“Oh, her. Eighty-seven.”

“Eighty-
seven
?!
”

“Mmm. Didn't know you'd even met her!”

“Yes. She was sitting on the back gate when I came in.”

The car came to a shuddering stop.

“Mrs. Shilling was sitting on the
gate
?!”

“Yes. Having a good scratch. She didn't look all that old, though—even in cat years!”

He bent over the steering wheel and started to wheeze. That giggle, it built up and up till it exploded with a giant snort.

“What? What have I said?” But I could hardly get the words out for laughing.

Finally he subsided.

“Mrs. Shilling isn't my cat. She's my housekeeper. She gets to eat the fish. Well, she can barely chew anything else—she has barely any teeth!”

“Oh! Oh, I
see
. I thought . . . with you saying about the fish . . . and I'd just seen the cat and—oh!”

I'd forgotten what a good laugh felt like. Even when we were back on our way, driving to the village along the top road, he kept quivering and snorting and we'd start off all over again. He laughed till he cried.

“Sorry, sorry! I just keep thinking of Mrs. Shilling, sit
ting on the back gate, having a good scratch. Oh, god! Stop it, stop it, I'll crash this thing! You'll know what I mean when you meet her.”

And I did. The first cottage we stopped at.

To the door came the smallest, most bent, most wrinkly, most smelly, most
ancient
old hag I have ever seen in all my life. She sniffed at me when he introduced me, then looked up at the doctor with suspicious little eyes.

“I hope you're not getting a cold, Doctor? Your eyes are rather watery.”

A twitch of his mouth—a sort of hiccup.

“Me? No no no, Mrs. Shilling—it's you I'm worried about. Left your medicine again, tsk tsk tsk. You can remember to put my whiskey and soda out each night but can't remember to take your stomach medicine. It will not
do
!”

She glared at me, as if something major was my fault.

“Well, I suppose you'd better come in.”

The inside of her house was like Mrs. Shilling, only bigger. Smelly, crumpled, and every stick of furniture old and rickety. Each chair looked incapable of holding anything heavier than a bird.

Talking of birds—they were everywhere! Pictures and ornaments, robins and swallows on the wing and eagles swooping onto mice, and blue tits and herons, on every
mantelpiece, every shelf. If they'd all been alive, the noise would have been totally deafening. I stared at them as the doc took her blood pressure, though she informed him it was all stuff and nonsense and there was nothing wrong with her at all, just a bit of indigestion.

When he went to wash his hands (don't blame him either—she stank!), she spent the time glaring at me as if I were a particularly revolting bit of dog poo. I sat on the edge of a very filthy chair and tried to smile at her.

Suddenly she said, “Well, girl? Have you found it yet?”

“Found what, Mrs. Shilling?”

“There is no need to shout, child. I am not in the slightest bit deaf.”

“Sorry. Found what, Mrs. Shilling?”

“You know what, young lady. Here. This should help, if you have half a brain. Pretend it's a boy.”

I blinked, startled. She'd quickly gotten out of her chair, crossed the room, as nimble as a child—and now she put into my hands one of the small bird pictures. It was grimy and torn, a curled bit of card.

“Uh . . . thank you! I . . . er . . .”

She stared down at me and gave a sniff of utter derision.

“Just as I thought. Stupid as they come!” she snapped.

Then the doctor was back, and he boomed his good-byes and gave her a parcel of frozen mackerel, slamming it onto
the sugar-strewn table as he passed.

“See you tomorrow, Mrs. Shilling. I'll come by bright and early to pick you up—lots to do, what with the Greet and everything.”

“Will
she
be there?” she asked.

“Oh, yes—guest of honor, in fact! Now then—two spoonfuls tonight, just before bed, and no forgetting. Do I make myself clear?”

“Clear as crystal, thank you. Now go away—the pair of you. You make me tired.”

Back in the car, I turned to him immediately.

“That? Is your
housekeeper
?”

“I know, I know. She's completely gaga, and I cannot get her to wash! But she arrived one day a few years ago, insisting she make me cups of tea—and I drink coffee—and oddly enough, she's a very good cleaner. She's harmless, and kind enough.”

“Kind! She said I was as stupid as they come!”

He roared with laughter when I told him what she'd said.

“What does she think you're looking for then? God, she's as mad as a cat in a sack! Should be locked up, really—but I keep my eye on her.”

But I didn't tell him about the card. I'd slipped it into the back pocket of my jeans and realized that if I got that out, out, too, would come the map—and Mom's drawings. If he
thought Mrs. Shilling was as mad as a cat in a sack and should be locked up, what might he think of my mother, gathering shells and doodling ancient castles?

“What's up, Jessica?”

“Oh, nothing. Where next?”

“A tour. Meet a few more people. We should walk, really—it's only a few hundred yards. Getting lazy. Anyway, Jerry C.'s next. Arthritis. Hands. He's a carpenter, too, needs his hands. He's been trying a diet rich in tomatoes. Here we are.”

Outside Jerry C.'s house, a small crowd stood. They were admiring a tall carved pole, propped up by the door. The doctor nodded to it as we climbed out of the car.

“The Maypole thing. Well . . . we call it that, even though it's not May at all. Can't really call it a
July pole
, can we?”

I went close and stared at it, and it instantly happened again. That sudden lurch, that sideslip in time. It was as if Sebastian had stepped closer out of the past and was whispering something urgently in my ear . . . .

“Master Cork . . . is not like the rest . . . . I have spent much time at his hearth. He lets me sit quiet while he whittles the tall pole for the Aroundy dance. He calls the pole his Coscoroba, and the way he fusses over his wood is remarkable to see.”

I leaned against the wall and steadied myself as I looked up at the Aroundy pole. It was truly amazing—the intricacy
of that carving! A thick pole of wood, about six inches in diameter, and all the way up it, fish creatures and snakes and swans and flowers. Hundreds of them, all intertwined together in high relief. And another thing—the swans were in the very same design as the swans on my bed. The same stylized curve of neck, the same overcurved beak, the same sharp little eyes.