The Riddles of Epsilon (16 page)

“And Libby?”

“Libby inherited the house after Sebastian died. But she never lived there—she lived in Ireland until she died. That was ten years ago. She left it in her will to her own daughter. Your mother.”

A long silence followed this.

I sat with my eyes shut, thinking, thinking. So Libby must be my Grandma Libby—the one whose jet necklace I kept with my treasures. And that meant . . . 

“That means . . . I'm related to Sebastian? He was my . . . great-grandfather?”

The silence went on and on.

When I opened my eyes and looked up, I was utterly alone.

LATER THE SAME NIGHT

Something woke me, about an hour ago. The oddest feeling.

I'd pored over these files till late, trying to think where
the final piece of the puzzle might be. I suspected it was where Martha had said—behind one of the swans on the Coscoroba pole. But I couldn't check that out until tomorrow. So I fell asleep in the end, my papers spread all over the bed. Then I woke up and felt jittery, uneasy. Had I heard a noise outside? I went to the window and peered out.

The clouds were almost solid, with the moon behind them. The whole sky was sort of backlit, silver.

Into the silver, something moved, far away. Just a speck. It came closer and closer. A large bird.

The swan? No—not a swan, surely; the neck was all wrong. But whatever it was, it was massive—an enormous wingspan!

It began to soar above the garden, to circle down. To the big oak tree by the house. It landed gently, yet it made the whole bough bend and quiver. I could see it clearly now from my window. It was so unexpected that I gasped out loud.

It was an eagle.

I might never have seen one before, but I knew what it was. An eagle.

It folded its wings and turned its head my way.

What had I read, only just read tonight? In Mama's good-bye note to Sebastian? Mama, warning him about Yolandë's enemies:

 

“They reverse all things. I shudder at it. Their lies are ludicrous, yet people believe them. It is like calling the eagle more lovely than the swan. That brown bird with its ugly talons, built only to kill!”

 

Those talons. They did look cruel, and I thought of tiny mice and rodents, scurrying away from that viselike grip. Yet it was also noble. Such a noble head!

Then something else caught my eye—something on the ground this time. Something pale and slow, moving out of the woods.

I opened the window and leaned out. I could see it all, the silver sky, the eagle, motionless now on his bough. The pale thing moving, far below. Coming toward the garden gate.

With the window open, I heard it quite clearly—the
sneak! sneak!
of the gate opening and shutting. And a soft, contented humming. A strange tune, over and over.

It was a woman. A woman in a long white nightie—bending, rising, bending again. She didn't move far each time, just a step. Then she sank to her knees an instant—stood up again, stepped forward. What was she
doing
? I screwed my eyes up, trying to see through the dark.

The clouds parted. The moon came out.

It was Mom.

And in the moonlight, small gleams appeared on the
ground, picked out by the soft light. They led away from her, back into the darkness.

I knew what they were. A row of pale shells, all lined up.

More and more she laid, past Dad's hollyhocks, all the way into the middle of the lawn. Once I heard her laugh, a small, breathy laugh. It set my hair on end.

Then—a movement from the bough!—the eagle. It opened its wings and soared down, straight down toward Mom as she crouched there. I clamped my hand to my mouth—I thought it was going to attack her! But no, it just landed on the grass, right in front of her.

But when she stood up, incredibly, she didn't seem to see it at all. A great bird like that, nearly half her height. She just bent closer to the pile of shells held gathered in her skirts and chose the next one. She laid it down tenderly, an inch from the talon of that eagle. She stood up and chose another.

It stood very still all the time, watching her.

Until she had laid her shells in a tight curve, all the way round the eagle.

Then a great stripe of yellow flashed out across the lawn—the back door was flung open. The bird flew up, the moon went in—Dad gave an anguished shout as the eagle flapped away.

“Did you see that? Did you? A white eagle! An eagle on the lawn, and my camera with no flash setup. I can NOT
believe it! Did you
see
it?”

He came into view, running about the grass, looking up in every direction.

Clearly her voice came to me, eerily calm.

“I've nearly finished.”

“The eagle! A whopping great eagle, on the lawn! It was right
by
you!”

She laid the last shell.

“Finished!”

“Elizabeth! It was right there, right on the blasted lawn! Good heavens, woman, it was at your foot! You must be blind!”

She turned and pointed to the ground, all along her trail of shells. Dad looked down, and his mouth fell open. The trail led away, back into the woods, gleaming in the light from the back door.

“Look!” she said. “I've lit her way. She can come now.”

MY DIARY—THE DAY OF THE GREET

I'm here at the Greet, and—as the villagers keep saying to each other—“It's certainly a lovely afternoon for it!” If I hear that one more time, I'll scream.

Dr. Parker's garden is enormous. Dead gorgeous, too—garden designers come to visit it—apparently it's quite famous. Milton C. Parker made it all a squillion years ago and it's all still there—like something out of those rich-and-famous programs on TV. Statues and fountains and herb gardens. A summerhouse and a Japanese section (mostly stones—can't see the point in that). And even an enormous hanging garden, its many long flower beds swaying gently from verdigris chains, in a pretty arbor all of its own. This hanging garden was old Milton's pride and joy.

Anyway, the stands are set out in among all this finery. I'm getting through my spending money like there's no tomorrow. There's games and lemonade stands and cake
stands and stuff. (Oh, whoopie! If only Avril could see me now—this is so jolly thrilling!) To say nothing of the tug-of-war, the skipping games for the little kids, the endless sack races and egg-and-spoon contests.

I'm supposed to be helping Mrs. Shilling with the lemon punch at the drinks stand. She's cross with me, as usual. Apparently, we were supposed to bring some lemon squash, to add to the punch; everyone else has contributed some. But Mom forgot, although why Mrs. Shilling should blame me for that, I've no idea! I'm sick of her nasty glares. So I keep sneaking off here to the summerhouse, to be on my own. There's a lot to think about, and I go sweaty every time I realize I've not found the final clue. But there's no sign yet of the Coscoroba pole.

I can't stop thinking about Mom. She's back to the muttering, hand-wringing thing. She keeps stopping what she's doing and looking out to sea, as if she's listening for something, waiting for something, all the time. When I get close enough to hear, she's talking about “her” again. Looking for her.

But it could be worse, I suppose. She could be wandering about in her underskirt, laying a trail of butterfly buns.

From here in the summerhouse, I can see her quite clearly, eating scones and now chatting in a distracted way to a man in a dirty red beret. They're both laughing very loud—too loud. (Probably something to do with the wine punch they're
all drinking, which Doc Parker is doling out to adults only.)

In fact, now that I look, I think the man in the red beret is a bit tipsy. A lot of the adults sound a bit too happy and rowdy. They all have friends and family staying from the mainland, apparently. Big event for them. The scintillating highlight of their year. Anyway, they seem to be making the most of it.

Dad is staying closer to Mom than usual, thankfully. Hovering. He's a bit tetchy and edgy—his wisdom teeth are playing up again—it always makes him sulky. He's mad at Mom again—for not believing him about the eagle last night. And for not getting him some herbal remedy for his sore gums—what a fuss! He said she'd written it on her shopping list herself days ago, he'd watched her do it himself, but had she remembered? No, too busy playing Mrs. Neptune.

So he's sulking and fiddling with his camera, but at least he's not at the lake—first time all week! (You can tell he's tempted, though—four cameras and two tripods, they're draped all over him. He looks like a traveling salesman. Kids keep snickering at him behind their stupid fists.)

Right now, Mrs. Shilling is waving her walking stick at some of them—boys who keep trying to get free lemonade.

A very old man in a long black coat—in this heat!—is standing by the cake stand, staring my way. Earlier, Jerry Cork's wife, Agnes, told me his real name is Luke, but he
moves so slowly all the time that they all call him Lively. “Look Lively!” they say to him. “Hurry up!” But he never can. Agnes said he is the slowest man she's ever met in all her days. Anyway, he keeps glancing my way. I get the feeling he wants to talk to me.

Another funny name they use is given to old Ely. They call him Fingers, “on account of how fast he can mend a fishing net—it's a sight to behold, is Ely, tying knots!” Well, he's certainly tying
me
in knots—following me all over the place! Because all afternoon, at odd times—playing ring toss, chatting to Agnes, selling a pot of jam—I've looked up and there he's been again!

He watched me come in here, to the summerhouse, watched me all the time. His forget-me-not eyes. Only sometimes they don't seem half as innocent as forget-me-nots.

Maybe I'm imagining it.

I keep looking for Epsilon.
“This is just one of my forms. I have others,”
he said last night, when I accused him of looking ghostly. He said he'd be here, he said I'd see him at the Greet. One minute I wonder if he is the man they call Lively . . . or Ely . . . or even Mrs. Shilling . . . or even the cat! Then I shake myself, tell myself I'm overtired, my imagination is going wild. Which I am. And it is.

It doesn't help that Epsilon had also said I'd see
“a friendly enemy”
here, and
“a hostile friend. You must not get
them mixed up.”

Mixed up? If I'm thinking the cat could be Epsilon, I'm more than a bit mixed up.

Later we're all going down to the beach for the barbecue—although someone must be down there already—I can hear them on Long Beach. Calling and calling, like they've lost their dog or something. A woman, I think.

A few things have happened. First, when I was standing there unfolding all my raffle tickets (I bought twenty! I was after the carved music box) I was eavesdropping on the doc and the man in the red beret. Mrs. Shilling—I am convinced of it—was eavesdropping, too.

“You a visitor then?” said Doc to the man in the red beret. “Lemon punch or gin punch? Have a bit of both—it's free to visitors.”

“How kind. Thank you. All set for later then?”

“Later?” The doc poured the drink into a plastic cup, handed it over.

“Well . . . you've waited a long time for this, haven't you?”

“The barbecue? Hardly! We have it every year!”

“Ah. Yes. Of course.”

“Er . . . I'm Dr. Parker. Look after all these people, for my sins! Call me Charles. And you are . . . ?”

The man in the red beret held out his hand.

“Pleased to meet you, Charles. Just call me Mike.”

They shook hands; then someone called the doc away to judge the cake competition. Off he went, clutching his belly and pretending to protest.

I stared at Mike, wondering. Could this be Epsilon? But he just seemed too . . . normal. He tasted his lemonade and pulled a face. Quick as a bird, Mrs. Shilling reached over—snatched his cup and took a sip. I couldn't imagine sharing a cup with that toothless old hag! But he didn't seem to mind.

“Not enough sugar!” said Mrs. Shilling. “I tell him, year after year. But will he listen? No!”

“Tell who?”

“Why—the Lemon Squire, of course!” she snapped.

The very mention of the Lemon Squire sent me whizzing mentally back to the documents in the first box, “The Ballad of Yolandë.” But before I could think anything through, I realized that the woman from the raffle ticket stall had been tugging at my sleeve awhile.

“Jessica? You're miles away, child!” she was saying. “You've won the bubble bath set! Lucky you—my sister had her eye on that.”

When I turned round, Mike had gone.

 

Then later, when we were sitting on the benches, watching the skipping games (all these little kids running in and out of
a long rope), I heard something else.

I heard it quite clearly. But no one else seemed to.

“Mama? What is it, Mama?”

“Shh! Can't you hear it? Someone on the beach, calling me. Mar-tha! Mar-tha! Over and over. Can't you
hear
it, Sebastian?”

I dropped my drink and whirled around. Nothing. Just Mrs. Shilling glaring at the spilled lemonade, tutting and muttering (“clumsy, stupid girl”) and swiping at the bench with a cloth.

But no one else was there. Well, there was, of course—about two hundred people, in fact. Just ordinary people, all cheering the kids as they jumped in and out of the skipping rope, taking turns until someone tripped up and was out. The winner was obviously going to be the child who lasted the longest.

Then the skipping rhyme changed.

 

“Winken, Blinken, and Sharry-arry-odd!

Who is our devil and who is our god?

Is it a swan or a goosey goosey gander?

IN jumps the one we call Yolandë!

 

“How many feathers does Yolandë bring?

One-two-three-four-five, we sing.

OUT jumps the devil and IN jumps god!

Winken, Blinken, and Sharry-arry-odd!”

 

Mrs. Shilling was still standing behind me—I could smell her.

“Mrs. Shilling,” I turned and asked, “who
is
Yolandë?”

“Never mind that—where is your mother?” she snapped. “You must be
vigilant
, girl!”

Sure enough, when I turned round, there was Mom leaving the garden. She had a strange, intent look on her face. Eager, even. I raced after her.

“Mom, Mom! Where are you going?”

“I'm going to find her,” she said.

“Oh, Mom—find who?”

“She's down on Long Beach, calling my name.”

“It's just someone calling her dog, Mom. Come on, let's go back.”

“Stop pulling me! Who is it? Stop pulling me and
listen
!
”

So I stood still to listen, to hear what they were calling. Went icy all over. But turned back to Mom, led her away with a bright smile.

“All I can hear is someone calling their
dog
. Now come on.”

“But I want to find her!” Mom looked as if she might cry.

“Oh, Mom! Look, sit here with Mrs. Shilling. I'll get you
a cup of tea. Two sugars. To calm your nerves.”

I left her on a bench, went to the tea stand. Two sugars for me, too.

I'd heard it, all right. A faraway voice, a woman's voice, very thin and sweet. In a funny kind of singsong, over and over. I've been hearing it all day, I realized, tugging at the very back of my thoughts. Not her name at all. Mine.

“Jess-i-cah! Oh, Jess-i-caaah!”

Over and over and over.

A chill ran down my spine.

LATER

Luke Lively just came up to me and said such a weird thing.

He sidled up to the shed just as I'd carried one of the folding tables back into it. Like Agnes said, he moves slowly, carefully, as if he's preserving his energy all the time. He also moves far too quietly for my liking. One minute I was alone. The next minute there he was, blocking the door.

“I've come to tell you. You are being led astray,” he said.

“Pardon?”

From outside the shed, the sound of laughter and the clatter of things being cleared away so we could all go down
to the beach.

“There is one who calls himself a Bright Being. But he is a Dark Being.”

I stared at him, my heart thumping. Here—out of the blue—someone waltzes up and mentions the beings. As calm as anything! I looked into his eyes and considered. Could this tranquil, careful man be Epsilon? I decided that time was running out—I had to grab any chance I got to solve all this. It was almost dusk.

“You know about the Bright Beings and the Dark Beings,” I said. “How?”

He turned to look over his shoulder, back at the sea, glittering there in the distance.

“You know that the blue whale exists, don't you?” he said. “Out there somewhere, under the sea?”

I frowned.

“Of course I do!”

“How? Have you ever
seen
one? Actually seen one for yourself?”

“Well . . . no.”

“There are other creatures, too, even deeper under the sea. They exist. The fact that few have seen them doesn't mean they don't exist. Some have never been seen at all—but they are down there, all the same. You have to learn to look at things in another way. With different eyes.”

I didn't quite know how to answer this strange speech, spoken by this strange man. Could this be the friendly enemy, I wondered? Or the hostile friend? I had no real way to tell.

“What did you mean,” I said finally, “I'm being led astray?”

“Just what I said. The Bright Being. He is not good. He has fed you with lies. Do not trust him. Do not trust his riddles and his music. Especially not tonight.”

Then he turned on his heel, and I was alone again in the shed.

So. A second warning about Epsilon. What had Mama said, in her note to Sebastian?

“His kindness to you is a lie—you must not believe it; he is one of the Dark Beings. He has bewitched you with his riddles and his music. Yet I cannot help you. It is all too late.”

Outside the shed, a blackbird sang in its tree and shadows crept across the garden. The sun was beginning to set. I was running out of time. But I didn't know what it was I had to do.

 

Food cheers anyone up, and the beach barbecue was
excellent
. Loads of chicken and hot dogs and that yummy fried-onion smell. Fish, too—mackerel! And plenty of it. I stood by the doctor and smiled down at the rows and rows of
sizzling fish.

“Well, Doctor—that's one way to get rid of it, I suppose.”

“Had to do something. Blasted freezer lid wouldn't close! Here—choose a fire and go and sit down. Eat! Eat! You look tired.”

There were four fires, strung all along Long Beach, right over to Coscoroba Rock. One big one (the barbecue fire) and three smaller ones. A different activity was happening at each small fire, it seemed. At the first, children were singing campfire songs, elbowing one another, all munching hot dogs. At the second, just gossip, a place to rock the tired babies, to talk softly.