Hollow Earth (26 page)

The tingling washed over his entire body, making his legs want to jump and his fingers dance. But then it grew stronger, stinging Solon’s flesh as if he had fallen into a patch of nettles. His gut burned. He felt sick. Swallowing bile, Solon continued painting, his brush never lifting from the parchment. He could feel the wall behind him move, as though whatever was bound in the cave drawing was pushing itself out of the rock and peat and reaching through Solon’s body to his heart. As he convulsed uncontrollably, the brush fell from Solon’s hand.

You cannot let the image control you, Solon. If you do, you will fail. We will fail.

Squeezing tears from his eyes, Solon exhaled slowly and retrieved the brush. Pushing back against the cave wall, he tightened his grip on his imagination and his brush. The fire in his gut eased a little; the tremors stilled.

A few minutes later, Solon’s nose began bleeding, but he was so lost to his imagination that he kept painting, his blood spilling across the vellum like crimson ink.

In the monastery courtyard, Rurik’s eyes were thin white slits. He was tired of waiting.

‘Bring me that child,’ he howled, pointing his sword at Mary, Solon’s niece.

Margaret screamed, lunging at Rurik. Two of the Viking guards forcefully restrained her, while a third tossed Mary to the ground in front of Rurik as if she were a rag doll.

The sun was up.

With the tip of his sword, Rurik swept a braid from Mary’s face, exposing her thin neck. Somewhere in the distance, a cock crowed. A crushing silence descended on the courtyard. Even the sounds of mothers weeping and the soft dirges of the monks were muted.

The Abbot watched the old monk slump to the ground, noting the beads of perspiration bursting across his forehead, his breathing laboured, his eyelids fluttering as if a wind was blowing on his face. The old monk’s hands, tied behind his back, looked as if they were gripping an imaginary quill, his fingers twitching. The Abbot looked directly at Mary’s mother, who had dropped to her knees between her captors, her hands clenched in prayer.

Rurik had lifted his sword high above his head, preparing to swing, when a shadow fell over the little girl – the shadow of a man in chain mail and laced boots. The sun was just high enough to cast Rurik’s own shadow low and long on the ground, but the more Rurik stared, the more confused he became. It was his shadow but it was somehow … stag-like.

Above the Viking chief, a flying beast with the wings of a giant bird and the body of an enormous white stag swooped down into the courtyard, stabbing its antlers into Rurik the Red, lifting him into the early morning sky. The Viking’s sword clattered to the ground next to Mary. Her mother broke free of her captors, pulling her daughter to safety.

Rurik didn’t even struggle. An antler had pierced his heart. The stunned villagers stared at the beast’s shadow on the courtyard cobbles morphing from the shape of Rurik the Red to that of a mighty winged stag.

‘Solon’s on its back!’ someone cried.

The sight of Solon riding on the back of the peryton, Rurik the Red’s body still impaled on its antlers, roused the villagers from their panicked stupor. They lifted their weapons and attacked Rurik’s stunned men. Grabbing their pitchforks, spades and scythes, the men and women of the village charged after the Viking invaders as they fled in terror from the monastery into the forest.

The Abbot comforted the old monk as only a Guardian could. ‘My dear Brother Renard, what have you done to yourself?’

They watched Solon guide the peryton back towards Era Mina.

‘I had to be the one to awaken the cave paintings because I am oldest,’ Brother Renard sighed, resting his head on his friend’s lap. He paused, his breathing shallow and weak. ‘And because although he is destined for greatness, Solon can’t yet animate fully on his own, and I needed all the imaginary power I could muster.’

‘You used Solon as your quill?’ said the Abbot, stroking Brother Renard’s trembling hands and calming his spirit. ‘And through him you conjured one of the beasts bound in the sacred cave paintings?’

The old monk nodded.

The Abbot felt sad. ‘My friend, you know there will be a price to pay for that animation. You have broken the First Rule by creating an animated beast visible for all to see. And look at you. You may have broken your own mind.’

You did well, Solon.

Thank you, master.

Animating the peryton through Solon’s imagination had drained the life out of Brother Renard. ‘A child’s life was at stake,’ he whispered, looking across at the girl being cradled by her mother. ‘And that’s worth more than ten of me.’

‘Why the peryton, old friend?’

Images were streaking past Brother Renard’s eyes, as if everything he’d ever animated in his life was real once again. ‘The peryton is pure and noble. I couldn’t risk letting the worst of them loose on the world.’

‘Of course,’ said the Abbot, understanding at last as he watched Solon and the peryton soaring out over the horizon. ‘You had Solon draw Rurik’s shadow as the creature’s shadow, because a peryton kills only once in its lifetime – and only then in order to win its shadow back.’

FIFTY-ONE

Auchinmurn Isle

Present Day

‘W
e should’ve looked inside the satchel when we had our chance,’ lamented Em, pacing in front of the fire in the upstairs sitting room. Every few steps, she’d kick the leg of the couch in frustration. Her toes were starting to hurt.

‘Would’ve, could’ve, should’ve … it doesn’t change anything,’ said Matt, sticking a slice of bread on a toasting fork and holding it in front of the flame.

‘You know we have a toaster for that,’ signed Zach, examining the charred piece of bread that Matt passed over. ‘It’s more efficient, and you’re less likely to burn the bread.’ He set his toast down on the arm of the chair.

‘But that’s the best part,’ said Em, accepting a scorched slice from her brother. ‘We used to make toast this way with Mum all the time in the flat in London.’

Where was their mother right now? Was she safe? Would they ever see her again? Matt, it seemed, was trying not to think about it as he stuck another piece of bread on his fork.

Zach pulled his chair closer to the fire. The storm earlier that day had left the Abbey damp and chilly despite the later warmth of the afternoon. ‘If Dad had discovered the satchel, he would have confronted us about it.’

‘Maybe,’ Em said. ‘Unless he found something inside that he doesn’t want us to see or know about.’

Matt crunched on his burnt toast. ‘I’m pretty sure that if Simon had had the satchel,’ he said between mouthfuls, ‘he’d have been willing to share its contents with us.’

‘Then who’s got it?’ said Em, curling up on the couch and pulling a blanket over her legs.

‘What about Mara?’ signed Zach.

The twins looked skeptically at him.

‘I know we don’t want to think she might be hiding things from us, but—’

‘Well, if you’re thinking like that,’ said Em, resting her palm on Zach’s moving hands, ‘Jeannie wasn’t with us either. It could just as easily have been her.’

Matt flopped on to the couch next to Em just as Zach got up from his chair. ‘Why don’t we at least go and look in Mara’s room to put our minds at rest?’ he signed.

‘Now?’

‘Why not? If she has got the satchel, it can only be in her bedroom or in her studio. She’s not back yet from dealing with the police and those two in the swamp.’

‘I’m not sure I’m up for any more covert activities tonight,’ said Matt.

‘Me neither,’ said Em, snuggling deeper into the couch with Grace Fortescue’s diary, the book she’d been reading.

Zach changed the subject reluctantly. He opened up his laptop, despite the loss of computer privileges, and paused just long enough to ask, ‘So what do you think’s going to happen to Tanan and Blake?’

‘Maybe they’ll be shipped back to London for trespassing.’ In a burst of energy, Matt bounded across the room, leaping over the back of the couch and just missing Em’s head. She whacked him with her book.

‘This isn’t the only seat in the room, you know.’

‘Maybe not, but it’s the only one where I can easily annoy you.’

Ignoring the twins, Zach lost himself in his computer until Em’s book came flying across the room, hitting him on the shoulder. He looked up to find the twins standing at the sitting-room door, torches in their hands.

‘We’ve changed our minds. We’re going to search Mara’s room. Are you in?’

FIFTY-TWO

T
he boys had been in Mara’s room fewer times than Em. They’d forgotten how fancy and fussy it was.

Draped in lush red velvet and layered with embroidered pillows, a four-poster bed dominated the room. Near the window there was a sitting area with two stiff chairs, a narrow high-backed couch and a round mahogany end table. Covering an entire wall, paintings ranging from massive to miniature sat in gilded frames, a number of them shimmering with the soft light that comes from the art of an Animare. Two full-sized wardrobes stood like sentries on either side of the door leading into Mara’s en-suite bathroom, and a roll-top desk with hundreds of pigeonholes stood centred against the far wall.

‘Em definitely got the better deal keeping watch down in the hall,’ said Matt. ‘This’ll take hours to search.’

The boys started with the wardrobes, figuring that if Mara had hidden the satchel it would have to be in something deep enough to contain it. Matt took the one on the left and Zach the one on the right. They’d hardly begun to look when Zach started chuckling.

‘I’m glad you find this funny,’ Matt growled. ‘I’ve never seen so many pairs of jeans outside a department store.’

‘You know, Em could never sleep in this bedroom.’

‘Why?’

Zach laughed at the thought. ‘Because she’d be animating these wardrobes into the character from
Beauty and the Beast
every time she fell asleep.’

‘Focus, Zach. Try to keep Em out of your head for at least five minutes, will you?’

What’s going on, Matt? Have you found anything?

Nothing yet.

Resigned to the fact that neither of them were going to get five minutes without Em in their heads, Matt returned to his wardrobe. But neither wardrobe hid anything worse than Mara’s clothes.

‘We’ve been here too long,’ Zach gestured. ‘The satchel’s not here. We need to go.’

But, as they turned to leave, Zach noticed the bed’s ornate legs and how high it sat off the floor. He pointed.

‘Under the bed! She wouldn’t have had much time between finding the satchel and leaving to deal with the police and Blake and Tanan in the swamp. Sliding it under the bed might have been her quickest move.’

Lifting up the heavy brocade bedspread, Matt checked under the bed. The only thing he could see was a flat wooden box, too small to hide the satchel in. He reached for it nonetheless and dragged it out.

In the box was a padded envelope, displaying the name and address face-up.

Matt shoved the storage box back under the bed. ‘Why would Mara have a package addressed to us?’ he asked. He looked at the postmark and the stamp. It was from the National Gallery, and had been posted to the island the day before they arrived from London.