The Riddles of Epsilon

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Epilogue

Author's Note

About the Author

Credits

Copyright

About the Publisher

MY DIARY

Down there, it happened. Down by the ruined cottage. That's where it all began. And I didn't expect any of it—let alone want it to happen to me.

I mean, I'm just an ordinary person. Jessica White, fourteen, no particular skills. So why me? But so much has happened since it all began. So much, in fact, I've decided I have to write it down. I found this huge empty box file in the small library. I'll make a record of the whole thing—the symbols, the flute; I'm even keeping the chat room printouts! I need to keep track of it all. Plus I'll go mad if I don't. Or maybe I am mad? After all, it's in the family—madness.

Madness is a distinct possibility.

THERE ARE TWO MEMBERS IN THE CHAT ROOM:

J
ESS AND
A
VRIL

AVRIL:
So have the Enemy calmed down yet?

JESS:
Mom and Dad? Are you kidding? You'd think I'd had tattoos done. It was only a tiny nose ring, for crying out loud! And it was over a week ago, before we even moved here!

AVRIL:
Hayley's mom grounded her, for a whole week!

JESS:
Poor Hayley!

AVRIL:
It ended yesterday. She'll be here any minute—we're off to a party.

JESS:
Lucky things! Say hi to her from me. Tell them I miss them all.

AVRIL:
So did they make you take the nose ring out?

JESS:
No way! That's why Dad isn't talking to me.

AVRIL:
So what's the new house like?

JESS:
Gross. Falling apart. Old. Full of crummy old stuff. My room's okay though—it's the whole attic. Massive. Half
carpeted, half bare boards—Dad's put a barre up, and a mirror.

AVRIL:
Cool! Your own personal dance studio!

JESS:
Well, there's not much else to do in this godforsaken dump. This will be my summer of hell. There are no kids here my age—just toddlers. If I didn't have Domino, I'd die of boredom.

AVRIL:
I miss taking him for walks. Mom
still
won't let me get a dog. How's he settling down?

JESS:
Oh, he loves it. Lots of rabbits and seagulls to chase. That's all he cares about.

AVRIL:
By the way, you left your purple leotard in my room, and your Swat CD.

V HAS NOW ENTERED THE CHAT ROOM

JESS:
I've been looking for that CD everywhere! Send it to me?

AVRIL:
Oops—doorbell. Hayley's here, gotta go. Talk tomorrow? XXX

AVRIL HAS NOW LEFT THE CHAT ROOM

V:
Greetings.

JESS:
Hey! Didn't know you could just butt in like that. This is a private room!

V:
So you think Lume is a godforsaken place, huh?

JESS:
What?

V:
For an island, it is a bit remote. But you are wrong. There's a lot going on here.

JESS:
I never said I was on Lume. Who are you?

V:
V

JESS:
V? What does the V stand for?

V:
V

V HAS NOW LEFT THE CHAT ROOM

MY DIARY

It's been sooooo hot all day. And I'm furious. Mad at the heat, mad at Mom and Dad. Sick and tired of this new place with all its stupid “wonderful ancient links.”

I don't care about any of that stuff—I just miss Avril. Not to mention swimming pools. Real ones, I mean—clean places to swim, with no seaweed in them to sneak around my legs like green snakes. Yuck.

So today I was determined to get out of doing Mom's latest task. I mean—sanding down another baseboard? Oh, puh-
leeze
! I'd rather sand my own skin than spend another minute doing this stupid restoration work. Big House, my foot! It's just a Big Pile of Rubbish. Mom inherited it but never wanted to live here until now. Well I wish she still didn't—it's nothing but a relic. The whole place is falling apart. As for Dad, he's just as bad. Mom's nagging him to mend the scullery door—it's almost off its hinges—but all
he can think about is
his
latest project.

“Come on, Jess—the chickens arrive tomorrow. We need to dig them a run—go get the spade, chop chop.”

Yes, Dad. No, Dad. Three bags full, Dad.

So I ran away—didn't even take the dog—just went. They can all get lost.

 

Today I found the only place I like here so far. It's a ways from the Big House, just above the cliffs. There's a small stone seat halfway there, so I can even have a break if I want to, on the way there and back—a place to sit and daydream.

Best of all, They don't even know it's here! It's really, really hidden—a huge clump of bushes and trees—you have to really fight your way in. Nettles, too—the place is thick with them. You need to wear jeans, sneakers, long sleeves, despite the heat. As it was, I got scratched to pieces.

I'd stolen the shovel from the shed, just to annoy Dad. Hah! Let him look. Serve him right. The shovel was my machete—I hacked my way through. Chop chop, Dad.

Suddenly I was through. And that's how I found the clearing.

It's quiet in there. A small clearing, circled by trees. Trees like high green walls, all round. You can't see the sea through them, but you can hear it, below in the bay. But
apart from that, there's hardly any sound. Just a stillness. Like stepping into a church or a bathroom with nothing in it.

Only there is.

Something in it, I mean.

 

A cottage. Or what's left of a cottage. Half stone, half rotting wood. Ivy all over it, the roof caved in at one corner. Broken windows. Like eyes. They made the hairs stand up at the back of my neck. And then I had the weirdest feeling—sick, cold, a bit dizzy. It doesn't feel like any normal place. But this afternoon, I shrugged the shivers off.

Tumbledown or not, it is a
fantastic
hideout. A good den, where They can never find me.

So. Time to explore.

The door was stiff, half off its hinges. The doorstep, an odd black stone, very shiny, as shiny as glass. Through the layer of dead leaves and yuck, some words shone through. Words, written on the doorstep! Carved, rather. Some English words, and some symbols of some sort. Weird. Curly signs and straight signs, quite pretty. The only two I can remember were like this:

Scraping the leaves away, I found the English words:

 

WHERE --SILON DWELLS

 

There were a couple of spaces where some letters were missing, worn away by long-ago footsteps. But still—it looked like part of someone's name.

And I suddenly realized I was about to step into a cottage with a whole history, a house someone had lived in, maybe even died in. Someone with the letters “SILON” in their name. Man? Woman? Old? Young?

I had to find out. It was time to go in. But the whole doorway was stiff to open and covered in brambles. Chopping away with the shovel, I could sense it behind them—that
stillness.
And the heat. The heat reached for me through the greenery, which is odd, really—broken windows, a gap in the roof, lots of air in the place. But
so
hot!

Insects buzzed in the roses that crawled over everything, inside and out. Climbing roses—they're all over back at the Big House, too, growing over everything. (“They just need taming,” Mom had said. “They've just gone a bit wild, that's all.” Hypocrite! If you ask me, it's her that needs taming.)

Anyway. The shovel hacked me a way in at last.

Maybe it was my eyes, after the bright sun? Maybe I was still feeling light-headed? I'm not sure. But I saw it, clear as day. Just for an instant.

A man stood in one corner. A very tall man, dressed in dark, long clothes. His hand rested on the back of an old, empty rocking chair.

But then I blinked, and suddenly it was gone. Not a man. Just an old coat, hanging on a cupboard door. One sleeve draped forward, onto the back of the rocking chair. That was all.

I was scared half to death, I can tell you! But then I stared around and realized what I'd found. The place is fully furnished. An excellent place for a den. Just wait till I tell Avril.

But for some reason, it was hard to walk a step farther, to explore. The whole cottage seemed to be watching me—
everything
seemed to be watching my every move. The broken glass on the kitchen cabinet in the corner—like an eye, winking. A dusty mirror on the wall, catching the flash of my eyes. And pots—pots everywhere, on shelves, tables, the floor—pots and boxes of all shapes and sizes. Everything thick with leaves and dust, in shadows where spiders lurked. The whole place felt odd—not unfriendly, really, just . . . Oh, I don't know. As if I wasn't welcome there.

I'm stubborn—or so they tell me all the time. So I whistled a bit, to tell these old walls I wasn't scared. But—I'm not explaining it very well—even the whistling was wrong. A strange tune, a bit oriental, one I've certainly never whistled before—it just seemed to go with the house. I stopped the tune, but it went on in my head, an eerie snippet of Arabian Nights.

That's when I stepped forward.

Something creaked. Something moved. I whirled round.

The chair was rocking!

Ever so slightly, it rocked and creaked. The black sleeve rocked with it, as if a dark hand had set it moving.

It was too much for me—I ran.

Out, out, out into the clearing, with the birdsong and the buzzing insects and the sun beating down.

I ran to the other side of the clearing and sat down by an old garden wall. I stared back at the cottage. I was panting, couldn't seem to stop panting. I stared at the door, the windows, upstairs and down. They stared back at me, clouds in their eyes. “Keep out,” they seemed to say.

Oh, I know it all sounds crazy, but honest, it was freaky. Really, really freaky.

Like the cottage was . . . sort of . . . alive. Or not the cottage. No. Something
in
the cottage, alive and watching and . . . in charge?

 

What made me turn then and press my hot forehead into the cold stone wall, to cool it down?

What made me get annoyed at the blasted ivy everywhere and drag a handful away, so my forehead could just touch stone?

What made me chose that one place—the only place on the wall (I cleared it and found out—there are no more)
with something carved on it?

There it was suddenly, in front of my eyes. An arrow.

My whole stomach turned over, I still don't know why. It was just an arrow, for heaven's sake. An arrow, pointing downward into the ground. But . . . what a weird place for an arrow! So close to the ground, and pointing nowhere. Just into the earth. Unless . . . 

Curiosity got the better of me. I glanced across at the cottage, but there was nothing wrong about it now. Just an old ruin, that's all. So I turned my back on it and began to dig.

Leaves first—layers of them, rotted to skeletons. Then the stones, and the earth—two, three feet of it. Down, down, directly under the arrow. It was tiring work, I can tell you, but I wouldn't give up.

Behind me, the house now looked snug and cozy, drowsing in the heat. I got the distinct feeling that the house was content again, watching me dig. Crazy—crazy girl! Get a grip! Get back to digging!

But I knew I'd find something.

And I did—seconds later, my shovel hit something with a dull thud.

And that's how I found the bucket.