The Riddles of Epsilon (10 page)

MY DIARY

Epsilon is driving me absolutely crackers! But I suppose he's right.

First—Mom's artwork.

Always before, it's been portraits.

Men, women, children, pets. People pay a small fortune for them. Her desk is littered with photographs sent from all over the world. She peers at them through a magnifying glass; she paints them, huge and exact. Japanese girls in blue silks. Toddlers in kilts and sporrans. Grandmothers holding tiny babies. She paints them all, muttering. (“I wish they'd take their ridiculous glasses off! How am I expected to see their eyes? It's all reflection!” and “Oh,
no
—not another Polaroid!”)

But lately, all that stuff has disappeared. The tricks of her trade—gone. Which is why Dad's panicking. It's the money, really—his photos just bring in peanuts, and he knows it. He's always desperately trying to win some
famous photography prize, but he never quite manages it. So he worries about money all the time.

Anyway, it started two days ago. All the paraphernalia of paints, tubes, brushes, turpentine—vanished. Just one minute brush left—an eyelash of a brush, I kid you not! And a single pot of black drawing ink. She keeps making funny little sketches in black. But she won't show me those. Yet she leaves the others all over the place—the ones of that haunting face. A woman's face, staring through strands of cloud or cloth or something. The same face, over and over.

“What's up, Mom? Where's all your portrait stuff?”

That shrug. That sigh.

“Nothing's
up
. Just felt like a change.”

“So who's this woman then?”

“No one. Just an idea. Leave me alone.”

Later, I noticed the tubes, photos, the half-finished grandma—all bundled together in the trash can. Mom! Who freaks out if I move one tiny paintbrush one inch along the desk!

It's as if these storms have got inside the house somehow and swept through her studio. The garden has the same look—the trees scoured bare, the lawn a mess of strewn boughs and clothespins plucked from the clothesline. The wheelbarrow upside down in the mud. Even the wooden bench, smashed to smithereens against the orchard wall.

As for Dad, he's actually just as bad. He's been jabbering on for two days about a swan on the lake—a black swan.
Click-click whirr
—he puts in a new roll of film, winds it, dashes back out again. He must have filled ten million rolls by now—all for one swan! Big deal.

I think They're both cracking up. I really do.

Meanwhile I sift through this growing file, sort the clues, reread Seb's diary pages.

It's all right for Epsilon. He's fine and dandy, floating around or whatever it is he does, safe and sound! Me—I feel stalked.

All I can really gather is this: Somewhere there is an old relic—a tooth—from a mythical being called Cimul. The ever-helpful-stupid Epsilon said that it's not the tooth that matters—it's the curse. So. Let's see.

King L'Ume cursed the tooth he zapped from Cimul's jaw. His curse also said that Cimul could never again
steal
anything—he had to be
given it
only, in order to possess it.

And Cimul spoke another curse: that if he and his followers possessed the tooth, they would use it in order to rule.

So whose curse is THE curse? The one that this is all about?

Pass.

Anyway, old L'Ume sent a bolt of lightning and Cimul's
tooth dropped out and then a kleptomaniac porpoise, of all things, grabbed it and took it under the sea and now dark thingies are looking for it.

Well, all that might be high on Epsilon's agenda, but it's not the highest thing on mine. Like . . . staying sane is! Because whatever's happening to me now happened to Sebastian, a century ago. And Seb seems to be somewhat losing it.

And Mom seems to be obsessed with shells. Just like Seb's Mama. But why are they both collecting shells? Why shells? Are they both cracking up?

But I suppose the tooth does keep cropping up, in the documents. Let's see . . . . How many times so far?

1. In “The Key”:

 

In the space below the well

A map to the
tooth
lies hidden.

The space is marked by an infidel
Whose hand reveals what's bidden.

 

Through merrow hair

In Neptune's lair

Past thirty fingers pale—

Then hark for a river

In the dark

And reach for the spout

Of the whale.

 

So the tooth is hidden somewhere under a well.

No, no. The
map
to the tooth is hidden under a well. Which well?
The
well, it says. Unhelpfully.

 

2. In “The Ballad of Yolandë”:

(This is a bit more vague, but—)

 

Winter's wrath will fade.

I search for the sweet
tooth

Of the honeyed summer—

All the treasures of her pale fingers of wheat.

 

Which, when you link it in with her hidden message, ties in with:

 

I stir in my wrath

For the treasures of the deep

Are hidden from my eyes.

 

So she appears to be looking for something, and it seems to be the tooth. But who is Yolandë anyway?

 

3. In the chant I heard at the tower:

 

Ours is for the Ouroborus!

Ours is for to be empowered!

Tooth
to tail we chant in chorus—

The innocent will be devoured!

One is nought and One is dead,

Because the tail is at the head!

Ours is for the Inverted Law.

Ours the jewel from Cimul's jaw.

 

So—two mentions of “tooth” again. But what is an Ouroborus?

Pass.

But at least I can now link up these tower men to the myth that Sebastian wrote down. “Ours the jewel from Cimul's jaw.” Cimul was the haughty prince, the Lord of Inversion. The jewel from his jaw is obviously the tooth, lost now under the sea.

But Epsilon said that these tower men are workers of the Dark Ones. That they sense that the relic has come to light somewhere. I wonder . . . 

If the relic was hidden for years and years under the sea—maybe it's gotten washed to shore? Maybe it has finally
just turned up, dislodged from under the sea, and now is lying somewhere on the beach?

Hang on . . . beach. Shore.

OH, I GET IT!

At least—I get one tiny bit of it! What do you find on a beach? What is brought onto the shore, all the time, by the tide? Shells! And who has been sifting through shells since all this began? Mom—and Seb's mama before her.

Both mothers are somehow trying to find the relic on the shore
.

But who told them to? The mysterious Yolandë? Is that why Mom hums that same tune over and over? Is it the same tune Seb's mama sings, the one he knows well? That would make sense. Seb has heard the tune—sitting at the hearth of Master Cork while he carved the pole for the Aroundy dance, ready for the Greet. His Coscoroba, he called it. And Mama sings the same ballad—“The Ballad of Yolandë”—night after night in her rooms. And now Mom is humming a tune, over and over. Is that also the ballad of Yolandë? I wish I could find a copy of the music—then I could compare the tune.

And the face that Mom draws, over and over? It must be Yolandë—surely? But who
is
Yolandë? Oh, it's driving me crazy. All I know is, whoever it is, they have somehow
involved both mothers in all this.

 

4. Finally, scribbled in English—not symbols—on the back of the document called “The Key”:

 

Lemon Sq.

Ecclusad 5

Cloves—
tooth

 

B-I-G S-I-G-H!

The other thing is the name Agapetos. I knew I'd come across that before, and sure enough, I found it at last—in Sebastian's very first diary entry:

 

As Agapetos is my witness,
so signed by my hand, this 14th day of July, in the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and ninety-four. Sebastian Wren, aged thirteen years.

 

So Sebastian knew about Agapetos before he read the history, and used the name not just to make himself brave but to bear witness to the truth of his writings and diary. So, to Sebastian at least, Agapetos was no myth—he was real.

 

(I wish Dad would stop knocking on my door.
When
will he ever get the message? I've told him a zillion times! If he
knocks and I don't answer, it's because I DON'T WANT HIM TO COME IN! Mom doesn't even knock—she waltzes straight in. They are both driving me insane.)

 

Talking about gathering shells—Mom was at it again this morning. Only this time she didn't even dump the bag out into Dad's hollyhocks. No.

She tipped the whole lot out onto the kitchen table, yakking away all the time as if it was normal! When Dad jumped to his feet (toast in one hand, butter knife in the other), she stared at him in astonishment. As if
he'd
just done something weird!

“Whatever's the matter with you lately, Richard? You're so . . . odd!”

Dad stared at her as if she was crazy. Which she is.

“Odd!
I'm
odd?!”

She watched a blob of butter slide slowly off his knife,
tsk
ed, and wiped it carefully away with her napkin. Among all that mess!

“Yes, Richard—odd. Dashing off at all hours to photograph ridiculous swans. Jessica, close your mouth. You look quite foolish.”

Dad and I stared down at the tablecloth. Shells, stones, bits of seaweed, and sand. Sand everywhere, even in the butter dish.

Dad lost it.

“Well, I do beg your
pardon
, Elizabeth! I mean to say, I thought it was quite normal to sit at the table and eat breakfast, I thought that was what tables were for—didn't you, Jess?”

“Oh, no—don't bring me into it!”

“But no! I am quite wrong, quite
odd
, in fact. After all, what is normal about a wildlife photographer photographing wildlife? Very weird, I do agree. Whereas your behavior is most rational. Oh
ho
, here comes Mrs. Neptune carrying half the beach! By all means, dear, come and tip it all over the breakfast table, be my guest, I mean to
say
!”

I was staring down at the tablecloth, fascinated.

From under a piece of seaweed, a minute crab scuttled, tapped its tiny pincers together, then froze. A second later, another, which ran and hid under a spoon.

Mom saw me staring and looked down. She clicked her tongue, and a look of huge concern came over her face. Then she reached down and picked them up—one, two—one in each hand, delicately, between thumb and forefinger.

“Silly little things . . . let me take you back!” she said.

Then she was gone, and Dad hurled his toast against the clock and stabbed the butter knife right into the bread, where it stuck like a dagger in a head.

“Blasted
woman
!” he yelled. “I'm going out!”

And he did.

So I sat there alone and stared down at the scattering of coastal specimens. It looked like a school nature table. Then I began to laugh. I laughed till I cried, till tears rolled down my cheeks. I mean, miniature crustaceans and marmalade! I kept thinking of Avril and her wacky backy. My parents don't need such things as drink and drugs—They're spaced-out enough on their own little planet as it is.

(Oh, hell! It's no good—he's back. I will kill him if he won't stop knocking on my door. Back later.)

BACK ALREADY

Well, it wasn't Dad.

It wasn't anyone!

Just a neat little posy on the floor. Five tiny white flowers and one big black feather stuck in.

A peace offering from Epsilon? Awwww!

But maybe also a nudge. A bit of a prod. “I have to show you a picture,” he said. “A round picture. In a square frame. Down at the cottage.”

And while I'm there, I may as well have a look at that kitchen floor.

To say nothing of trying to unlock the third box, to see if it will open. You never know.

MY DIARY

But I never did get the chance to try the third box. Not just then, anyway.

By that time, I couldn't have even picked up a key—let alone fit it into a tiny lock! My hands were shaking too much to be able to do
anything.
They still are. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

It was odd that all the way there, I felt so uneasy. Different. Not just watched—that feeling's there most of the time now. It's hard to explain, but I felt like a watch spring that was being wound tighter and tighter. A sense of urgency that was getting bigger.

I must have looked round a dozen times, expecting to see someone following me. But there was only Domino, leaping about, sniffling for rabbits. He seemed fine, so I told myself it was just me, just my imagination—like poor old Sebastian, getting freaked out in the small library.

It's a bit cooler now, after the storm. But only a bit. The cottage kitchen is always cooler than the bedroom—it must be the stone floor that does it. Talking of which, Epsilon had specifically told me to take a closer look at it. So that's where I began.

At first, nothing seemed obvious. Just a floor made of small stone slabs. But wait—not stone exactly. Not like the stone of the walls. More like . . . slate?

Also, the slate slabs were not very big at all—not wide and long, like floor slabs usually are. These were smaller—small squares of slate, each one only about seven inches across.

This seemed an odd, fussy way to lay a floor. I felt there was something I was missing here—that this floor had been laid like this for a reason.

I couldn't see the whole of the floor until I'd moved stuff to one side. The rocking chair. The heavy table—it took me ages to shift that. Then the two faded rugs at the far end—I dragged them out the back door and temporarily dumped them in the garden. Then I went back inside and looked all round.

Then I saw them. Here and there, in the floor, were little indentations or shallow bumps. Kneeling down, I peered at one more closely. A curly thing, lodged in the slate, about the width of my hand. Tiny coils, all snuggled together in the slate.

Fossils.

I thought back to Mom's book on fossils, the one she'd used to identify the belemnite. (The usual wave of dislike swept over me as I thought of her.
“Oh, wow. A baby stone carrot! Why can't she give me a CD, like other moms?”
) These fossils weren't long and thin like the belemnite, but round and coiled up. Ammonites. The remains of shelled creatures, fallen into the silt millions of years ago. Lots of them—but not dotted about evenly at all.

They were roughly in two groups. One group spanned one corner of the room, the other spanned the opposite corner. The spacing within each group seemed random. Nevertheless, I got the distinct feeling that the layouts of the two groups were quite deliberate, with that definite gap between them.

Staring at the floor, I suddenly wondered if the reason the slabs were cut so small was so that the floor could be more easily laid into this pattern. Some of the ammonites were spaced quite close together. This would be hard to do if you were working with large slabs of slate, each with just the odd fossil in it. So the slate would have to be cut smaller, the ammonites carved out of the larger pieces and joined together to make the pattern work.

But what was the pattern? Looked like nothing to me.

I shrugged, baffled. All I could do, I decided, was to copy
down each set of fossils and put it in the file, in case it was important.

So I did just that—had to stand on the table, risking my neck, to get a decent overview. But I managed it in the end.

So here are the two separate sets of patterns from the kitchen floor. One a set of ten fossils, the other a set of nine.

When I'd finished and had replaced the rugs, I had a slow prowl all around. “I like ancient things,” Epsilon had said. Now, as I looked around, I saw that the place was crammed with them. On shelves and in corners, stuffed everywhere in fact, were things made long ago by the earth itself. Things made over millions of years, formed below ground.

A huge lump of fossilized wood, with the scales of a pine tree clearly etched into it.

A split-open rock with what looked like purple quartz inside.

A big wobbly blob of fossilized larva, laid on a shelf as if at any minute it would pour off and drip to the floor.

A long slender stalactite, laid along the top of the bookcase.

And—on the large shelf—a carving I'd not noticed before, dusty and dark. It was a dark piece of oak, bigger than my head, and carved into a perfect letter O. The whole thing felt heavy and dense when I picked it up and had an unusual feel to it. “Bog oak,” I whispered to myself. But so perfectly carved into that smooth circle.

Was it the letter O? Or was it a number—zero? Maybe Epsilon just liked round things. Round ammonites. Round rugs. Round pictures on the walls.

Suddenly I remembered what I'd come here for.
“A round picture. In a square frame.”
I turned my attention to the
pictures on the walls. Down in the kitchen—pictures of herbs and plants with long Latin names. All the pictures were round, but none were held in a square frame.

So I went upstairs, and I saw it at once.

Just above the sky charts, sitting all alone. A large round picture in a square golden frame. I went closer and lifted it down from the wall. I dusted off the glass and stared.

It was nothing. I mean—nothing like I'd expected. Disappointing. Just a circle painted in gold onto a black background. Again, the middle was missing from the circle. Just a letter O, drawn in gold. The same shape as the carved O downstairs.

I stared at it, wondering. Something kept stirring at the back of my mind. Not just one thing—several things. As if I'd come across a reference to this shape quite a few times but couldn't quite bring them to the front of my mind.

The frame was getting heavy. So I carried the whole thing over onto the hammock. As I tilted it to heave it on, I noticed something on the back. Another picture. Another circular thing. But this time done in
black
on a
gold
background. The same image, but with its colors in reverse.

I laid it flat on the hammock and bent over it.

It was a snake. But a snake curved into a perfect letter O. Only not quite perfect—I could see that now.

There was a tiny gap in between the tail and the open
mouth. The mouth had fangs curving out of it, and the snake in the picture was about to eat its own tail. Two words were written in scaly lettering under the snake:

THE OUROBORUS
.

Looking at that snake made me feel sick and weary. The very air seemed thick and gray. And there was something else. The distinct feeling of a pair of eyes on me. Not the usual feeling of being watched at all. The absolute certainty that I was no longer alone in this room. That someone else was in here with me, and was now staring at my back.

Slowly I turned around.

It was by the desk.

The shape of a man. A tall man, standing still and staring straight at me. He was all dressed in dark shadows.

One hand rested lightly on the desk. Just hovered there, as lightly as a fallen leaf lies on the surface of water. But the eyes of this man were not like any eyes I have ever seen.

“Welcome,” he said.

 

What do you do when you see a ghost? Or a spirit, or a being from another time, or whatever he is? I don't know what anyone else would do. I just know what I did.

I screamed. Then I clapped my hand to my mouth.

“Do not be scared,” he said. “My name is Epsilon. I see you've found it at last.”

He pointed toward the snake picture, then looked at me with enquiring eyes.

I nodded. (Yes-I've-found-the-snake-picture-Now-go-away-because-I-think-I'm-having-a-heart-attack.)

He moved toward me. But it wasn't ordinary “moving” at all. It was like watching shadows gather in a cloud. All the edges of him were fuzzy, like he was trailing wisps of mist behind him.

He bent down and lifted up the picture. He turned the Ouroborus side toward me, then the O side, then back to the Ouroborus.

“Notice,” he said. “The one is the inversion of the other. This fact will be important for you. That is the only reason I have allowed the image of the Ouroborus in here.”

He replaced the picture on its hook—with the snake side facing the wall.

“But we can at least turn its face away,” he said. “I much prefer
this
side to the other. Don't you?”

I blinked. Nodded. Stared.

He walked over to the window and looked out over the sea. Even as I stared at him, he seemed to be evaporating. Getting even fainter. He gazed out the window for a moment, and even though his eyes stared only at the sea, I got the feeling he was actually seeing something else. Seeing many things. Then he turned back to me.

“Your father is at the lake, taking a photograph you need to see,” he said. “Your mother is in her studio, drawing something you must find. It is time for you to return to the Big House.”

I cleared my throat, tried to speak. It came out in a strangled little squeak.

“Now?”

“Now.”

I stood up, my legs very shaky. I still couldn't take my eyes off him. He was there—yet he was not there. I couldn't see anything about him clearly at all, like his clothes or his hair. Just shadows, moving all the time. And even as I stood up, he was getting fainter. All except his eyes.

His eyes were still clear. They shone. They were like—oh, I don't know. Like deep water. Or crystals—like the lights inside crystals. Clear and multifaceted and hard to look away from.

As the rest of him faded, his eyes went on looking at me, until they were all that was left. Those disembodied eyes stared at me for a long, long moment. Then they, too, vanished.

I burst into tears and ran sobbing down the stairs and out.

I cried with sheer terror all the way home.