The Riddles of Epsilon (5 page)

MY DIARY

Mom and Dad think I'm resting. And so I am—here, in the cottage. I brought a dishcloth down and a few cushions, and I dusted the rocking chair. Now I'm sitting here yawning in the kitchen, staring at my finds.

Upstairs is cozy—if you can get used to the heat. I had to come down in the end, it was so stifling. Plus there's only one room I can get into—without risking the roof caving in on me, I mean. The other room is empty anyway, nothing in it apart from a pile of slats and laths from the roof, the odd tile or two. Oh—and a pigeon's nest. (I don't know who was in more of a flap—me or the pigeon!)

But the main bedroom seems safe, and I don't just mean roofwise. It just has this feel to it—as soon as you step into it, you feel different. Like in those sci-fi movies when they step through a time shield or something. The bed is not a bed—it's a hammock, of all things. But all draped round
with thick Oriental rugs on the walls; pity they're so dusty. At first I thought I'd clean the place up. I pulled at one of the rugs near the window. It fell into shreds in my hands. So much for that idea.

Whoever Epsilon may be, he sure was messy. Jars everywhere, with old curly labels: stuff like
BLACKENED THYME
, and
PRESSED LAVENDER OIL
, and one that said
SPICES FROM THE ORIENT
.
I had a sniff of that and nearly keeled over—the scent was still there, nearly knocked my head off! Maybe Epsilon was some sort of pharmacist? I keep saying
was
, but of course, whatever he was he still
is
. I keep going round and round in circles about him. Sometimes I'm convinced that if he's anything at all, he's just a pimply hacker, sitting somewhere on the mainland and having a laugh at me. But how can that be? I'm in his house. Or his ex-house. Like I said, round and round in circles.

Anyway, there's so much to look at, I almost forgot what I'd come for. For instance, there are two huge sky maps on the wall. Old, faded parchment—I didn't dare touch them. One had the usual stars on it—Orion and the Big Dipper and the Pleiades and stuff. The other had stars I've never heard of: Cygnus, and Gienah, and Tau and Sadr. They were drawn by hand, in very fine lettering, and in one corner of the parchment, guess what I found. Epsilon's name, written in symbols, and his sign—that half feather toppled over! I
grinned stupidly at that—felt like I'd found an old snapshot of a long-lost friend.

There were more things with his name on, too—especially on the desk. The desk is one of those old things with compartments and papers, books, envelopes, and all sorts of stuff crammed in. I have to admit, I'm a bit of a snoop. I gave a little squeal of delight and reached out to rifle through it all.

It was the oddest thing—I couldn't touch the papers.

I tried again and again, but just when my fingers almost had them, something stopped me. I could touch the quills—dry, ink-stained things—and the inkpots strewn about. But not the papers. It's as if I'm only “allowed” to look at certain things, and the rest are out-of-bounds. Suddenly I felt shaky.

I hated it—the very thought of someone watching me—controlling my actions. Preventing me from doing something. Epsilon? For the first time in that room, all the hair stood up on the back of my neck. It was as if someone was staring at me from behind my back.

Uneasy, I straightened up and looked over my shoulder. When you do this because you're nervous but don't really expect to see someone there, it's an even bigger shock when you do see someone! Because there he was again.

A man stood there—over by the drapes. A very tall man
in a long, dark coat. He was standing very still, staring straight at me. I nearly died of shock. Then I blinked, and it wasn't a man. There was no one there. Just a full-length mirror in the shadows, and me, staring out of it, white as a sheet.

I had to take a break then, calm myself, think. Just me in a mirror. But not me. I had seen him—his long coat. His intent face. Was it Epsilon watching me, stopping me from seeing certain papers, private things? Or—even more scary—was it the “other one” who was watching me? The Eye of Miradel?

What did the word “Miradel” mean, anyway? I decided I'd have to find out. Maybe it was just a place name? If I found a map, found where “Miradel” was on the island, maybe I'd find the other one who was watching me—the one Epsilon had warned me about. But I wasn't sure I wanted to find out. All this was too scary.

But then it occurred to me that even if that
was
Epsilon standing there, he might not mean me any harm. After all, I'd been invited here. Epsilon had
told
me to come here and find something linked to Sebastian. So that's what I had to do. Eventually I calmed down enough to carry on my search. Shakily, I went back over to the big desk.

There was a large drawer in this desk. This, too, was carved with the Epsilon. I found I could open that easily.

Inside were three boxes, all neatly lined up. I blew the dust away and picked one up. They are quite small, about five inches long—all identical—wooden boxes, each with a keyhole set in silver. And in the corner of the drawer—the key.

This is a beautiful thing—silver, full of curlicues on the part you hold. I smiled when I saw the actual teeth of the key. What else but the shape of the Epsilon?

The key fit every box. But only one would open. The first one in the line. It opened with a small click. Inside, it was stuffed with more papers. Three of them. I unfolded them all carefully.

One had symbols written on it. One seemed to be the words of a song. The last was headed
DIARY
.
And although I'd seen his handwriting only once, I recognized it instantly. Sebastian Wren's.

A strange, cold feeling grew in the pit of my stomach and spread out to my whole body. Sebastian Wren, who had lived more than a hundred years ago and yet who had somehow dreamed about me. Here in my hand were another few pages written by him—his diary pages, old and faded. It was like a hand reaching through the years, reaching through time to find me, standing there in the bedroom of the cottage. I had the clear impression that what I was about to read would change my life forever. This made my hands shake as I carried the papers over to the hammock. My legs were
wobbling so much, I needed to sit down, and the cushions of the hammock looked cozy and comforting.

I settled down into the hammock and started to read.

First I read the page of Sebastian's diary.

 

I am sitting writing quietly in the hammock. Epsilon has just gone, once again bidding me write all this down. Although he is making as little sense as he usually does, about this girl. My name for her—“the girl with the world in her hand”—made him laugh outright. “And thou calls ME a riddler!” he said. He told me there will be wondrous things in later times, such as candles a person does not have to light; he said they will light up whole rooms at the touch of the hand! But I do not believe much of what he says. This girl, he also says, I must assist when the time comes. But how can I help a girl from within a dream? Although I would sorely like to assist her—she looked most troubled and had the air of one bent under a great weight.

He keeps telling me also to look after Mama. This worries me greatly, for I fear she is indeed ailing in some way. She stares into the candles, she sighs and does not speak, she goes for many solitary walks down to the shore, she comes back looking as lost as when she did set out. Epsilon tells me all is not well with her. Papa, of course,
barely notices. I dared this last evening to knock upon his door. I asked him to send for a physician to Mama. But he became angry at once, saying that physics cost much money and there is none nearer than the mainland and please to go out and refrain from invading his privacy, they do not call it the withdrawing room for nought.

Meanwhile, the villagers are all preparing for the Greet. They sometimes let me partake of their busyness, although always I feel the outsider, after seven years of dwelling here! But Master Cork from the end cott is not like the rest. He does not mock me for my “elegant” voice and ways, and 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. He tells me tales, too, and sings as he works, or his grandam does when he falls quiet. Master Cork has a fine deep voice and sings the old songs well. But old Mistress Cork's voice is not so fine!

My favorite of his songs is called “The Ballad of Yolandë,” for it has a tune peculiarly soothing to the ears. It has many strange words, yet the music makes them all flow together as if with no seams. And since Epsilon told me to search well in the old ways, and to mark in particular any mention of Yolandë, I did write the whole sweet
verse down late at night. As I was smiling down at my paper, Epsilon then appears and makes me fly up in fright and upset my whole inkpot! He says he is come to warn me that “Shining stars may be cold to the touch” and to read this song with care.

I am getting weary of his old-fashioned mannerisms and his great need to be ciphering, for then he announced: “The key of this ballad is V then V then V then V.” The which has given me nothing but a headache this whole long day.

Mama is sore pressed to prepare her share of the banqueting table, and so is taking some of her ready preserves to the Greet instead. She said, “Oh, Sebastian, I be too wearied to knead the bread, what with all the shells I am working to gather!”

I wish very much she would stop gathering these shells, since no one has set her this task but she. But there she is, every sunup, turning the whole shoreline over in the bay. And back she comes, her aprons full, and she tumbles the shells and stones all together into the garden, where they flatten Father's hollyhocks.

What work is it that you do, Mama? What is it you seek? (I asked it of her, tired of her hand wringing and sighing.) But she turned her tired eyes upon me and said, “Why, nothing, son! I seek nothing at all but peace.”

Meanwhile, she walks her bedchamber at night and hums. 'Tis strange, as she hums “The Ballad of Yolandë,” although where she has heard it I cannot tell, nor will she tell me.

I must put away this, my paper. Papa will be waiting for me back at home, pacing the hallway and frowning as usual. I must help him load the kitchen benches and settles into the handcart, to take over, ready for the Greet. Also, the task has been given me of taking Mama's preserves tomorrow, the which she is busy labeling. They are heavy enough a burden to push over the miles and will be in grave danger of shattering before I ever reach Milton House. Then Father will be displeased with me again, no doubt. But then again—when is he ever not?

 

It was the freakiest thing in the world, to sit in the same hammock Sebastian sat in and read something he wrote so long ago—about me. The girl with the world in her hand. My globe lamp. I suppose if he was only used to candles and oil lamps, me switching on my globe lamp must have seemed like magic to him. Or sorcery.

It gave me a bit of a start, too, to see that soon—in his time—the Greet is coming up. Just like here and now. It's like I've slipped into a time warp or something, watching things happening to him in 1894. Yet the events seem to be a
bit too similar for my liking, too close to my own life. For instance, Epsilon is trying to help him, too. And the Greet is coming up. And Sebastian is, like me, trying to work out what on earth is going on. Each time he learns a bit more, he writes another diary page. Just like I'm doing now.

I sat quite still for a while after reading it. Then I turned to the other two papers in the box. The first had the words of a song, written in Sebastian's fast, spidery handwriting.

 

The Ballad of Yolandë

 

Of the heather will I sing, its purple chimes.

Awake! Oh, the music, loud in those pipes!

And see—the hooves shed, long before time began—

I see all of them, hidden in the dark roots.

 

In my silvered choices I dance unchained.

Yet I hear the catted night stir.

I dance in celebration in the moonlight,

While calling my blue svelte night!

 

Winter's wrath will fade.

I search for the sweet tooth

Of the honeyed summer—

All the treasures of her pale fingers of wheat.

 

Her stories tighten the landscape,

Her standing stones, deep shadowed by children:

They are laughing,

They chant their hidden apple slumbers.