The Whispers of Wilderwood Hall (22 page)

I nod towards RJ's guitar. I've heard snatches of this tune a few times now, and bits of it are already sticking in my head.

“Nope, haven't got any lyrics – just some chords, really,” RJ says with a smile and a shrug. “I'm waiting for inspiration to strike. I'm hoping it might, now we're back home.”

“And it's so good to be back here, isn't it, Minnie?” Mum says to my pup in the sort of silly voice humans can't help using on dogs.

As Mum scratch-scratches at Minnie's ear, I see the white star on her wrist. I look over at RJ, and picture the matching star on his right wrist as he strums the strings.

White stars for love; love for Weezy, for Mum and for RJ.

White
stars that match the name of RJ's band.

“RJ,” I begin, as a question snakes its way to the forefront of my mind. “How come you called yourselves White Star Line?”

I'm remembering snippets of what Cam read out to me from the magazine article. In the shock of it all, the mention of the shipping company's name had passed me by – till now.

“Wow! Where did that question come from?” laughs RJ. “Well, when we were starting out, me and the lads shared a flat. We'd rehearse, then come home and stay up late watching whatever was on the History or Discovery channels. One night, there was this fantastic documentary on about the
Titanic
…”

The sun is warm on my shoulders, but shivers quiver up my back.

“… and at one point, they mentioned that the shipping company that owned the
Titanic
was called White Star Line,” RJ carries on, unaware of the effect his words are having on me. “I just looked around at the other guys and said, ‘That's it! That's our name!' Funny how things happen out of the blue, and then feel like they're meant to be, somehow.”

Like
we're meant to be here, somehow, I think, looking up at the grey granite of Wilderwood Hall.

And in that second I know I am not special and never was a “seer”.

Wilderwood is what's special.

Wilderwood called out to
me
the most, but to all of us in different ways, at different times, sending out its whispers, drawing us here to tell its story and stop it from rotting away in loneliness.

It tried with the hippy guy decades ago, filling his head and his dreams with visions of a sea where it shouldn't be, miles and miles and
miles
from a shore. It was too much for him.

And what
I
saw those first few days was almost too much for me to handle. But now – apart from the sometimes sad surprise of the magazine article – I feel peaceful, happy and right. And so does the house.

“Does that answer your question, Ellis?” RJ asks, smiling up at me, his eyes squinting against the sunlight.

“Uh, yeah,” I say, so caught up in my own thoughts that I'm trying to remember what my stepdad just said.

“So what've you got there, babe?” asks Mum,
noticing
that I've been distractedly swivelling the rolled-up magazine around in my hands like a baton.

“It's an article about the history of Wilderwood Hall,” I tell Mum, handing her the magazine, since RJ's got his hands full with his guitar. “You both need to read it.”

Mum lets go of Minnie to take the mag from me, and Minnie uses the opportunity to scamper off on new adventures.

I'm glad of the distraction. I'll leave Mum and RJ to read about what happened to all those long-gone people whose lives I briefly brushed up against when I slipped into their world, like a shadow from the future…

“Better go catch Minnie – back in a sec!” I call out to Mum and RJ as I hurry around the corner of the building in pursuit of my pup.

As soon as I'm out of sight, I slow down.

Minnie is fine, I can see, happily playing with an old pine cone she's found. So I flop down on the edge of the fountain that's out of sight of the terrace and watch her, all the while idly running one hand over the dark earth that Mum's been digging and loosening.

Breathe
, I tell myself, trying to get my heart rate back to normal.

Breathe
, I say again, as my fingers work down into the soft, cool soil.

Breathe…

Suddenly, I turn stiff and still, my burrowing hand sensing an unexpected change.

A coldness, a steely, shockingly bitter coldness. A deep, almost icy chill that's
wet
.

I stare down.

Water is lapping at my wrist.

Bending, staring, I see that the depths of it seem to have no end. It's as bottomless as some faraway ocean, light refracting and shifting and being swallowed by the deep blue.

And something's down there.

Someone.

I've been telling myself to breathe, but now take a deep, sharp gulp of air in. I'm startled – but not frightened – when I see that the someone is Flora.

She's fading away from me, sinking, sinking, arms star-shaped and eyes staring up into mine.

As she sinks further and begins to disappear into the watery shadows, I can just make out her mouth moving. I tilt forward and peer harder, trying to
make
out what she's trying to tell me.

“Sorry,” Flora is mumbling, over and over and over again, her urgent words rising in bubbles and the whisperings of them tingling my fingertips.

Then she's gone, vanished into nothingness, and my hand is lying in the soft earth again. I stare at the brown dirt, glad of the solid feel of it after gazing into the swirling, tilting, shifting uncertainty of the water.

Breathe…

I don't know how many minutes pass by in this numb blur, but I'm pulled back into the moment by Minnie tugging at the laces on my trainers.

“Hey, you!” I say with a smile, and bend down to scoop her up.

Cuddling her warm, soft body to my chest, I look around at the fountain, and wonder if it would be better to keep it this way. Maybe I'll suggest to Mum that we give up the idea of making the water flow and turn the fountain into a huge and beautiful planter. We could fill it with flowers – honeysuckle and terracotta roses, maybe – and I'll remember the sweet, brown-eyed girl Flora
almost
was…

“What do you think?” I say, gazing up at the building.

Sunlight chooses that very moment to glint on the
glass
of the upstairs windows of the servants' quarters.

I'll take that as a yes…

“Oi! Miss Johnstone!” I hear RJ call out to me. “Where are you? This story's amazing!”

At the sound of RJ's voice, Minnie squiggles in my arms, and I set her back down on the ground and brush the earth from my hands.

“Coming!” I call back as I make my way towards the terrace, accompanied by a yelping, yapping bundle of joy, and feeling pretty full of a sudden, startling sense of joy myself.

Because I'm done with whispers, but I'll never be done with where I've found myself.

This place, these forests, those hills, the endless, ever-changing Scottish sky…

If my best friend Cam asked me now for three words for his challenge, I'd shout them out loud.

“Home.”

“Happy.”

“Wilderwood…”

Down the line, there was a girl

That was lost,

The story goes.

Tale
told in whispers, through the years,

Never found,

The story goes.

Did she touch the sky, feel the air,

Breathe the salt, see the land?

The dream it died, and she was sunk,

Lost and never found,

The story goes…

From “Lost But Not Found”, by White Star Line

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First published in the UK by Scholastic Ltd, 2016
This electronic edition published by Scholastic Ltd, 2016

Text copyright © Karen McCombie, 2016

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eISBN 978 1407 16686 5

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