Hollow Earth Read online

  ‘Yes, well, I’ve always thought they were dangerous,’ said Luigi angrily. ‘The Calder twins are living examples of why we must hold steadfast to our traditions and rules. Those children … they’re … they’re scherzi di natura. Freaks of nature!’

  There were murmurs of agreement around the table.

  ‘I haven’t heard anything about the Hollow Earth Society since university,’ said Frida absently.

  ‘Hollow Earth is a myth,’ said Sir Giles, thumping his fist on the table and rattling the tea service at its centre. Frida shrank back against her chair. ‘We all know that an Animare’s drawings have a limited existence beyond the Animare’s imagination. To believe that somehow there’s a place where these …’ he waved his hand in front of the tapestry of the Grendel, ‘these beasts and other creatures have been trapped is beyond absurd.’

  Tanan strode across the room and placed his hand on Sir Giles’s shoulder, trying to calm him, but to no avail.

  ‘Despite the Society’s resurgence every few decades,’ Sir Giles ranted, ‘this Council has never found any proof that Hollow Earth is anything more than a tale told round campfires. As Luigi stated, what we should be discussing is that the Calder twins are an abomination of our kind. A dangerous hybrid of Animare and Guardian. And that’s why they should be bound!’

  The room erupted in a cacophony of shouts and accusations as the members of the Council weighed in on whether or not the Calder twins were indeed an abomination. Putting her fingers to her lips, Blake let loose an ear-piercing whistle to restore order.

  ‘Ladies and gentleman, please,’ said Tanan. Tall and immaculately dressed in a grey tailored suit, he cut a commanding presence. ‘You are Councillors. You are above petty squabbles. The fate of the imaginations of two young Animare is in your hands. This should be a solemn undertaking.’

  ‘Where is Sir Charles anyway?’ asked Henrietta restlessly. She gazed at the empty chair at the head of the table.

  The double doors opened and Vaughn Grant entered the room, carrying an ivory box inlaid with the images on the Celtic coins still lying untouched in front of the Council members. He handed the box to Henrietta de Court. Taken aback by the gesture, Henrietta quickly adapted and shifted to the empty seat at the head of the table. Vaughn placed a phone in the middle of the table and set it to speaker.

  ‘Sir Charles, everyone is present,’ said Vaughn, taking Henrietta’s former seat.

  ‘Good, good.’ Sir Charles Wren’s voice sounded reedy and cold. ‘My friends, I am unable to join you for this important vote because of a matter beyond my control. I have, however, let Vaughn know my vote, and with your permission he will act as my proxy. As has been the case since the twins were born and he took his stance on our rules, Renard’s chair at the Council table will remain empty. He will not have a vote in the matter before us.’

  The gathering murmured its consent.

  ‘Before the vote proceeds, let me say I am as saddened as all of you at Arthur’s sudden death … and in such a brutal manner. I know that you’ll trust my associates, Tanan and Blake, to remain on top of this and to keep us all informed.’

  Again, the gathering murmured its consent.

  ‘Now, to the Calder twins. We must make a decision today about their future.’

  ‘Sir Charles,’ said Frida, leaning forward to be heard. ‘We have never taken such a vote without the Animare in question being present. It’s a violation of our ancient protocols.’

  ‘Unfortunately, the twins are already in Scotland,’ replied Sir Charles dismissively. ‘We will take our vote without them present.’ Through the speaker, the Council could hear muffled voices and what sounded like an ambulance siren. ‘As you know, twelve years ago Sandie Butler and Malcolm Calder violated our Fourth Rule. By all means love and marry, but an Animare and a Guardian must never have children together. The mix of abilities can result in a fusion too dangerous to control.’

  ‘Hear, hear!’ acknowledged more than a few around the table.

  ‘There is not one example in our history of a child’s imagination being bound. But I would posit that in all our history, there have never been two Animare so powerful at such a young age.’

  ‘Sir Charles,’ interrupted Tanan, ‘we could learn a great deal from the Calder twins by studying them instead of binding them. A vote to bind them will only widen the growing split among us surrounding this issue. I suggest a compromise. Do nothing about the Calder children until they face the full Council on their sixteenth birthday.’

  ‘I appreciate your position, Tanan,’ barked Sir Giles, ‘but you don’t have a vote.’

  ‘The gold coin will be a vote for waiting until the children are sixteen,’ stated Vaughn. ‘The silver for binding immediately.’

  Tanan and Blake retired to talk in low voices at the window. Henrietta de Court slid the box to Sir Giles, who immediately picked the silver coin and dropped it into the box. He passed the box to Luigi Silvestri, who also picked the silver coin. Frida was next, dropping her gold coin into the box. This went on around the table until every member of the Council had chosen a coin and cast their vote.

  Vaughn slipped Sir Charles’s silver coin into the box and returned it to Henrietta de Court. She unlocked the brass latch and emptied the coins in front of her. She counted.

  ‘The vote is five silver coins,’ she said, ‘and five gold.’

  She stared at the two coins in front of her. She picked up the gold one.

  PART TWO

  SEVENTEEN

  The Monastery of Era Mina

  Middle Ages

  If Solon had not been in such a hurry when he dashed along the wooded path from the monastery’s stables to the Abbey, he might have observed the eerie quiet of the forest around him. No morning birds were singing. No animals were scavenging for their breakfast underfoot. No wind was rustling the treetops. It was as if the forest was holding its breath, waiting to exhale when the coming danger had passed.

  If Solon had not been in such a rush when he sprinted up the narrow stone steps of the Abbey’s north tower, he might also have taken a moment to glance out through the arrow slits in the thick wall, spotting the outline of a longship beached at the island’s cove, its short masts and square sail cloaked in the dim light of the coming dawn.

  But Solon was excited, missing both of these occurrences, because this morning the old monk would begin inking the final image in The Book of Beasts, exactly four years to the day since he had first started this momentous task. Today was also Solon’s thirteenth birthday, and to honour the day the old monk had promised that Solon could assist in the inking. Solon could hardly contain himself.

  At the top of the Abbey’s fortified north tower, Solon stopped in front of a wooden door. Carved in relief at the centre of the door was the image of a winged white stag: a peryton. On either side, equidistant from the carving, were two brass handles. Solon pulled a key etched with the monastery crest from the pouch he had hooked to his leather belt, manoeuvring it into an opening hidden under the peryton’s wing. Solon turned the key counterclockwise and pressed his ear against the carving, listening for the complicated series of weights and pulleys shifting inside the thick wood. When he heard the final pulley drop into place with a sharp click, Solon flattened himself against the door. With the carving digging into his back, he stretched his arms and grasped each of the handles.

  When he was sure of his grip, Solon took a deep breath and pulled the handles inward. Immediately, the door flipped backwards, tilting Solon upside down and placing him on the other side of the wall. Without a moment’s hesitation, Solon released the handles, expertly somersaulting off the door seconds before the handles locked down against the wood, trapping anyone still holding them. The door flipped another one hundred and eighty degrees, crushing against the stone floor anyone who remained trapped in the handles.

  Solon released the breath he’d been holding and let his stomach settle. He was in a small ante-chamber, no bigger than a monk’s cell.
It was pitch dark. Solon edged forward, his arms outstretched, until he reached a second door. This one opened without any tricks, leading Solon into the turret room, filled floor to ceiling with manuscripts and scrolls. This was the monastery’s scriptorium, the place where the monks kept all their written work. The only light filtered in through an arched stained-glass window set into the peak of the roof, turning the room into the inside of a kaleidoscope every time the clouds moved across the sky.

  The monks had built the scriptorium at the top of the north tower decades earlier, to protect the illuminated manuscripts from the ravages of fire and the destruction of robbers. When the old monk had first shown the room to Solon, the boy had been unable to stay for more than a few minutes at a time, his senses so overwhelmed by the power of the images captured in the scrolls and manuscripts. Solon had felt as if his head was going to burst. It was on that day four years ago that the old monk knew conclusively that Solon was a very special apprentice with imaginative powers of his own, and someone the old monk could trust with the monastery’s secrets. And so he had.

  The most important secret Solon had learned was that a few of the monks could make their art come alive: a magical power that they mostly kept to themselves, using it to make their manuscripts more beautiful than those of any other scribes in Europe. Many of the kings and queens and scholars who owned a manuscript illuminated by the monks of Era Mina felt as if they were transported to another world when they read. The monks called themselves Animare, which Solon knew meant ‘gives life to’ from the Latin he was learning.

  Solon was always a little stunned when he first opened the scriptorium’s door. Although the old monk had taught Solon how to concentrate, how to use his mind to quiet the explosion of sounds and images in his head, Solon couldn’t help letting his imagination loose whenever he was near the books. When fetching a scroll, sometimes Solon would stand in the middle of the room, allowing the drumming inside his mind to rise to such a crescendo that when he closed his eyes he could see the images from the manuscripts as if they were all flashing in front of him like the flip books he and the old monk made to entertain the village children.

  Solon loosened the straps on a leather portfolio that he’d left leaning against the wall the night before. He placed the final two pages for The Book of Beasts into the portfolio, separating the sheets of vellum with squares of silk.

  Solon looked down at the rough image of the final beast, the last one to be illuminated and the most horrible of all. He shivered and clamped his mind shut. Even the old monk had been resisting this page. The beast was a nightmarish one, perhaps the most feared of all the beasts in this part of the world: the Grendel.

  The Grendel was known in songs and poems all over the kingdom as the ‘corpse-demon’ or the ‘death-prowler’, the ‘mud-monster’ or the ‘serf of hell’ – a monster damned for eternity to crawl in the netherworld, the hollow in the earth between heaven and hell, feasting on the dead. The Grendel was the reason most villages in the kingdom would place freshly butchered animals around the site of a recent grave, hoping the Grendel would take the animal corpses, leaving their loved one’s body safe in the earth and thus their soul free to rise to the heavens.

  The old monk admitted to Solon that he feared if his power to control his imagination failed while illuminating the Grendel, there would be no stopping the monster from slipping away from the pages and digging itself deep into the island. Even the Abbot, the old monk’s Guardian, had tried to convince him to leave the page blank.

  Solon slung the portfolio over his shoulder and was about to leave the scriptorium when the monastery’s warning bell rang out from the roof of the south tower.

  ‘Invaders! Invaders!’

  Solon froze, listening in horror as the distinctive whistle of an arrow felled the monk sounding the alarm. For a second, there was nothing, and then the monastery erupted in screams and flames.

  EIGHTEEN

  London

  Present Day

  Inside a private suite at the Royal Academy, Sir Charles Wren was studying an ancient map of Scotland. The tapestry of the Grendel rustled on the wall behind him as the door opened, and Tanan and Blake entered the room. Gesturing them to sit, Sir Charles pushed the map aside with his bandaged right hand.

  ‘I know you’re anxious to get on with your task for me,’ said Sir Charles, ‘but I felt it important that we meet before you leave for Scotland.’

  ‘We know what must be done, Sir Charles,’ said Blake.

  Dressed in skinny jeans and a cropped jacket, Blake Williams looked more prepared to take on the paparazzi than a powerful Guardian. But Sir Charles knew better. He trusted Blake implicitly. She had worked for Wren for a long time, coming under the protection of the Guardians as a young teenager when her father, a brilliant graphic artist in New York and an old friend of Wren’s, had found it increasingly difficult to control his powers and had been bound by the American Council of Guardians. Since Blake had not inherited her father’s powers, she had been given the choice of remaining in America with a distant aunt or committing herself to Wren’s care and authority. She’d chosen the latter.

  Tanan, on the other hand, was a recent find, whose talents Sir Charles had quickly found useful. The man was photogenic and personable: important traits when dealing with the media. Since Arthur’s murder, Tanan had skilfully controlled the press, helping create and perpetuate the story that the painting, Witch with Changeling Child, had been stolen and that Arthur’s death was a tragic consequence of the art theft.

  ‘Sit, Tanan. Please.’

  ‘I’m fine, Sir Charles,’ replied Tanan, twisting the ring on his little finger. ‘I’ll be sitting on the plane for long enough.’

  ‘Very well. Let’s get started.’ Wren used his left hand to operate a remote. The lights dimmed, and a flat screen emerged from the centre of the table.

  A recent image of Matt, Em and Zach fishing off the jetty at the Abbey appeared on the screen. They had been with Renard for a month now, and seemed oblivious to the camera focused on them from a fishing boat across the bay. They appeared comfortable in their surroundings, looking like typical soon-to-be teenagers passing time on a late summer afternoon. Even in the short time since they had left London, Matt had grown. He and Zach were easily a few inches taller than Em, whose hair in the photograph was cut in a chunky chin-length style that made Sir Charles think of a Japanese cartoon character’s hair. Matt’s hair was still shaggy and unkempt, his love of scruffy old T-shirts still intact.

  ‘We know now, unequivocally,’ said Sir Charles, zooming in on Matt and Em’s faces, ‘that each twin is developing the imaginative powers of both an Animare and a Guardian. According to one of my Guardian contacts in Glasgow, the girl currently seems to be the stronger at sensing emotions, and her abilities to read people’s feelings are emerging faster than her brother’s. The boy, I hear, still has a temper.’

  Sir Charles’s wrapped fingers twitched, the recent memory of what the twins had done to him the day they fled their flat and trapped his arm in the wall still fresh in his mind.

  ‘We may have lost the vote to bind the children, but I will not lose what Sandie Calder stole from me. That said, it is imperative that the twins are not hurt when you capture them and persuade Sandie to release the contents of the satchel in exchange for their lives.’

  With another click of the remote, Sir Charles changed the image on the screen. This time the photograph showed the twins on their bikes, waiting at the island’s ferry dock. In quick succession, Sir Charles flashed up three photos of the twins and Zach leading a group of tourists into an island cave on the beach.

  ‘It seems the twins and Simon’s son have found a way to … “entertain” the tourists in order to supplement their pocket money.’

  Tanan stood, clearly impatient to leave. Ignoring him, Sir Charles continued to speak.

  ‘The twins have learned well from Renard these past weeks. They know something about who they are and what th
ey are becoming. Do not let your guard down, and do not fail to bring me back what I’ve waited for so patiently.’

  Sir Charles walked across the room and stood in front of the tapestry. He spoke with his back to the table.

  ‘Tanan, you’ve served me well these past months, but don’t mistake my trust for weakness. I need the contents of that satchel. And the Council must hear about none of this. Do you understand?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  Vaughn entered the room, carrying a small first-aid pack.

  ‘Are you sure you want them to use this, Sir Charles?’ he asked, opening the lid to display two vials of clear liquid and two syringes inside.

  Sir Charles took the kit and passed it to Tanan. ‘We can’t have those twins doing something clever again,’ he said, dismissing Vaughn, Tanan and Blake with a wave of his damaged hand.

  NINETEEN

  Auchinmurn Isle

  One Week Later

  Em was dreaming. It was the kind of dream where she was aware she was dreaming, but she couldn’t scramble her mind out of it. Her dreams were always so much more powerful now than they had been when she was younger.

  She was clinging to the face of a high cliff during a storm, an angry sea pummelling the jagged rocks beneath her. Soaking wet and shivering with fear, Em looked up to the dry tip of the mountain. Beneath her, furious waves were swallowing up men and women and animals, tossing their bodies against the rocks. Em tried again to wake herself up, but her thoughts felt heavy in her head. She tried to climb up the mountain, away from the vengeful water, but her arms and legs were numb.

  Em knew the story of Noah’s Ark, about how God had sent a flood to cleanse the earth of all its wickedness, and she knew that for centuries artists had been using the Bible as inspiration. She had somehow dreamed herself into a painting called The Deluge, which she’d seen with her mum on one of their trips to the National Gallery.

  Averting her gaze from the bodies thrashing in the water beneath her, Em made herself focus on what she thought had to be the edge of the painting, where a young girl had been dashed against a flat rock. A shimmering white angel floated above the girl, weeping.