The Daykeeper's Grimoire (2 page)

XO, Justine

Justine has to go to summer session just because she got a B in Chemistry. At Cruelties if you retake a class in the summer, they will erase your other grade, which she has to do because her parents won’t allow anything less than As. But at least she gets to sit next to David von Kellerman each day. A pang of jealousy stabs me in the solar plexus.

To keep from checking my email every five minutes, I go back in the room and take a few more rubbings of the spirals on the wall. I’d love to do it all at once, but it’s not super easy; holding your arms up for that long while rubbing a pencil over the paper is really hard.

I go about my day, bumping in to my parents and Thomas and Mrs. Findlay as if nothing unusual has happened, as if I haven’t just stumbled upon the coolest thing ever.

It’s not until the next morning that I get an email from Justine:

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: That rubbing you took …

Hey C, Check out the reply from Gramps below. (Sorry, I pretended I took the rubbing so he’d think I was into this kind of thing—I guess I’ll have to come clean now.) So what’s the big mystery anyway? Looks like you’ve got all the old guys at Princeton pretty excited. Today in Chem I splashed some water on my face while I was washing out our beakers (so domestic!) and David wiped it away with his thumb. Do you think he likes me? I mean, that’s pretty unusual to use your thumb, isn’t it?

Here’s what Gramps has to say:

My Dearest Justine,

How wonderful that you are taking an interest in archaeology and antiquities! I found your rubbing absolutely fascinating, as I had never seen anything like it. I sent it on to Dr. Tenzo in Ancient Languages. He is very anxious to hear where you took the rubbing; so much so that he wanted your email address to reach you directly. I promise I won’t sic Tenzo on you, but do tell me dear, where did you find those symbols?

Much love, Grandfather

It’s exciting that some guy at Princeton may know what these symbols are, but I’m a little freaked out that they want more info. All I really needed was to know what it said. I guess I have to ask Justine to try to nip this in the bud.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: RE: That rubbing you took …

Wow, so they think they know what it says but they won’t tell you? And now they want more info? Yikes, let’s just forget the whole thing. Sorry I even got you involved … can we make it die?

And yes, wiping your face with his thumb is totally intimate—he’d only do that if he wanted part of his palm to touch your face too. Clearly: he’s so into you.

I wish I could get an instant reply but based on the time difference I know Justine is asleep and I won’t get one until tomorrow, which is frustrating.

Deciding to go back into the room to check out the symbols again, I use my rabbit-ears key to open the panel and then enter. I take a seat on the fainting couch to soak it all in, to try to see what the guy from Princeton saw. Mr. Papers goes over to the wall and slowly traces some carvings with his fingers. He seems almost sad; there’s none of the excitement he had yesterday. He picks up his origami man and puts the little paper monkey that has fallen to the floor back on its shoulder. I guess he misses his friend in the robe.

I pick up the big antler-handled magnifying glass from the side table, surprised to find that it is much heavier than it looks. When Mr. Papers comes over to see what I’m doing I hold the glass up to my eye and look right at him. Seeing my magnified eyeball, he squawks and jumps back, knocking the side table over.

After a loud crack, the top of the table pops off the base and lands upside down to reveal a small leather-bound book attached to the underside. For a moment I wonder if it’s a private journal and I try to resist opening it up; I would hate for someone to read my private journal, even if I were long gone. There’s a small title on it, so I move the twine just enough to read it. Embossed in gold and slightly off-kilter like it was stamped by hand are the words:
The Daykeeper’s Grimoire
.

I actually happen to know what grimoire means because Maddie La Fond from school carries a journal everywhere that says
Madison’s Grimoire
in big swirly letters on the front. One day I made the mistake of asking her what it was and she told me that a grimoire is a book of symbols that work together; she said it’s where she keeps track of society’s subversive symbolism. Then she went into some big tirade about how the male society has hijacked the term grimoire and made it mean something pagan, blah blah blah. (The blah blah blah part is where I tuned her out for fear of having my brain explode. She’s one of those girls who thinks she’s ironic by being a punk rocker
and
treasurer of the Knitting Club; when those people with their made-up “complicatedness” go on tirades it makes me want to stick blunt pencils into my eardrums until their mouths stop moving.)

When I open the book I see it is a true grimoire. It’s a book of symbols—the symbols that make up the square spirals on the wall. Each page is devoted to one symbol; on the left is a drawing of it and on the right the page is either blank or has the symbol’s corresponding sound. The words
As Above, So Below
are written on the first page, in old-fashioned cursive that looks like it was written with the kind of pen that you dip into ink. The paper is old and yellowed around the edges; it feels like it might disintegrate if I crumple it up.

I count only seven decoded symbols. I wonder how long the person who made this book had been working on it to get those seven letters. This is just the kind of thing that Dad would be really good at, but I’m nervous to tell him about it yet. He and Mom would come in and totally take over, like every science project I’ve ever had. They’re geeky in that way that puzzles and projects become all-consuming—I’ve had more than one teacher ask them to let me do my own work.

Overcome by a flash of inspiration, I realize how I can trick them in to helping me decode this. I take the rubbing that I did last night from my scanner, put another piece of paper over it, and trace the symbols. When I’m done it just looks like weird letters on paper instead of like a rubbing. At the bottom I write out the decoded symbols from the grimoire, then roll it up and secure it with a rubber band.

When I get to the kitchen, Mom and Dad are already there having breakfast. Dad looks up and says, “Well, stranger, what’ve you been up to? More monkey business?”

Mom flashes a cheesy smile and says, “Although we don’t want to
pry, mate
…”

Dad immediately does the end-of-joke, “Badump bumb, chhaaahhh …” noise.

I give them a courtesy smile. “‘Primate.’ Funny. You guys should take this bit on the road, it’s hilarious.” This is when I wish I had a brother or sister; I’d love to have someone to roll my eyes with.

“We hardly saw you yesterday,” Mom says. “What’ve you been doing with yourself?”

“Actually, I’ve been coming up with a puzzle for you,” I reply.

“I’m intrigued,” Dad says as he sets down his coffee mug. “Do tell.”

“Well, your whole job is encryption, right? So you can make credit cards secure online and junk like that?”

“Thanks for qualifying what I do as junk, Caity,” he says.

“So how good are you at decoding things?” I ask.

He shrugs and says, “I’d have to go with brilliant.”

“He’s almost as good as I am,” Mom adds.

“Perfect, then you can both work on my puzzle. It will be like a contest,” I say. “I’ve come up with a set of symbols and I want to see if you guys can decode it.”

“That’s so sweet, honey,” Mom says, looking at me with her head cocked to one side. “What an interesting little project.” She is totally underestimating me.

“So here it is. This is one, uh, ‘saying’ I’d guess you’d call it. I’m giving you a head start with seven of the symbols already decoded on the other sheet of paper.”

“Okay, Angus, it’s on. I’ll make a photocopy of this and we’ll see who can finish first. No peeking at the decoded symbols, let’s do it blind!”

Did I mention that my parents were competitive?

“Prepare for a crushing defeat, Fiona!” Dad says as he swipes the paper away and runs to the library where the copy machine is, Mom running behind him.

This ought to be interesting
, I think to myself. I wonder if either could crack it even
with
the key I provided.

While I’m waiting for my folks to work on the code, hoping they can get one or two words each so I can piece this thing together, I figure I should try to get some more information on the history of Breidablik. I want to find out more about Fergus, the guy who built this castle, and I figure Thomas is a good place to start. Mr. Papers and I track him down out by the pond where he is cleaning out some of the overgrown plants. Thomas is one of those tall, skinny balding guys with a big hook nose who can’t help but look like a bird. His khaki pants are tucked into knee-high rubber boots and his checkered wool shirt is, as always, buttoned all the way up.

“Hey Thomas, how’s it going?” I ask.

“Hello lassie, hello Papers,” he says. “You two ever apart these days?”

“Nope,” I say. “It’s hard to believe I lived my whole life without a monkey.”

He comes over and scratches Mr. Papers under the chin. “Aye, ’tis a treat.”

I kick some pebbles around with my toe. “Hey Thomas, what do you know about my super-great-grandfather Fergus?”

“Not much, he died centuries ago. The castle has been through several generations since.”

I look over at the tower. “So what’s the deal with the tower?”

“Well, towers were built to defend land, so guards could stand atop ’em and see if the enemy was approaching.”

“But this was never used as a fort or anything, right?”

Thomas leans on his long-handled net. “Aye, s’pose this tower is purely decorative. Odd thing is, the tower was built
before
the castle, by only Fergus and a Chinese man.”

“What was a Chinese man doing here with Fergus two hundred years ago?” I ask.

“Well, Fergus came to the Isle of Huracan after some years exploring in China. He returned with a Chinese man and the two of them built the tower by themselves. Later they had help with the castle, of course.”

“And who lived here on the island before him?”

“Nary a soul. Was an uninhabited isle. ’Fore Fergus came here, people thought the place was haunted; no one would set foot on it. ’Twas only after Fergus built the tower and had lived here for several years that anyone else would move here—most people who settled on Huracan were hired to help with the building of the castle.”

“I can’t believe that he and just one other guy built this tower,” I say as Mr. Papers jumps off my shoulder and goes to the edge of the formal pond. He grabs a water cabbage and starts munching on it. I keep forgetting that he’s an animal. I guess we all are, come to think of it.

He nods. “Backbreaking work, that. Took them five years of toil.”

“So if no one lived here, then no one saw them build it?” I ask.

“Nae, he didn’t want help. Folks speculated he had some new method of building from the East or something, but one look at this and you know it’s pure Scot. Nothing unusual ’cept for the fact that you can’t get to the center. Stairs just wind themselves over what seems to be a solid core.”

I nod but don’t agree. It just doesn’t make sense to build a tower, basically a tall stone box, without any help, unless what’s under it is something you don’t want anyone else to see. It makes me think that the tower must hide something in its core.

“Can you show me around the tower sometime, Thomas?”

“Not much to it, lassie, just a big staircase that leads to a platform on top.”

“I’d still love to see it.”

Thomas walks me over to a small wooden door with a rounded top that we both have to duck to walk through it. Inside, cold stone stairs wind their way around the inner square core of the tower, and the only light comes in from the few slats in the wall. Thomas says that in a working tower, these would have been for archers to stand behind so they could shoot out while no one could shoot them back, but here they’re just for ventilation. We climb and climb, and finally get to the top, which gives us a 360-degree view of the property. From up here everything looks so small, like a railroad set. The loch is glimmering with sunlight, the forest that surrounds the castle looks tidy and cute, and the low hills are rounded like sand dunes from eons of wind and rain. The dark sea in the distance looks ominous.

“So is there any way to get to the tower from inside the castle?” I ask.

“Nae. Was once, but it’s been blocked off for ages,” he says. “No reason to use this old tower anymore, ’cept for the view.”

I look straight down and see water coming pouring out. “Why’s there a stream coming out of the bottom of the tower?”

“’Tis a spring, actually. Overflow from the well,” Thomas says. “Feeds the small
burn
that runs around the inside of the gate.”

“Isn’t it weird to have a moat
inside
the gate?”

Thomas laughs, “Nae, a
burn
is a stream. ’Tisn’t more than three feet deep; wouldn’t keep much of anybody out now would it? The
burn’s
just part of the landscape design.”

“So the tower is built over the source of the spring?” I ask.

“Aye, Fergus laid a nice stone canal for it in the foundation, so it just bubbles up from the ground and flows out here.” He breathes in sharply from his nose and says, “I best be getting back to work, lassie. You want to come down now?”

Mr. Papers and I follow Thomas down, where we see our cook, Mrs. Findlay, walking to her car. “Got to fetch a lamb from Moody Farm,” she yells over to us. “Caity, you and Mr. P want to go for a ride in the country?”

I shrug. “Sure, why not?” There’s a lot of the island I don’t think I’ve seen yet.

We’re a few miles down the road when Mrs. Findlay casually mentions that her grandson Alex will be at the farm so I can finally meet him. I’d already seen him twice from afar; Thomas pointed him out once while we were driving through the island’s one town called Brayne, and then another time I spied him from my window when he came to pick up Mrs. Findlay. He is spectacularly good looking. No, that’s too mild. He is the ultimate. The be-all end-all. The yardstick by which all others will forever be measured.

For good reason, I am full of dread. This is the kind of meeting I would spend
a lot
of time preparing for. Hair, clothes, shoes, conversation—all of this should have been carefully planned out over the course of days, weeks maybe, with Justine. I’m just glad Mr. Papers is with me; an origami monkey seems like a natural ice breaker.

Whenever I drive around the island, I realize it’s a lot bigger than I think it is. The landscape here is so different from what I’m used to. Other than a few clusters of small forests, the island is mostly just rolling hills of soft grass. When you’re driving, it looks like the hills are covered in old felt, with patches torn out to reveal rocks that are the size of baseball diamonds. It seems like the kind of place that yard gnomes would play.

We pull up to an old barn. “Here we are,” Mrs. Findlay says.

The barn looks ancient. The bottom half is made with stone and the top is made with wood. There are two enormous doors on the front that are both open. It looks dark inside except for a few bulbs dangling from wires.

“So Mr. Papers and I will wait in the car?” I ask, hoping I can avoid the meeting altogether.

“Heavens no, child. Alex will want to meet you.”

I reluctantly follow her to the barn, which smells like animals and wet hay. It sounds gross, but I like it.

Mrs. Findlay yells in a singsong voice, “Al-ex! Al-ex!”

He walks out from behind a stable and I look around for the photographer, it’s just too much like a J. Crew photo shoot. You know how they dress the models up all mismatched and rumpled as if they’ve actually been working outside? It’s like that, but for real.

He has dark wavy hair that he keeps flipping back from his beautiful blue eyes that are so pale they have that wolf-like quality. He’s a few inches taller than I am and very well built compared to the geeks at the Academy of Cruelties who think two hours with a Wiimote is a workout. His faded checkered shirt hangs open over a red T-shirt, and his worn jeans are tucked into Wellies that come up to his knees. He glances over and smiles at me. His teeth are white and perfect except one of his front teeth crosses over the other by a millimeter—just enough to make him look real instead of like a wax figure of The Perfect Human Male.

“Hello mate, I’ve been meaning to come ’round to the castle to meet you,” he says as he pulls his right hand out of a leather glove and reaches out to shake. I’m embarrassed that my hand is clammy from being nervous. His big square hand is warm and dry. I don’t want to let go.

I hadn’t even factored in what the Scottish accent would do to the whole look. And yes, it does exactly what you’d expect it to. Times ten.

“Nice to meet you,” I say, my voice coming out more childlike than I’d intended.

That’s all I’ve got. I’ve already run out of things to say.

Mr. Papers starts bobbing up and down on my shoulder with excitement. Alex reaches in and his hand brushes my shoulder as he goes to pet Mr. Papers. I completely stiffen.

“Gram mentioned what good mates you and Mr. Papers are. If he’s so fond of you, that’s all the recommendation I need,” he says.

I just smile like an idiot.

“You reckon the lamb’s ready, son?” Mrs. Findlay asks, saving me from myself.

“’Tis, ’tis,” he says. “I’ll just go and get it.”

When he walks off I look over at Mrs. Findlay, who has a grin on her face like she knows exactly what’s going on in my head. I’m sure I am turning bright red.

“You two should get to know each other—if your parents decide to stay past the summer, at least you’ll have a mate when school starts,” she casually says to me.

“Great.” I’m trying to seem low-key, but the way I am fidgeting with Mr. Papers is a dead giveaway. I was against staying in Scotland any longer than the summer until this moment.

Alex comes out of the barn straining to carry a box that looks larger than he is. God, he’s beautiful
and
strong.

Mrs. Findlay opens the back of the Land Rover and Alex puts the big box in. “Well, he was a good lamb,” he says as he pats the top.

I realize what’s in the box was once a living creature and before I can stop myself I make a gasping noise, like a drain that’s suddenly become unclogged. Alex looks at me like I’m the prissiest girl ever born and says, “Nothing to fret over, he’ll be as useful on your plate as he was in the field—”

“Oh, yeah. I’m sure he’ll taste great!” I say, not wanting to appear wimpy.

“Well, ’twas a pleasure to meet you, Caity.” He shakes my hand one more time, then reaches up to scratch Mr. Papers’ chin and says, “Bye mate.”

All I can think to say is, “You too. See you around.” Ugh. What a brilliant conversationalist.

As we drive off it takes all my willpower not to turn around and look.

The minute we get back to the castle, I have to go to my room and inspect myself with fresh eyes.

Full-Length Mirror Report/Top to Bottom: My curls are wild today, skipped the defrizzer because I didn’t think anyone but a monkey would see me. Subtract three points. Note to self: Must use hair smoother every day! My hair is pretty shiny, though, from the great well water, and my shade of auburn looks good in direct sunlight, add a point. Freckles will always be a problem, subtract a point. Note: See if Mom’s face powder tones them down a bit. Fortunately I’m addicted to this pink mint lip gloss, so the lips look alright. Add a point. Teeth are brushed, bonus points. I happened to put a snug cashmere v-neck sweater over my white T-shirt because I was chilly this morning, add two points. But I’m wearing these stupid cropped jeans that make me look even more freakishly tall than I am. Total mistake. Subtract 2,000 points. Note: Throw them away already!

I hear a knock and Mom pops her head in the door. “Got time for a chat, Caity?”

“Sure, Mom. What’s up?”

She comes up behind me, wraps her arms around my waist, and looks in the mirror. Our similarities are only in our coloring: the auburn hair, green eyes, and pale skin. She came away unscathed by freckles and curly hair. They say I get the freckles from the Mac Fireland side, along with everything else. It’s true; if I pulled my hair back until it hurts and then put on white makeup, I’d look surprisingly similar to all the pale women in the big paintings in the hall.