The Secret of the Swan Read online

  “Hmmm. I see, well, as I said, I will be watching you.” With that, he turned on his heel and returned the way he came.

  As soon as he had gone Megan thumped Danny. “What did you lie for?”

  “Because you great plonker, we don’t want everyone knowing about our quest. We don’t know who “they” are, do we?”

  “I never thought…” replied Megan, looking crestfallen.

  “Don’t worry Megan,” said Rebecca, glaring at Danny. She smiled kindly at her and the girl returned it gratefully.

  “Let’s go and look at the swan grave and the museum again and see if we can find some clues this time,” Danny added.

  “Yeah but not now, while he’s still lurking,” said Rebecca indicating the man, who was standing on the top step in front of the nave of the church, looking in their direction. They moved away from Mr Steele and walked home through the lane in silence.

  That night, although they were all nervous about a return of the strange creatures, they were so tired that they fell asleep straight away. The night passed peacefully, or so they believed…

  CHAPTER 7

  THE SECRET

  George had discovered a most important clue and knew it was precious. He had been too nervous to search for the next one alone and had taken his best mate Sid with him for moral support. Sid wasn’t clear about what they were doing, but was happy to go along for the ride. The two of them left their bikes near the Old Custom House.

  They reached the little jetty at the end of Roa Island to wait for the ferryman. The two lads sat down, dangling their legs over the side of the wooden jetty. Sid pulled out a small packet. He carefully unwrapped the folded greaseproof paper and revealed two buns, filled with fresh, crumbly Lancashire cheese; George’s favourite. Sid handed one to George and the boys tucked into them with relish. As they finished, the small rowing boat approached, gliding smoothly across the calm sea, the waves from the oars lapping softly and rippling the surface of the water.

  The boys waited for the boat to dock. The red haired ferryman flashed a toothless smile at them and said, “You wantin’ to go over t’ Piel then?”

  They nodded and climbed into the little boat. The man held out his hand for payment and the boys handed over their threepence. The journey was short; Piel Island was a small island just off the Furness coast. It was less than two miles across and at any point its beaches were visible. It was largely uninhabited, apart from a few sheep and a small row of cottages and oddly, a pub!

  However, its claim to fame was the 13th century castle which dominated the island. It had fallen into disrepair long ago, but it had once played a part in English history. George loved history and knew all about it. The castle belonged to the abbey and had been built to provide protection from the rampaging Scots.

  Its major piece in the history jigsaw was when young Lambert Simnel, a pretender to the throne, had landed with an army and marched on London. It had all ended in tears of course, but it sort of put Furness on the historical map. For George, this added to the magic of the place. The boatman threw the rope over the end of the little pier and steadied the boat with his oar. The boys jumped out and the ferryman reminded them to be ready at four to make the trip back to the mainland.

  The boys walked up the beach towards the castle. It loomed large above them, crumbling, but still powerful. They scrambled up the banking and climbed over the foundations of the outer walls. Once in the inner bailey of the castle, George stopped and looked around him, finding his bearings. He pulled a small piece of paper from his pocket and smoothed it out. Sid looked over his shoulder, peering at the strange writing on the paper. It showed a rough drawing of the island and a rudimentary plan of the castle and its keep.

  “Blimey, Georgie! Where did you get that from?” he asked. “Is it what the castle used to be like?”

  “Yes! It hasn’t changed much… but some stonework has collapsed.”

  They looked around and together tried to orientate the map. They looked up at the remains of the keep and then the curtain walls around the outside. In a split second George was running off towards the highest point of the castle. Sid followed and they stopped at the arch. George looked at the map again and began to read the script on the paper.

  “Step onwards to ye place of fforgetting…within ye shall find that which ye seeke… a remembrance of the holy man… sacred… his bones carried cross ye sands for refuge… heathens…”

  “That’s as clear as mud… i’nt it?” Sid sighed.

  “It’s a clue, don’t you see? It’s telling us where to look… where to go next.”

  “Alright, clever clogs! What’s a place of forgetting, when it’s at home?”

  George looked at him blankly. “I haven’t a clue! Let’s go and explore.”

  They went into the base of the pele tower and stepped carefully over the nettles and brambles. As they moved forward the weeds got thicker, it looked as though nobody had ventured in for years! George picked up a stick and thrashed at the undergrowth, beating down some of the weeds. They walked around observing everything closely, hoping for a clue or a direction. Suddenly, Sid gave a yell and disappeared into the grass. Small flies and butterflies flew up from where he had vanished and George heard him swear.

  “Damn and blast it!”

  George knew it must be serious, Sid never swore, he was too aware of the back of his mother’s hand across his legs… but whatever had happened, made him forget the usual rules.

  George found his friend nursing a pair of bloodied knees and prickled hands. He had tripped over rubble and what looked like a drain grid.

  “You alright, mate?” he asked with concern.

  “Yeah, ’suppose so… didn’t see this flaming grid.”

  As George helped him to his feet, they both looked down at the cause of the accident. George began pulling the grass and weeds away from the drain. He revealed a much larger grid than he had at first realised. He became excited and frantically pulled away the vegetation more fiercely.

  “I know what it is! I know! It’s an oubliette!! You know – we did it in history! They chucked people down and left ‘em… to die!”

  “Er, suppose so, wasn’t it French or summat?”

  “Yes. That’s right, but what monks would want it for I don’t know!”

  “Well, p’raps it wasn’t used for prisoners, maybe they stored stuff down there”, suggested Sid, “or maybe it was for them monks who was bad?”

  George lay down on the grass on his stomach and peered down into the hole. He reached down with his hands and felt around the edge of the hole, shuffling along as he did so. He had barely moved along the second side when he stopped and called out.

  “Hey! There’s something here on the ledge… its wrapped in cloth or something…” he stretched out and forced his arm further down through the grating, wincing and straining as he reached into the hole. He struggled to free the package and gave an almighty tug, finally dragging it free placing it on the grass in front of him.

  Sid crouched down beside his friend and waited with anticipation. The little packet was wrapped in leather and bound with a rough twine, which was beginning to fray. He took out a small penknife, which he always carried with him and cut the binding. He carefully unfolded the piece of old leather and revealed a strange, small carving. It was no bigger than his palm and he gazed thoughtfully at it. It was made from a soft limestone and the detail on it was amazing.

  The little figure was a man in long robes. His hand was raised in front of his chest and a cross shape was carved the full length of his robe. He had a tall hat, again marked with a cross. George turned it over and inspected the back of the figure. On the back there was a tiny but perfect carving of a swan.

  “It looks like a bishop to me, Sid.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “It’s the cross and the hat; it reminds me of a bishop’s hat. Maybe it’s an abbot. After all, this place belonged to the monks.”

  Sid looked thoughtful, �
�Hmm, but it isn’t made from the same stone is it? Isn’t this place the same as the abbey – sandstone? That little man is made out of white stone…” he trailed off, looking a bit embarrassed at saying so much.

  “Sid! You’re brilliant!”

  Sid looked puzzled. If he was brilliant, he didn’t actually know why or how!

  “Well, it’s not come from here or the abbey has it? Not if it’s different stone. Where can it be from? It’s sort of rough on the base… like it’s been broken off or something.”

  “So, what are we going to do, then? How can we find out where it’s from?”

  “I’m not sure, but I’m going to ask dad, he might have some ideas about the stone… or I could take it to me Granddad’s, he would know, he’s a builder and works with stone all the time… and he’s shown me special stones he’s found on the fells and in the dry stone walls, when he’s repairing them. Some of them are as old as the hills themselves.”

  “How we gonna find out who he is then?”

  “We’ll go down the library… we can look it up in some of the books down there!” said George, undaunted by Sid’s look of dismay.

  The boys started to walk down towards the beach. They caught sight of the little rowing boat making its way across the narrow channel, towards the jetty. The boys ran to the water’s edge and jumped up and down shouting, pretending to be castaways, about to be rescued.

  The ferryman was visible on the mainland. He was talking to someone standing on the jetty. The tall, thin man pointed to the island. The boys stopped their game of castaways and stood watching. Something about him made their hair stand on end. He stared right at them, in fact it seemed as though his eyes were drilling into them and rooting out all their secrets. George wanted to run and hide, but there was nowhere to go. They were captives on the island until the ferry reached them.

  The man got into the little boat and sat perfectly still, perched like a bird of prey, facing them. George quickly stuffed the little figure into his shirt front and pulled his sweater over it. He didn’t know why, but this man was a threat and the discovery must be protected at all costs.

  The boat arrived and the boys waited for the man to get out. He remained seated and his cold eyes bored into them.

  “Jump in lads,” said the boatman, “This fella’s just out fer t’ ride.”

  George’s heart fluttered. He and Sid exchanged glances. The man smiled an unpleasant smile. The effect was disturbing and Sid swallowed hard.

  “How nice of you to join us. What have you been up to on the island today?” he enquired with a sinister politeness.

  George was speechless for a second but Sid saved the day.

  “Nowt Mister! Just over for a picnic that’s all… nowt much t’ see really.”

  The man did not look convinced and continued to stare intensely.

  The short journey lasted forever, but finally the boat drew close to the jetty. In a flash George grabbed Sid’s arm and dragged him to his feet, wobbling the little boat. The strange man clutched the side of the boat and the ferryman tried to steady it with the oar.

  Sid and George leapt onto the jetty and ran off towards their bikes. The ferryman shouted at them as they sent the boat rocking and the man almost lost his balance. They didn’t stop until they reached their bikes and then pedalled relentlessly, until they skidded into Manchester Street.

  The next thing Rebecca knew was her lovely, smiling, twinkly eyed Granddad had gone. She couldn’t bring herself to say “died”; because that wasn’t a word she could connect with Granddad. He had been her best friend always, she couldn’t imagine being without him for the rest of her life.

  She sat by the river, alone, dangling her legs over the edge of the bridge; she could almost imagine him walking along the tree lined path with his walking stick. She could sense his closeness under the trees, dappled by the warm sunlight. She soaked up the warmth of the sun and closed her eyes, the lids heavy and drowsy. For a moment she was safe, like she was when she sat in his old armchair, cosy in his warm embrace when he was still here.

  Unexpectedly, her mood changed. The back of her neck tingled and her stomach lurched. A shiver rippled its way down her spine and made her tremble. Something was going to happen. The same feeling of dread and foreboding that she had had during the thunderstorm returned. Across the field she could see a tall, thin man looking at her. Granddad’s voice whispered in her ear, “Run, Rebecca, run and hide… I’ll be here to look after you…”

  She knew he was still with her even if he was inside her head.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE STONE

  George padded along the lane towards Roose village, only pausing briefly to look behind. The day was sultry and airless, making it difficult to run. The rubber soles of his plimsolls hardly touched the surface of the road. George’s face was red and moist with sweat and his chest felt as though it would burst.

  He reached the old railway bridge at the top of the lane, where he could survey the valley past the farm towards Bow Bridge. He bent over with his hands on his knees, gasping for breath and trying to think. The parchment was in his shorts pocket and he could feel it crinkling against his thigh. He stood up and looked around quickly, like a hunted animal. He was relieved that he could see nothing unusual.

  George steadied himself and turned to walk to Roose. He walked across Boulton’s Common and paused again to look behind. Gradually as he walked down the hill, he relaxed, feeling a little safer. He approached the new, semi-detached houses in Red River Road. Some were fully built and looked ready to be lived in, but some were still under construction. He sauntered down the road, looking at the smart homes, and could not help but compare them to his own small terraced house in the town. They seemed large and had a front and back garden. Mam and Dad’s house had a yard and the front door opened straight onto the street. One day he’d have a house like that, he thought.

  He paused to look at one house. Someone was about to move in. There was newspaper at the windows and the flowerbeds had been planted around the small, neat lawn with shrubs and a hedge. It looked a nice house, one that he would be proud to live in, he thought. His gaze fell on a chunk of sandstone beneath the front window, in front of the house. He looked around to check that the coast was clear and walked up the gravel drive. He couldn’t resist examining it. George knelt down and touched the sandstone.

  He was surprised to discover that it was not a stone; it had clearly been carved from a single block of sandstone and had a cavity in the centre. He looked closely and tried to work out what it was used for. It looked like a strange sink. He pulled it away from the wall and examined it further. On the front panel was a faint carving of a swan. He traced the outline with a grubby finger; he knew instinctively this was where to leave his clue, in case he needed to remind himself… or someone else in the future?

  Underneath was flat, but in the centre there was a small dint of about four inches in depth. George peered into it and poked inside it with his finger, it was dry and clean. He had a sudden brainwave. The parchment would fit inside perfectly. He needed to keep it dry and thought for a second. Slowly he took out a neatly folded piece of tin foil from his pocket.

  George carefully unfolded the tin foil and smoothed it out. He took the parchment out and laid it on top of the foil. He cautiously rolled it into a small tube. He reached into his pocket for a piece of string. He took his penknife and cut it and tied it gently around the roll. Pleased with his work, he then inserted it into the space beneath the stone. It fitted well and he pushed it as far into it as he could, without damaging it. He then looked around for something to plug the opening with. He rummaged in the flowerbed to find stones and rocks which might fit. After a lot of rooting about he grasped a small piece of red house brick. He managed to force it in. He then tipped up the block and slid it back to its original position. He stood up, pleased with his efforts. He had a pleasant glow inside and knew the parchment would be safe for the time being. He planned to return when it
was safe but little did he know it would be a long time before he was able… and through no fault of his own.

  That night George tossed and turned in bed. His earlier feeling of relief and safety evaporated with a torrent of dreams and nightmares. He grew hotter and hotter and was sick to his stomach. He drifted in and out of sleep and existed in a world between nightmare and reality. He jumped and woke up from his uneasy rest. Shivering and clammy and his head pounding, he climbed from the bed he shared with his older brother, Billy. The sheets were crumpled and damp with sweat. Billy grunted and turned over.

  George had to get to the small attic window to get some air. He climbed up onto the oak chest and reached up to the window to push it open. The cool air passed over his face and for a moment he felt better. He looked out into the night sky and could see the stars and the bright full moon. The night was peaceful, apart from the barking of a dog in the distance. George was soothed and took a deep breath, closing his eyes.

  He opened them immediately, hearing a scrambling noise on the slate roof. Stretching up, he peered over the edge of the window frame. Something was moving, he reckoned it was a cat, it moved quickly. The roof was clear. Yes, it was a cat, he was sure.

  Suddenly, he jumped back, almost falling backwards off the chest. He couldn’t help but cry out. A hideous monkey like creature scuttled across the roof tiles close to the window. Its face was gaunt and ugly, with large pointed ears framing it. Angular limbs jutted out and sprang like powerful levers as the creature moved. It turned to look directly at him and its scowling face hardened as it caught him in its view. Small red eyes bored into his very soul. It was searching for something and he felt it could read his mind. He panicked and stumbled in his haste to get away. With an almighty crash he slipped off the chest and knocked the enamel wash bowl and jug flying across the room, spilling water over the bed.

  Suddenly, noise and commotion chased away the family’s sleep. Billy shouted with shock as the water soaked the back of his nightshirt and George crashed to the floor at the same time as the jug and bowl rattled to the floor. As George lay sweating and shivering on the attic floor he could see the creature peering at him through the sky light, which slammed shut as George had fallen. He couldn’t contain his fear and screamed at the top of his voice.