Isle of Winds (The Changeling Series Book 1) (2 page)

“What’s your name?” Robin asked, feeling as though the two of them were speaking different languages.

She looked at him suspiciously. “Can’t you tell?”

“How would I tell? You haven’t got a nametag on you, have you,” he replied. She was beginning to annoy him.

She rolled her eyes. “Ah yes, now I remember. It’s different for you lot, isn’t it? You have to be told. Sorry, I forget how it works sometimes.”

“Us lot?”

The girl held out her hand, very formally. “My name,” she said, “… is Karya.”

Robin shook her hand a little awkwardly. She had a firm grip. “Okay,” he said. “Are you on the train with your parents?”

She dropped his hand unceremoniously. “My what?”

“Your parents?” Robin repeated. “You know, your Mum and Dad?”

“Oh, them…” Karya made a face. “No. I’m here on my own.” She glanced at the compartment door with its covered window. “I hope,” she added warily.

The train rumbled on for a few seconds. There was nothing but the clack-clack of the tracks and the gentle swaying of the carriage.

“Where are you going, Robin?” Karya asked eventually, seeming to come to some decision.

“Um … Barrowood,” Robin replied. “Do you know it?”

“Parts of it,” she replied.

“I’m going to meet this woman, she’s called Irene. Apparently, she’s my great aunt.”

“Yes?” Karya pressed.

Robin shrugged. “I think I’m going to live with her,” he said, without much enthusiasm. “It’s all been arranged with Social Services, but no one really tells me much. It’s all a bit mysterious.”

“Irene,” Karya said in a half whisper. “Well … that’s a good move. Good old Burro. Wouldn’t have expected her to be up for it…”

“What are you on about now?” Robin asked, frowning at her.

“At least you’ll be safe there. She…” Karya noticed that Robin was staring at her in confusion and trailed off.

“Look,” she said decisively. “I really can’t stay and explain everything to you now. There isn’t time. The longer I stay, the easier it is for the skrikers to pinpoint me. I thought things would be easier than this…”

She fumbled in the pocket of her coat.

“Here,” she said, drawing out a long slim wooden box and thrusting it into his hands.

“What’s this?” Robin asked, staring at it.

“It’ll let you find me, later, when things have calmed down a bit. Put it away for now.” She flapped her hands at him impatiently.

There was a noise outside the train. It resolved itself into what sounded like a long, mournful howl. It was loud and close by.

Robin stared at the curtained window. “What was that?” he said.

“I’ve run out of time.” The girl jumped to her feet. “If I don’t go now, they’ll track me. If they find me, they’ll find you. Then we’re all in trouble.”

“Who’ll find you?” said Robin. His hand moved toward the curtain on the window.

“Don’t open that!” the girl shouted.

Robin jumped. “Why not?”

“Leave it,” she snapped.

The howl came again, closer still.

The girl was already at the door. “I have to go,” she said. “Keep that safe, Robin. For Tartar’s sake, put it away. And don’t go talking to strangers.”

Robin slipped the thin wooden case into his pocket. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked. “You’re a stranger.”

Karya smirked in spite of herself, her golden eyes twinkling. “There are stranger strangers than me,” she said. “See you soon, Scion.”

She touched the wall of the train compartment.

There was a heavy thud at the window, and a dark shadow filled the small curtained square, blocking out the sunlight. The girl, almost lost in the deepening shadows, muttered something under her breath and seemed to tense.

Then the door to the carriage threw itself open.

Robin jumped and looked from Karya to the figure in the doorway.

“Tickets please,” said the conductor. “Hey, it’s dark in here!” he exclaimed. His eyes fell on Robin suspiciously. “What are you up to, lad?”

Robin looked back to Karya for help, only to find that she was gone. There was nobody else in the carriage with him. Robin stared dumbfounded at the patch of empty wall against which she had been stood. It seemed, for a split second, to be rippling.

“Hey, I’m talking to you,” said the conductor. “You alright, son? You look a bit off.”

“I’m fine,” said Robin quietly. He looked back at the conductor, wondering if he were going mad.

“Well, if you’re feeling sick, open the window,” the man said. “It’s stuffy in here. Do you no good sitting in the dark.”

Robin opened the curtain, filling the carriage with innocent sunlight. There was nothing outside. No howling creature, no shadows. The sunny countryside flew by, as normal as could be.

“Just you in here is it?” said the conductor, reaching for Robin’s ticket.

“Apparently,” Robin replied absently.

“Eh?”

Robin remembered himself. “Yes,” he said. “I mean, yes. Just me … Sorry.”

The conductor clipped his ticket and gave him a funny look, as though he wasn’t sure if Robin were trying to be cheeky.

“Where you off to then?” he asked.

“Barrowood,” Robin replied.

“Nice little village.” The conductor nodded as he made his way back out of the door. “Get your bags ready then,” he called as the door closed. “It’s the next stop.”

Chapter Two –
Mr Moros and Malcolm Drover

The tiny train station in the village of Barrowood was utterly deserted. Robin stood on the platform with his large battered suitcase beside him. Beyond the quaint stone train station, there was nothing but rising hills covered in a thick carpet of autumnal trees. He assumed that the village lay through the station proper, but for all he could see, he might have been in the middle of nowhere.

Robin pulled out the box the girl had given him. It had a sliding lid, like an old box of dominoes.

Checking first to make sure no one was around, and without really knowing why, Robin slid the lid back and peered inside. It seemed empty. He tilted it a little. Something clunked and fell into view. He pulled it out and frowned at it.

It was a flute, finely carved from a rich golden wood. Small and with only three holes for notes. Robin was sure that it wasn’t called a flute. A penny whistle maybe, or a pipe. Whatever you called it, two facts remained: He had no idea what it was for, and he had no idea how to play it.

So for now, he called it a flute, put it back in the box and closed the lid.

His more immediate concern was that he had no idea what to do next. He pulled the crumpled letter from his pocket. It was written in a spidery but firm hand. He read it again for at least the hundredth time:

My
Great
-
Nephew
Robin
,

It
has
been
brought
to
my
attention
that
your
current
housing
situation
has
been
somewhat
disrupted
by
the
sudden
and
inconvenient
death
of
your
Grandmother
.

As
your
Grandmother
made
no
provision
whatsoever
for
your
future
in
this
event
(
from
which
I
must
assume
she
planned
to
live
forever
,
a
very
unwise
course
indeed
),
it
would
appear
that
it
falls
to
me
to
offer
you
sanctuary
,
so
to
speak
.

No
doubt
you
shall
have
many
questions
,
as
we
have
never
before
met
and
I
have
as
many
doubts
as
you
do
about
the
suitability
of
this
arrangement
,
but
we
will
have
to
get
to
these
matters
when
you
come
to
see
me
.

All
has
been
arranged
with
the
officials
through
my
representatives
.
Papers
have
been
signed
,
counter
signed
and
exchanged
(
I
don’t
presume
to
understand
the
bureaucracy
of
moving
a
child
),
and
all
being
well
,
it
will
suit
me
to
receive
you
on
the
first
of
September
,
which
is
in
three
weeks
’
time
.

I
am
aware
that
boys
of
your
age
have
schoolwork
of
some
kind
to
attend
to
at
this
juncture
in
the
year
.
I
have
secured
a
tutor
for
this
purpose
and
lessons
have
been
delayed
until
after
your
arrival
while
we
see
what
is
to
be
done
with
you
.

In
short
,
you
are
to
come
to
live
with
me
,
at
Erlking
Hall
in
Barrowood
.
There
is
no
argument
to
be
brooked
.

Please
find
enclosed
with
this
letter
your
pre
-
paid
train
ticket
.
Mr
Burrows
,
with
whom
I
have
been
in
contact
,
will
see
you
onto
the
train
and
all
of
those
bothersome
details
.

I
shall
expect
you
at
eleven
A
.
M
sharp
.
Please
be
punctual
,
as
tardiness
is
not
a
quality
I
appreciate
,
especially
in
a
great
-
nephew
.

Regards
,

Ms
Fellows

The letter was as weird as it was the first ninety-nine times he had read it. Mr Burrows had assured him that Great Aunt Irene seemed a good enough woman and was merely eccentric. Robin had looked the word up on the internet. It meant, as far as he could interpret, ‘rich and senile’.

He did not find this reassuring. He was more surprised by the rich than the senile. Gran had had more than her fair share of oddities, but they had never had enough money to rub together. If Irene Fellows was rich then she had certainly never helped Gran out of a tight spot.

The letter, unfortunately, gave no hint as to how Robin was actually to get to Erlking Hall. He had assumed that she would meet him at the station. Adults were like that usually.

A noise at the station doorway made him look up, snapping him out of his thoughts.

There was a thin old man standing in the arch, leaning against the post with his arms folded casually across his dark suit. He was staring at Robin.

Robin thought the man’s suit looked very old fashioned, like that of a Victorian undertaker. He was wearing a bowler hat. The hair underneath, however, was a most unusual shade of orange, not undertaker-ish at all.

“Oh … hello,” Robin said, a little awkwardly. It seemed rude not to say something. People ignored each other at train stations in Manchester. It was tradition, unless they were trying to give you a free newspaper. But there were hundreds of people there. Here, there was just Robin and the staring undertaker.

The thin man didn’t move. Nor did he reply. He continued to stare at him with bright and eager eyes.

“I didn’t see you there,” said Robin. “Um…”

The man still did not respond. Robin wondered if he had heard him speak at all.

“Are you from around here?” Robin asked, slipping the letter back into his coat pocket. “I’m not … well, that is … I’m supposed to be meeting someone here, I think. It’s absolutely freezing, isn’t it? I have to get to Erlking Hall. Do you know it?”

The man with the orange hair ran a finger along the brim of his hat and stopped leaning against the doorpost. “Kind of, not particularly, and yes,” he said, in a crisp clear voice.

“I’m sorry?” Robin frowned.

The man stepped away from the door and strolled towards him in neat measured strides.

“There’s no need to apologise,” he said. “Your questions. Firstly, I am kind of from around here. Secondly, yes, in a manner of speaking, it is freezing. I myself can personally attest to witnessing several instances of frost on bushes, grass and the like on my way here. And thirdly, yes, I am familiar with Erlking Hall, though I have never had the pleasure of visiting.” His voice was very eager.

The tall man leaned down and quickly stuck out a hand, making Robin flinch.

“Mr Moros,” he announced, rolling the R. “At your service, young man.”

Robin, who was fighting the urge to back away, shook hands instead. The man’s hand was ridiculously cold, much colder than the chilly air could account for.

“And what, I find myself wondering, for I am, I admit, an unquenchably curious fellow, is such a fine young man as yourself doing in Barrowood?”

“Well…” Robin began, slightly disturbed that the odd man had not yet released his hand.

“Might I know your name, boy?” the man pressed, leaning in over him. “Names tell us so much, don’t they? They can indeed reveal a person’s true face, one might say.”

Robin opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by another voice from the station door.

“Boy!” the voice roared, as though Robin were in danger of falling in front of a train.

Robin and Mr Moros both jumped at the sound. A very stout and red-cheeked man was hurrying across the platform. He was wrapped in a large coat, scarf and gloves and looked as though he had been hurrying for quite some time. Great gusts of breath went before him in the chilly air, giving him the appearance of a charging, blustering rhino.

“Boy!” the man cried again, with booming theatrical drama.

Mr Moros released Robin’s hand suddenly, dropping it as though it was a hot iron. Robin felt inexplicably relieved by this.

The hurrying man closed in on the two. Mr Moros stepped back smoothly out of his path. The two men exchanged a look that Robin could not decipher. The fat red-faced man slowed to a blustering halt in front of them, and looked from one to the other.

“You, boy,” he said to Robin, gasping for breath. “Bound for Erlking?”

Robin nodded. He offered his letter by way of confirmation. The man ignored it.

“I’m late,” he said loudly. “I’m never late, but today I’m late.” He took off the battered flat cap he was wearing, revealing a balding head, and fanned himself angrily with it to cool down.

“I was supposed to be here. To pick you up,” he explained. “Miss Fellows, you see? She said eleven sharp. Eleven, she says. And I keep an eye on the clock and one minute it’s ten and the next time I look, it’s eleven fifteen! Like the time had gone, totally gone, in a second.” He shook his head in astonishment. “But I’m here now.” He seemed to calm down a little, blowing air out of his cheeks. Robin wished he would stop shouting. “Takes more than clock tricks to keep me off the task, I’ll tell you that for nothing.” He glanced at Mr Moros again, who stood quite still, saying nothing, looking at the flustered little man coolly.