of man.’
‘Then who built it?’
‘That’s what I’m telling you. Themselves it was, was building it, and I’ll tell you, Themselves is keeping their rooms in it that no man can be entering. There’s rooms in that castle no man is knowing of. There’s folk gone in, now and then, over the years – young fellows, and a taste of Dutch courage taken at them – you’ll know what that is? But never a one was ever coming back. And then a fellow was going in, but he took a skein of packthread, to be marking the way, like, and he was going in. Down and down he was going, down the long passages in the pitch dark, league after league …’
‘A very big castle,’ muttered Ben, under his breath.
‘… until at last he was seeing just a flicker – just the smallest little flicker – of a glimmering of light. And that seemed to him the best thing he ever did see. So he was going on and on, right away up to the light, and he was looking in on the window. And inside that window he was seeing the buggane – it’s the truth I’m telling you now, mind – seeing the buggane, and he lying asleep on a great stone table, laying his head on a book he was, and gripping a great sword in his hand, and breathing hard in his sleep. So the young fellow was running for it, away from the light and back along all the weary way, following his packthread, and out into the light of day at last. And so he was the one who was living to tell the tale.’
The old man was looking at him again through half-closed eyelids, apparently gauging the effect of his tale. Ben didn’t like that look. He was fairly sure he was being made game of, but when he met the other’s eyes, the old man broke into the blandest of smiles.
‘Is that right?’ said Ben cautiously. ‘And what’s that got to do with Ellan Bride?’
‘Ay well, that’d be another story. But if it’s my advice you’re seeking, young fellow – and I daresay you’re not, for without doubt there’s more learning at yourself in a few years of life than at myself in all of threescore and ten, you with your Scotch education and all – but if asking you were, I’d say keep you away from that island, young fellow. Don’t you be going near Ellan Bride!’
‘There’s an island where I come from,’ said Ben, watching him closely, ‘that’s supposed to disappear on midsummer nights. So they say. My Auld Daa lived in sight of that island, and never once did it shift from its moorings, and you could see it any old time you liked, except when the mist was down.’
‘Ah, but you weren’t on that island, young fellow. Now were you? That’s the thing. You might be seeing Ellan Bride any day of the year, but this time of year particular – May-time – you wouldn’t want to be going too near the place then.’
‘Well, that’s a shame,’ said Ben cheerfully. ‘In fact it’s a remarkable coincidence, since it’s May-time now, and Ellan Bride is exactly where we’re going to be.’
Ay well, so much for that, thought Ben, as he strolled along the other quay a few minutes later. The day’s work was well under way. Warehouse doors stood wide open: he could see right into the chandler’s and the ropeworks next to it. There was another schooner unloading blocks of sugar, each one carefully wrapped in sacking. Ben skirted the dockers and their carts, and crossed a wooden bridge back to the townward quay. And so much for Young Archibald telling him to sound out another chainman. If the old man he’d just spoken to was right, it seemed unlikely that they’d get anyone from Castletown willing to take on the job. Maybe they’d have better luck in Port St Mary. The boatman would surely have some ideas. Ben would have to explain to Archie that it would be better to wait until they got over there. Young Archibald always wanted everything sorted out yesterday; he never seemed to learn that the further you got from Edinburgh, the less life was going to be like that.
At the end of the quay a muddy lane led past a row of thatched cabins that faced onto the bay. There was a strong smell of woodsmoke, muck, rotting seaweed and drying fish. Barefoot children and prowling dogs tumbled in the glaur. Ben came out onto a shingle beach with one or two rowing boats drawn up close to the cottages. By this time he’d collected a little group of children who followed him curiously. He addressed the biggest girl: ‘Will I get back to the market square this way?’
She shook her head uncomprehendingly, but now he could see the back of the big new church towering over the huddled cottages. The bell was ringing as he passed the school, and a noisy gaggle of latecomers pushed past him to the open door. Just as well, maybe, that he couldn’t comprehend what they were calling as he passed. In no time at all Ben was back in the square with its fine town houses and the George facing the back walls of Castle Rushen. But it was quiet no longer. Even though there was no market today the fish-sellers had set out their wares on the slabs, and some brisk bargaining was under way. A group of red-coated officers on horseback clattered over the cobbles, narrowly missing a couple of girls bowling an iron hoop. Ben strolled across the square, enjoying the warmth of the sun. The morning was in full swing; it was time to find Young Archibald.
CHAPTER 5
BILLY OPENED THE OUTSIDE DOOR AND FASTENED IT BACK against the wall. The chickens scuttled forward, clucking for breakfast. Billy ignored them; they were not his job. He hooked the empty wooden buckets onto the yoke, swung it onto his shoulders, crossed the yard through a carpet of silverweed studded with papery yellow flowers, and headed along a narrow path among rushes and celandines. He stopped for a moment when he saw the snow, all sails set to catch the first whisper of a breeze. Even as he watched, the sails flapped. She was about quarter of a mile off the Creggyns, sailing directly against the tide. With so little wind she’d be there all morning. Later he’d look at her through the telescope and find out her name.
The spring flowed out from under a rock at the foot of a small cliff. It was built up at the back with an ancient stone wall. The wooden dipper was chained to a post. Billy knelt by the clear pool, and slowly lowered the dipper. He let the water swirl in over the rim, then lifted the dipper out as gently as he could. If the mud at the bottom of the pool got stirred up the water would be brown and murky, and he’d be in trouble. It was easy to be patient on a day like today, with the morning sun on his back, and the ground under his knees quite dry for once. An early dragonfly flittered above the pool, and buttercups, bogbean and forget-me-nots trembled at the edge.
Nine dippers made the buckets as full as he could manage without spilling. Billy squatted with the yoke on his shoulders, and hooked on first one bucket, then the other. Slowly he stood up, taking the weight. Coming back along the muddy path was a heavy, careful job. He lowered the buckets just inside the kitchen door and put their lids on. Emptying the ash bucket was much easier. Billy tipped the hot ashes out over the rocks. When he came back the chickens were gobbling scraps from the trough. Breesha, still holding their empty bucket, was squinting at the sundial.
‘It’s nearly at V – I – I,’ she said as he passed. ‘I mean seven. Mrs Black’s gone broody. She never lays anything. Just makes a fuss.’
‘Put her in the pot,’ said Billy.
‘That’s what your Mam says.’
‘Good.’
‘But not now. After the puffins have gone. It’s a waste till then.’
‘She’ll eat her head off,’ objected Billy.
‘Well, that’s what your Mam says, anyway.’
‘Well, I don’t care,’ said Billy. ‘I don’t mind going for puffins today.’
‘She didn’t say today.’
‘I
