Background
Ten years before the opening of the novel, two eminent scientists invented a machine. Their names were Minerva Rygg and John Vesalius, and they worked at the Institute on the island of Hanalusa. The name of the machine was the Aescyprium. It was built to create corridors through ‘spacetime’, stabilised by outlandish matter. One day, without warning, Vesalius attempted to destroy it with a crowbar. When this failed, he fled the Institute, taking the secret of the outlandish matter with him.
THE NOVEL Synopsis
The story begins behind a bush in Hanalusa, where Dinah McCourt, an unwashed, unkempt creature, is waiting to ambush her friend Jack. Dinah's world is occupied by an idiosyncratic cast - loyal Jack, dry, laconic Jenny, Fenella the ginger cat and Mrs Pearl Slattery, who has recently dropped a paperweight on her foot. And, of course, her father.
Dinah is finding Dr. McCourt increasingly difficult to fathom.
He has begun to exhibit strange behaviour; entertaining mysterious visitors in the laboratory where he habitually experiments on onions, and refusing to allow Dinah to take up a scholarship at the prestigious Institute.
Then, Dr. McCourt disappears, leaving behind two bewildering messages which provide Dinah with little enlightenment as to his whereabouts.
Dinah knows at once that he is in danger, and determines to find him.
Her search takes her to the Institute, where she meets the beautiful, enthralling Minerva Rygg and her reclusive son Jeremy. Two astronomers, who dabble in espionage, are eager to offer their assistance, as is hapless PhD student Eric.
A journey made on roller-skates, in a stolen car and in a wooden boat named "Darkling Beetle" ends upon a cliff-top, where the truth is revealed about Dinah, her father and the machine he helped to create.
The novel culminates in a fiery climax, a heroic leap into the murky depths, and an unexpected rescue.
CHAPTER ONE
Dinah McCourt was crouching behind a bush. She rested her chin on her knees and frowned, tapping an impatient rhythm on her ankle. The first rays of sunshine filtered through the dark green mass in which she hid, laying hazy bands across her skin. She shifted her position and leant forward. Just discernible through the leaves was a dirt track following the soft contour of the hillside. Dinah leaned a little further. Her eyes focused on the distant figure of a boy striding along the track as it swept down the valley. Her sunburnt face broadened into a smile. The boy was whistling and swinging his satchel, his broken sandals slapping rhythmically against the track. Dinah chewed her lip in concentration, as the sound of his long, easy stride grew louder. He was closer now, his freckled face and wiry limbs clearer. Closer still and the soft thud of his footsteps told Dinah it was almost time. She drew a long, careful breath. In one swift movement her arm shot out and grabbed his ankle, expertly whipping his legs from beneath him. He landed on the path, a sprawling heap of arms and legs. Dinah sprang up.
“Gotcha!” she said.
The boy grinned . “Nice move,” he said.
He brushed the dirt from his grey shorts. Dinah extended a grubby hand to help him to his feet. Her eyes flickered along the track.
“Come on,” she said.
She ducked back into her hiding place. The boy followed.
“I’ve been practising that,” explained Dinah. “Couldn’t ignore me that time, could you?”
“When ’ve I ever ignored you?” demanded the boy.
“Tuesday, for instance,” said Dinah. “Here I am, crouching in the muck, trying my hardest to get your attention like this.”
She cupped her hands around her mouth, her voice becoming a fierce staged whisper.
“..Oi! Jack!”
“Well…” began Jack.
“And you just saunter by without so much as a glance in my direction!” finished Dinah.
“You could just ’ve come out of the bushes and said hello,” suggested Jack.
Dinah shook her head.
“You know I can’t risk being seen here. It’d get back to Pa that I haven’t been going to school. He’d wring my neck.”
“Well I never heard you that time. Honest,” said Jack.
“All right,” conceded Dinah, “now let’s go.”
She moved with stealth through the long, wet grass, away from the road, towards the safety of the orchard. Jack shrugged, slung his satchel over his shoulder and ran after her.
The low hum of bees, mingled with the scent of apple blossom and the heat of the orchard, made Jack dizzy. He sank down against a tree and kicked off his sandals, dipping his toes in sunlight. Small fragments of bark tumbled into his fiery mass of hair as Dinah climbed. Dinah’s arms were taut, her back arched. She gripped two narrow branches, pressed the soles of her feet against the trunk and walked them upwards, hauling herself up. Swinging a leg over one of the branches she released her grip on the other. The rebounding branch shed its blossom on a startled Jack. Dinah sat on her branch and smiled. She tipped her head back and bathed her broad, smooth face in sunshine. She drew a deep breath.
“Come up, Jack,” she called.
“In a minute,” yawned Jack with a dismissive wave of his hand.
Dinah hooked her legs firmly over the branch and let go. Her body plummeted. She hung upside down, her hair falling downwards in a thick, honey coloured sheet. Her face was red, blood thundering against her temples. Her head was almost level with Jack’s shoulder. She found that he was regarding her with a quizzical expression.
“Di, when’d you get that?”
“Get what?”
“The tattoo,” said Jack. “When’d you get it?”
Dinah pressed her chin to her chest and glanced upwards. Her faded t-shirt had crept downwards to reveal a small tattoo, sweeping out a narrow arc on her side. It consisted of five tiny spheres, each of a different colour, glowing starkly against her skin. Dinah had had the tattoo for as long as she could remember. She swung herself upwards, catching the branch in both hands. She unhooked her legs and dropped at Jack s side.
“It’s been there since I was little,” she explained. “I’ve asked Pa about it but when I do he goes all quiet. Says he’ll tell me about it when I’m older.”
“Weird,” said Jack.
“I’ve pestered him no end but he won’t tell me a thing. And it feels funny. Gives me the creeps. Go on, touch it.”
Jack extended his bony finger. Dinah’s skin was at once hot and cold. He remained still for a moment with a sensation of dizziness. Then, without warning, a million electrical impulses shot up the neurones in his arms. He tried to cry out but found himself voiceless. The electricity pulsed through his nerves and muscles, crackling along every fibre of his body. He snatched his hand away and shuddered.
“Feels strange,” said Dinah, “doesn’t it?”
Jack’s freckles had faded, leaving his face small and pale. His pupils were dilated and he stared at Dinah with eyes that were blazing pools of blackness. His scalp tingled, repelling the roots of his hair, which stood on end. As his hand darted up to touch it a blue spark leapt across. The hand fell limply to his side.
“Pretty strange,” he admitted finally.
“It’s certainly looking much better,” said Dr McCourt to Mrs Pearl Slattery. His slim brown fingers worked deftly, winding the bandage around her bruised foot.
Mrs Slattery managed a weak smile.
“Still throbbing away, though,” she commented, “and itching too.”
“Good,” said the doctor. “That’s a sign it’s getting better.”
“’Bout time too,” said the old lady. A disgruntled expression darkened her wrinkled, sun-scorched face. “Who’d ’ve thought a little paperweight could do so much damage?”
“Very surprising,” agreed the doctor, taking a step back to admire his handiwork. “I’d be very careful when handling heavy objects in future.”
“No need to tell me that, Doctor,” said Mrs Slattery earnestly.
Wheezing, she propped herself up on her enormous heart shaped elbows, blotchy flesh dangling from her arms.
“Come and see me in a week,” said Dr McCourt, “and I’ll check your progress. Meanwhile avoid putting weight on that foot.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” said Mrs Slattery, rising with difficulty.
“And next time,” she said, “I’ll bring you a jar of my delicious chicken liver pâté.”
Turning to shuffle his record cards, Dr McCourt winced. Mrs Slattery had presented him with numerous jars of her dreaded pâté, which even the cat refused. He remembered looking imploringly at Fenella as she stood in front of the gritty concoction. But the cat had simply sniffed, given him a baleful yellow glare and swept with out of the room.
“That would be marvellous,” he said. “Goodbye Mrs Slattery.”
“Goodbye, Doctor,” beamed Mrs Slattery and hobbled away.
