Journey's End
ALSO BY RACHEL HAWKINS
Rebel Belle
Miss Mayhem
Lady Renegades
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
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Copyright © 2016 by Rachel Hawkins.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Hawkins, Rachel, 1979–, author.
Title: Journey’s end / Rachel Hawkins.
Description: New York, NY : G.P. Putnam’s Sons, [2016]
Summary: Faced with a mysterious, deadly fog bank in a seaside Scottish village, new friends Nolie and Bel look for ways to stop it—coming across an ancient spell that requires magic, a quest, and a sacrifice.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016001030 | ISBN 9780399169601 (hardback)
Subjects: | CYAC: Supernatural—Fiction. | Friendship—Fiction. | Scotland—Fiction. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Action & Adventure / General. | JUVENILE FICTION / People & Places / Europe. | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Friendship.
Classification: LCC PZ7.H313525 Jo 2016 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016001030
Ebook ISBN: 9780698191761
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
For William Moore and William Hawkins,
two guys who love the ocean and spooky stories.
CONTENTS
ALSO BY RACHEL HAWKINS
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
CHAPTER 1
FROM “THE SAD TALE OF CAIT MCINNISH,” CHAPTER 13, Legends of the North
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
FROM “THE SAD TALE OF CAIT MCINNISH,” CHAPTER 13, Legends of the North
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
FROM “THE SAD TALE OF CAIT MCINNISH,” CHAPTER 13, Legends of the North
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
FROM “THE SAD TALE OF CAIT MCINNISH,” CHAPTER 13, Legends of the North
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER 1
ALBERT MACLEISH WOKE UP EARLY ON THE MORNING he disappeared.
It had to be early if he was to leave without his mum and da noticing, so it was still murky and dim when he opened the front gate and slipped out into the quiet, rutted lane that ran past his house. It had rained the night before, and he was careful to keep from stepping in the puddles that dotted the road. He’d dressed in the dark that morning, and he’d been in a hurry, slipping on the first pair of shoes he’d found. Unfortunately, those were his good shoes, the ones he wore to church, and Mum would hide him good if he got them dirty.
Moving gingerly, he skipped over one puddle, skirted another. It was barely dawn, but as he passed the other houses on the road, he could see people moving inside them, shadows behind curtains. At the McLeods’, his friend Sean’s father was already heading down the front steps, fishing pole in hand.
“Morning, Bertie!” he called out, not seeing how Albert winced at the nickname. He’d always been a Bertie, but now that he was nearly thirteen, he’d decided it was high time he was called Albert. Too bad no one in Journey’s End seemed to agree.
“Mornin’, sir!” he called back. Sean’s father was a bigger man than Albert’s own da had been, with heavy feet that stomped into the lane, obliterating the little pools of water Albert had been so careful to avoid. As Mr. McLeod clomped closer, one giant foot sent up splatters of rain and mud, dotting Albert’s trousers.
He winced again and Mr. McLeod clapped a beefy hand on his shoulder.
“Where you off to so early, lad?”
For a moment, Albert panicked. He hadn’t thought to come up with an excuse should anyone see him heading toward the village. The MacLeishes were farmers, not fishermen, so unlike Tom Leslie or James McInnish, he’d have no reason to be down at the docks this time of morning. By all rights, he should be milking Maud or feeding the chickens.
But before he said anything, the front door of the McLeods’ swung open, Sean’s mum standing there, a bucket dangling from her hand. She looked like Sean, all tiny features and wispy blond hair. “Yer lunch, Robert,” she said, the corners of her mouth quirking so that Albert knew this wasn’t the first time she’d had to remind Mr. McLeod of something.
Albert used that as an opportunity to hurry on down the lane, and soon the McLeods, their cottage, and any questions they might ask about why a farming boy was walking out to the shore at this time of morning were far behind him.
As the road curved uphill, Albert moved faster, his breath coming out in small white clouds. The air always smelled of salt and sea, but that morning, Albert could also smell the very first beginnings of spring, a rich, loamy green smell that made him smile, and when he crested the hill, he began to whistle a bit.
Journey’s End was nestled at the base of the hill, surrounded on its other two sides by rolling green. The sea pressed at its back, crashing against the high, rocky cliffs. There were houses on those cliffs, solid wooden structures that belonged to families much wealthier than Albert’s. He’d always liked those houses, how stubbornly they clung to the top of the cliffs, big bay windows jutting out toward the ocean. They made Albert think of tough boys, their chests puffed out as though they were challenging the sea to just try to take them down.
Albert’s older brother, Edward, had sworn he’d live in one of those houses someday. Edward was gone now, and while Albert liked the big houses on the cliffs, he had no intention of staying in this village when he was older. Sometimes he wondered why anyone did, and if he was the only one who thought there was something a little sad about being born in a place called Journey’s End. It seemed like a place where people should end up, not where they started out. He’d tried to ask Edward once, but Edward had just ruffled Albert’s hair and told him there were too many thoughts in his head.
He headed down the hill, the road turning from mud and puddles to cobblestones. Over in Wythe, the next village over, they had paved streets. But then, people in Wythe had automobiles, too, and no one in Journey’s End—not even the people in the houses
on the cliffs—could afford an automobile.
The sun was higher when Albert reached the village proper, and he could see Mrs. Collins opening the door to her shop. She waved at Albert as he passed, but thankfully didn’t ask what he was about.
The docks were to his right, and Albert skirted those, turning instead to the left and the little trail that wound down to the beach. There wasn’t much shoreline in Journey’s End, and what existed was covered in sharp pebbles that Albert could feel even through his nice shoes.
He stood there, hands in his pockets, looking out at the water. A mile offshore, a wall of gray rose up from the water. It covered the sea below, climbing high enough to mingle with the clouds, and no one could have mistaken it for a regular fog bank. It was too solid, for one thing, never drifting or dissipating like fog usually did. The sun never burned off this wall of mist, which seemed as permanent as the rocks on the shore, as the cliffs that stretched over the sea.
But more than that, there was the feeling you got when you looked at what everyone in Journey’s End was trying so hard not to talk about. Not that anyone could avoid talking about the fog for long, of course, but when they did, it was said in a whisper—the fog—that slid through people lips, then hung heavy in the air. Even now, Albert felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and there was a sick kind of swirling in his stomach, the same he’d felt the day Edward had dared him to jump from the hayloft. He’d done it, but the twinge in his ankle reminded him what a foolish decision it had been.
He hoped this decision wasn’t that stupid. Or painful.
For as long as Albert had been alive, the fog had clung to the rocky island where the lighthouse stood, like the island was a master keeping its beast—the fog—on a tight leash.
But sometime during the winter, the light had gone out. They hadn’t been able to see it at first—the fog was too thick for that—but slowly, the gray had begun creeping closer, sliding across the waters of the Caillte Sea . . . slowly, but surely.
All his life, Albert had heard the legend of the lighthouse, that its light was what kept the fog at bay, but he’d never truly believed that. He wasn’t sure anyone did. But as the fog slithered closer, so too did the story of its light, something to do with a witch and an ancient curse.
There was something else, too, something that Albert didn’t really understand. When the fog had started its creep toward the land, some of the people in the village went to a meeting in the town hall—a meeting that was meant to be secret.
Edward had still been here then, and he and Albert had sneaked down to the hall, trying to watch through the cracks in the slats, but all they’d seen were some of the men from the village standing up, a tall, dark-haired girl in their midst, her face pale, her clothes odd.
“Did you put it out yourself?” Albert had heard a voice ask. He’d thought it was Mr. MacMillan, the man who owned the dry goods store in town, but he hadn’t been able to see. “Is that why ye’ve come back?”
That was the part that had seemed so odd to Albert. Come back? From where? He was sure he’d never seen the girl before in his life, and near every face in Journey’s End was known to him.
Their da had caught him and Edward then, and the hiding they’d both gotten had nearly driven the memory of the mysterious meeting from their minds.
Then Edward’s friend Davey McKissick had taken a boat out to light the light himself.
Davey hadn’t come back. Neither had Davey’s father when he went looking for him.
And then Edward had declared that he’d light the light. The fog had seemed more dangerous by then, creeping close to shore, and more stories were told now, in louder voices. Stories about the fog sliding through the village, making ships and houses disappear. Warnings that if it came into the village, it would snatch people from their very beds.
More tales Albert had never really believed in, but looking out now, he could feel it, pressing in with curling fingers.
The waves were gentler here in the sheltered cove, but they still sent bursts of salt spray into the air as they crashed against the smaller boulders near the shore. Albert was a farm boy in his heart, and looking out at that gray water, he longed for mud underneath his shoes, for the sweet smell of hay in his nose.
But he knew this was the best chance he would have, and if he didn’t start now, he would lose his nerve altogether.
Bending down, he removed his shoes, then his socks, setting both on a high, flat rock nearby, hoping that would keep them safe from the worst of the spray. Later, the group of men sent to look for Albert—Sean’s da among them—would find his shoes. They would be all of him anyone would ever find, and his mum would keep them on the mantelpiece until the cold day in December 1928 when her broken heart finally stopped beating.
He hopped down the beach much the same way he’d hopped down the path to the sea, skirting rocks instead of pebbles, but his feet got scraped up anyway, the salt water making every step sting.
Over the years, the sea had carved hollows into the cliff side. Edward had said some of these caves went back for miles, turning into tunnels that ran underneath Journey’s End, and that if you weren’t careful, you could get lost forever underground. Albert hated those stories, and as he passed one of the bigger hollows in the rock, he shivered.
The cave Albert was looking for wasn’t very deep at all. It went back only a few feet, but he still swallowed hard as he ducked inside the dark opening. Here, the sound of the sea was both louder and more distant, like putting his ear against a seashell, and Albert worked quickly, wanting to be out of the cave as quickly as possible.
The little rowboat hidden behind a shelf of rock had seen better days, and its hull (once painted blue, he thought) was now a faded and scratched gray. A handful of barnacles clung to the side, and the entire vessel smelled strongly of rotting fish, but Albert smiled as he tugged the boat out of its hiding place and toward the sea.
He had found it just a few days ago, not long after Edward had vanished into the fog. Even though the Bible said stealing was wrong, and Albert’s mum and da would both have taken the strap to him, he told himself that it wasn’t stealing. It was finding. Albert had kept his eyes peeled in the village for any signs announcing the loss of a rowboat, but there hadn’t been any, and Albert had started to think of the little boat as his. The Selkie, it was called, the words painted in curling black script.
As he dragged the Selkie to the shallows, Albert’s heart thudded in his chest and he tried very hard not to think that maybe the reason no one had reported it missing was because whomever it had belonged to was dead, lost out there beyond the fog bank.
The frigid water was lapping against Albert’s ankles now, the boat thudding against his shins as he tried to steady it with one hand. The oars rested in the bottom of the boat, and they rattled as Albert climbed inside.
For a moment, he sat there on the splintered seat, the boat rocking but not yet being tugged out into the ocean. His breath was coming fast now, and not from dragging the boat. It was fear. But nestled right up next to that fear, as tight as the barnacles on the side of his stolen—found—boat, was hope. This would work.
It had to.
Albert lifted his eyes once more to the rolling bank of gray blotting out the horizon. Out there in the fog was a high, rocky crag. He couldn’t see it now—the fog was too thick—but atop that crag was the lighthouse. Someone had lit it once, saving Journey’s End, and Albert knew this was the only way. It had taken Davey McKissick and his da. It had taken Edward. But it would not take Albert. He wouldn’t let it. Hadn’t he found this boat just after Edward vanished? Wasn’t that some kind of sign that he was meant to take it, and go after his brother?
He hoisted the oars, pushing off one of the nearby boulders. Behind him, Journey’s End, the village he’d known all his life, the village that would one day put his picture on a wall with all the other sons and d
aughters, brothers and sisters, it had lost to the sea, receded into the fog.
And Albert rowed off and became a mystery.
FROM “THE SAD TALE OF CAIT MCINNISH,”
CHAPTER 13,
Legends of the North
CAIT HAD NEVER BELIEVED IN THE FAIRY STORIES.
If she had, neither she nor the boy might have died, but Cait was a sensible girl, and when she saw the old woman washing the boy’s clothes in the stream, she had thought nothing of it. She and Rabbie were making their way back from the village, his hand small and warm in hers, and as they’d passed, Cait had simply thought the washerwoman must have had a grandson of her own, another bonny boy with a blue tunic marked with the stag of the laird’s house.
Had she known her stories, she would’ve recognized the washerwoman as a Bean-Nighe, the fairy who came as an omen of death, washing the clothes of the doomed in streams and rivers, and it might have made her eyes sharper, her feet swifter.
Maybe later in the day, when they’d come back to the castle, she would’ve been fast enough to catch Rabbie when he ran past her, giggling, the sun shining on his copper-bright hair. Maybe her fingers would’ve caught his tunic (blue, so blue, blue as his eyes, blue as the sky he was rushing to meet). Maybe she would’ve caught him before he stumbled, arms spinning as he pitched toward the castle’s open window.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
Cait thought the word enough that it sounded like a spell itself, a constant chant in her mind.
But she did not catch him, and even though that morning she had not recognized the Bean-Nighe for what it was, the fairy’s warning came true all the same.
If this were one of those fairy stories Cait did not believe, the boy might’ve sprouted wings that would have saved him at the last moment, when he’d gone soaring over the rocky cliff and icy sea. He would be revealed as a changeling, a fairy himself, blessed. Protected.
This is not one of those stories.