Hollow Earth by John Barrowman, Carole E. Barrowman Page B

some of what they’d been learning?
    Em concentrated on the younger children next. The boy seemed focused and distracted at the same time. She couldn’t figure out what she was sensing from him until he climbed off the back of his mum’s tandem, feet crossed, bouncing on his heels.
    Em laughed to herself. He needed to go to the loo.
    The girl was willing to do whatever her parents suggested, but Em was feeling something else, another desire that was overwhelming the first. The girl was getting hungry.
    The older children, two boys aged about ten and eleven hanging at an appropriate distance from their parents, were far easier for her to assess. Both were clearly bored with everything they had done so far on this trip. In their opinions, Em was the first interesting thing that had happened since the vacation began.
    ‘My family used to work in television in London,’ said Em, telling the tale she had rehearsed with Matt and Zach, concentrating on the mum. ‘Now we live on the island with my grandfather. He owns a lot of the land along the far coast of the island. Every summer for a limited time, my family presents a re-enactment of one of the most famous moments in the island’s history. There’s a performance beginning in an hour if you’re interested.’
    Em handed the mum one of the flyers she and Matt had drawn, advertising The Battle of Auchinmurn . Her fingers glanced across the mum’s hand. The woman was already convinced, enthusiasm flowing from her.
    ‘Oh, Tom, let’s go,’ she said excitedly. ‘We’ll be supporting some local enterprise and I’m sure the boys will learn something unusual about Scotland.’
    ‘I’m hungry,’ whined the little girl.
    Em remembered Jeannie’s packed lunches. ‘We have sandwiches.’
    The eldest of the two boys spoke up. ‘C’mon, Dad, everything we’ve done so far on this stupid vacation has been so lame.’
    ‘Yeah,’ said his brother. ‘You’re always telling us we need to try new things. Let’s do it!’
    ‘I don’t know,’ said the dad, looking at his family and then down at the flyer. The picture the twins had drawn on the front was of an angry Viking standing next to his longship.
    Suddenly the Viking on the flyer thrust his sword out of the page towards the dad who yelped, instinctively ducking.
    ‘Jeez Louise! Lori, did you see that?’
    ‘Hologram,’ lied Em.
    ‘Well, young lady,’ he laughed, ‘I guess you’ve got yourself some customers.’

TWENTY-THREE
    E m led the Nelsons from Nebraska – Tom, Lori and their four children – back round the island to Viking Cove, a rocky inlet on the southeast point of Auchinmurn. From the air, the cove looked as if something had taken a bite out of the rock, leaving an empty slice tucked from the view of passing boats. Because the beach was layered with uneven slabs of limestone – unlike the sandier beaches on the rest of the island – the cove was no more than a passing highlight on the island’s tour.
    I’m ten minutes away.
    We’re ready.
    The Nelsons followed Em along Beach Road, then on to a forest path, heading towards the sea. About five minutes along the trail, they reached a dilapidated fisherman’s shack, where they parked their bikes, continuing on foot across a rocky plateau that eventually stepped down to the cove.
    The view was so stunning from this promontory that Em had to wait for Mr Nelson to snap a number of photos of his family with the Celtic tower as a backdrop. When they eventually climbed down to the cove, haunting Gaelic whistle music rose up to greet them from wireless speakers Zach had installed under the rocks.
    ‘Oh, listen kids,’ said Mrs Nelson, helping her youngest children down off the ledge. ‘Maybe there’s a leprechaun hidden in that cave.’
    Puhleeze , thought Em, but let the statement pass. ‘Welcome to the site of one of the most famous events in Auchinmurn’s history. If you’ll please take a seat.’ She pointed to a long wooden bench inside