The Locket of Dreams

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including printing, photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  The Locket of Dreams

  9781742754642

  A Random House book

  Published by Random House Australia Pty Ltd

  Level 3, 100 Pacific Highway, North Sydney NSW 2060

  www.randomhouse.com.au

  First published by Random House Australia in 2009

  Copyright © Belinda Murrell 2009

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia.

  Addresses for companies within the Random House Group can be found at www.randomhouse.com.au/offices

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication Entry

  Author: Murrell, Belinda

  Title: The locket of dreams/Belinda Murrell

  ISBN: 978 174166 291 7 (pbk)

  Target audience: For primary school age

  Subjects: Adventure–Juvenile fiction

  Time travel–Juvenile fiction

  Dewey number: A823.4

  Cover design by saso content & design pty ltd

  For the remarkable Mackenzie women in my family:

  My grandmother, ‘Nonnie’ Joy Mackenzie-Wood

  My mother, Gillian Mackenzie Evans

  My sister, Kate Forsyth

  My daughter, Emily Charlotte Jane Murrell

  My niece, Eleanor Joy Mackenzie Forsyth

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Imprint Page

  Dedication

  Glossary of Scottish Words

  1. Sepia Memories

  2. Nell’s Fall

  3. Eilean Dungorm

  4. The Star of Serendib

  5. The Tale of Jeannie Macdonald

  6. The Voyage of the Eliza Mackenzie

  7. Staying Longer

  8. The Burning Papers

  9. The Moors

  10. The Coming of Miss Crowe

  11. Uncle Roderick’s News

  12. Preparations for the Journey

  13. The Visit of the Poltergeist

  14. Misery

  15. Nell’s Illness

  16. The New World

  17. Rosedale

  18. The First Morning

  19. The Bathing Place of the Spirits

  20. Ambush

  21. Search for Pot

  22. Mustering

  23. Inferno

  24. Christmas Joy

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  The Ruby Talisman

  Glossary of Scottish Words

  Bairn

  child

  Bannock

  flat bread made of oatmeal

  Banshee

  small fairies with long white hair, which foretell death if seen

  Bonnie

  beautiful

  Brownie

  shy household fairyfolk who help humans in return for food

  Burn

  small river or brook

  Changelings Crofts

  fairy babies left in place of human babies small farms rented by crofters or tenant farmers

  Dun

  tower or castle

  Elfhame Eilean

  fairyland island

  Gae Ghaistie Gillie Glens Gorm Guid Hame

  go ghost highland laird’s hunting attendant valleys blue-green colour of the Scottish hills good home

  Kelpies Ken

  fairy water-horses know

  Knowe

  round hillock where fairies dwell

  Kirk

  church

  Selkies

  sea-creatures that transform from seals to human form

  Sporran

  bag, often made of sealskin decorated with silver, worn with a kilt

  Trews

  tight-fitting traditional Scottish trousers

  A fragment of my grandmother Nonnie’s favourite poem:

  A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:

  Its loveliness increases; it will never

  Pass into nothingness; but still will keep

  A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

  Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

  John Keats, 1818

  Sophie and Jessica bent over an old photo album looking at faded sepia photographs of bridal veils, orange blossoms, waxed moustaches and babies in christening gowns that swept the floor. Motes of dust danced up from the black pages and floated in the sunlight streaming through the open window.

  Jessica wrinkled her nose at the faint smell of aged, dry paper. She brushed her hand over a photo of a young couple laughing up at the camera. The girls’ grandmother, Nonnie, stood beside the antique cedar table pouring tea from a china teapot.

  ‘Nonnie, who are they?’ asked Sophie, pointing to the joyful faces.

  Nonnie peered at the photograph and a wistful smile crossed her face.

  The young woman wore a tailored suit with a fur collar, the straight skirt nearly brushing her ankles. A small hat perched on her neat curls and her face gleamed with fun, lips painted with a dark lipstick. The man, tall and proud, slung one arm protectively around her shoulder while he cradled a pipe in his other hand.

  ‘That is me with your beautiful papa,’ Nonnie replied, her voice catching. ‘I was twenty and Papa was twenty-two. That photograph was taken a few weeks after we met. I had only known him a short time but we both knew we would marry.’

  Sophie and Jessica gazed up at their grandmother, fascinated. Nonnie looked so beautiful and so fragile in the old photograph. They could see the same narrow shoulders and straight back, the same curls, although now streaked with grey, and a hint of the same mischievous smile.

  Jessica wriggled beside her sister. ‘How did you meet Papa?’

  Nonnie laughed as she poured milk from a chubby jug into the fine china teacups.

  ‘I went to a party on a boat with my friends. Actually, I was escorted by a young man whom I had been seeing for some months.’ Nonnie pulled a little face. ‘Your papa jumped aboard at the last moment, just as we were casting off. He came straight up to sit beside me and seemed so fun and carefree that everyone else seemed dull by comparison.’

  Nonnie passed each girl a cup of fragrant milky tea, balanced on a delicate saucer.

  ‘He had no money but so much joie de vivre that I couldn’t help but love him.’ Nonnie blinked rapidly, her eyes shining. ‘We were married a few months later, and as they say, the rest is history,’ she laughed. ‘Your mama was born a year later.’

  Nonnie gazed at the photograph fondly, memories crowding the room. The girls’ grandfather, Papa, had died the year before, leaving a gaping wound in all their lives.

  Sophie jumped up from the sofa, fetched the forgotten rack of toast and carried it over to the table. She and J
essica munched on buttery toast with homemade jam. Two pale faces, lightly sprinkled with freckles, one framed in blonde hair, one dark. Sophie was twelve, Jessica was ten.

  Both were staying at their grandmother’s apartment for the school holidays and were dressed in their summer best, hair scraped back, bodies scrubbed, their pretty dresses hiding scratched knees and bruised shins from climbing trees.

  As Nonnie told them tales of her wedding and youth, they felt as though they were absorbing the air of another era, a softer, more romantic era. An era with no money troubles, no family worries, no school problems.

  ‘Nonnie, who is this?’ Sophie asked, pointing to a photograph of a stern-looking matriarch in a stiff lace collar and silk skirts.

  ‘That was my great-grandmother Charlotte Mackenzie, so your great-great-great-grandmother,’ Nonnie replied. ‘She was the first one of my family to come to Australia, about one hundred and fifty years ago. She was a remarkable woman.’

  Nonnie bent and ruffled Sophie’s hair.

  ‘She was a bonnie Scot who came to Australia as a young girl about the same age as you, Sophie,’ Nonnie continued. ‘She was a feisty lass with red hair and green eyes. My mother told me she was considered a real beauty in her day. As a young woman, she had half of Sydney’s men madly in love with her.’

  Sophie smiled up at her grandmother, imagining herself as a bonnie lassie with half of Sydney at her feet.

  ‘Charlotte Mackenzie eventually fell in love and married a handsome young Welshman called William Thomas and raised a merry tribe of children.’

  Jessica and Sophie gazed at the photo of Charlotte Mackenzie, trying to imagine her as a beautiful young girl.

  ‘Actually, Charlotte’s story is rather romantic and quite mysterious.’ Nonnie settled down at the table, pulling her cup of tea towards her. ‘Charlotte Mackenzie was the daughter of a wealthy Scottish laird who owned a beautiful estate on an island off the west coast of Scotland.

  ‘The family had an ancient castle called Dungorm, which was stormed by the English when Bonnie Prince Charlie was hiding there during the Jacobite rebellion. The castle was blown to smithereens but the prince escaped with the help of the Mackenzies.’

  Sophie felt a shiver of excitement tingle up her spine. Her family had once owned a ruined Scottish castle. Her family had hidden Bonnie Prince Charlie from the English.

  ‘The family was very wealthy and built a beautiful, grand home on the island, near the ruins of the castle,’ Nonnie explained. ‘Then a terrible tragedy struck the Mackenzies. No-one really knows what happened because Charlotte would never speak of it, but Charlotte and her sister, Eleanor, were orphaned and sent across the world to Australia to live.

  ‘My mother told me stories of a wicked uncle who deprived the girls of their inheritance. She believed the estate of Dungorm should rightfully have gone to Charlotte.’

  Sophie and Jessica glanced at each other, their eyes burning in excitement. Nonnie smiled at their enthusiasm.

  ‘But it was all such a long time ago,’ concluded Nonnie. ‘No-one cares any more what happened to two young Scottish girls.’

  ‘We care,’ retorted Sophie warmly. ‘I’d love to know what happened.’

  Nonnie was silent for a few moments, her face thoughtful.

  ‘I have a box of Charlotte’s things,’ Nonnie began. ‘Would you like –’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Sophie and Jessica chorused loudly. ‘Please, Nonnie,’ they added, belatedly remembering their best manners.

  Nonnie returned a few minutes later carrying a dark timber box, its lid and sides ornately carved. She set it on the table, gently wiping the dust away.

  The box was slightly larger than a shoebox. Its lid was carved with a striking depiction of a stag, its antlers held proudly aloft. A rising full moon circled its head and antlers, while flowers and plants curled around the border.

  Words were carved within the border of the lid. Nonnie ran her finger along the words. Across the top was carved Luceo non Uro and on the bottom, the English translation.

  ‘Luceo non Uro, which is Latin. In English it means “I shine not burn,” which is the Mackenzie clan motto.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ asked Jessica, wrinkling her brow.

  ‘It means that the Mackenzies try to do their very best in everything they do – to shine, but not to burn out or be consumed,’ replied Nonnie. ‘It’s a worthy aim to have in life. Would you like to open it? I don’t think anyone has opened it for fifty years.’

  Sophie gently turned the tiny golden key, which grated creakily in the lock. Together the girls lifted the lid and peered inside. A rectangle of faded violet silk lined the box, in which a jumble of different objects nestled together.

  One by one the girls lifted the objects out and examined them curiously. A small polished red pebble. A dried and dusty twig. Crumbles of tiny parched brown leaves. A tiny arrowhead shining like freshly burnished silver. A torn swatch of faded green-and-blue tartan. A coil of long, heavy chain and a heart-shaped gold locket.

  ‘That is heather, the national flower of Scotland,’ Nonnie explained, pointing to the dried twig. ‘In summer the moors of Scotland are covered in a purple haze of heather bells. I think that is probably my favourite colour in the world.’

  Nonnie carefully opened the delicate locket to show them the plaited twist of red and black hair. ‘It’s a love lock. In the old days before photographs, people used to keep a lock of hair inside a locket as a memento of their loved ones.’

  ‘I wonder whose hair’s in the locket? Some of it is red – do you think it might be Charlotte’s?’ wondered Sophie.

  ‘It could be,’ agreed Nonnie.

  ‘Why did Charlotte keep a pebble in her treasure box?’ cried Jessica, wriggling with enthusiasm. ‘What was the tiny arrow used for?’

  ‘Why were Charlotte and her sister sent away?’ begged Sophie. ‘What happened to their parents?’

  ‘What happened to Castle Dungorm?’ Jessica asked, words spilling over themselves. ‘Maybe if it really was Charlotte’s we could claim the castle for our family!’

  Nonnie held up her hands and laughed. ‘I told you it was intriguing, but it all happened nearly a hundred and fifty years ago. I’m afraid we’ll never truly know the answers to all those questions. It must forever remain a mystery.’

  The girls’ minds churned with questions that couldn’t be answered.

  ‘Come on, girls,’ said Nonnie. ‘It’s a beautiful day. Why don’t we go out for a walk?’

  That night Sophie lay in bed wearing her long white nightdress embroidered with tiny daisies that Nonnie had given her for Christmas. Sleep eluded her as images of castles and Scottish heather jostled inside her head. These were chased away by thoughts of her home and her own family problems.

  No, don’t think of that; think of castles, Sophie told herself.

  Jessica was asleep in the other bed, breathing deeply and evenly. Sophie tossed and turned, her blonde hair sticking damply to her face and neck.

  At last Sophie pulled back the covers and slipped out of bed. She tiptoed to the chest of drawers and opened the dark wooden box with the stag carved on the lid. She could feel the curve of his antlers with her fingertips.

  A gleam of light filtered through the partially open door, hardly enough to see by. Using her fingertips she rummaged through the box and found the cool, slippery gold of the old locket chain.

  Sophie weighed the heavy chain deliberately in her hand. She traced the engraving on the heart-shaped locket, then quickly, guiltily slipped the chain over her head and inside her nightdress. She didn’t know why she felt the urge to wear the old necklace. It just seemed to have a magnetic pull on her.

  She wondered about Charlotte and Eleanor Mackenzie. What was their life like? What did the castle of Dungorm look like?

  Cradling the locket in her palm, Sophie quickly felt sleep sink upon her, snuggling around her like a soft, cozy doona.

  She felt her body melting then sliding d
own a steep tunnel, falling faster and faster, hurtling towards sleep. She shot out of the darkness into a blinding, dazzling vastness of light, with nothing below her. Sophie felt momentarily afraid as she fell but then she realised she was no longer falling but flying, soaring above a deep-green earth.

  Far below her she saw two figures moving across the landscape. Her curiosity prickled and she turned her body to swoop towards them. Sophie felt as light as a feather, her body gliding on puffs of breeze.

  As she dropped lower she realised the two figures were girls, galloping on ponies, their red hair and long green skirts flying in the wind. It suddenly occurred to Sophie that the two girls, with their veiled hats and full petticoats, looked liked old-fashioned children out of an aged book.

  ‘Giddy-up, Rosie,’ the older girl cried, kicking her heels into the side of her grey mare. ‘Race you to the top, Nell!’

  Nell responded with a shriek and a flourish of her riding crop. The two girls rode side-saddle, dark-green velvet skirts flapping over their horses’ flanks.

  The horses galloped down a steep green hill, leaving muddy hoof prints in the spongy turf, their riders whooping with delight. At their heels loped a shaggy black-and-white dog, its tongue lolling, one ear pricked and one flopping over its eye.

  At the bottom of the hill, an icy burn tumbled and splashed its way over the grey rocks. The horses barely slowed as they clattered through the shallow water and galloped up the sheer bank on the other side, the dog close behind.