Emerald Greene and the Witch Stones Read online

  Jessica took another brave forkful of Gabi’s vegemince dumpling and tried to chew and swallow without actually tasting it. ‘Well,’ she began indistinctly, ‘I’m supposed to be looking after her and showing her round, but she always seems happier just going off on her own. She doesn’t seem to need looking after. And she doesn’t like talking. Not properly.’

  ‘Mmmm.... it could be that you aren’t talking about the right things,’ Aunt Gabi suggested with a smile, her bangles rattling as she served herself a large helping of organic potatoes. ‘What’s she interested in? Not fashion and boy bands, I take it.’

  Jess narrowed her eyes, but Gabi’s smile gave away that she was teasing. ‘Well... experiments,’ said Jess thoughtfully.

  ‘Ah, there you are, then. She’s a boffin. She’s probably full of fascinating information, if you just give her a chance.’ Gabi topped up her wine-glass. ‘Want some?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ Jess said quickly, covering her glass with her hand.

  ‘There were girls at my school, you know,’ said Gabi, ‘who didn’t fit in. They were the ones who sat in the corner looking serious and reading books. Those “weird” girls might have had the mick taken a bit, but when they got out into the real world they were probably more interesting.’ Gabi smiled, gazing into the distance. ‘Took me a bit longer, till university. I was a late developer.’

  At that moment there was a telephone call.

  ‘Darling, hellooooo,’ exclaimed Gabi in delight, putting her feet up and settling down in her long-call pose, phone against her earring-less left ear.

  Has to be Gabi’s latest admirer, Jess thought. So she covered the remains of the vegemince dumpling in HP Sauce, which made it altogether more palatable, and almost managed to finish it.

  When she’d had enough, she scraped the burnt remains into the nearby newspaper, crumpled the paper up tightly and jammed it into the outside dustbin.

  ‘They’re saying it was an electrical fault,’ Richie muttered darkly the next day as he ate his sandwiches on the wall by the sports hall. ‘I think it was a bit more than that.’

  Jess nodded, idly watching the children running round the playground in their various games. She didn’t feel like joining in with anything - there was too much to think about.

  ‘The weather is pleasant today, do you not think?’ said a familiar voice. An unmistakable bob of tomato-red hair had appeared beside them.

  Emerald sat down beside Richie. She was wearing her duffel-coat again, and was smiling as if she’d just found the secret of eternal youth.

  Richie did a double take. ‘Um, do you mind?’ he said. ‘We’re, kind of, having a conversation here?’

  Emerald held up her finger and narrowed her eyes. ‘Oddness,’ she said. ‘Strangeness. Something in the air. I have been observing you two, and I know you have seen it too.’

  ‘And I suppose,’ said Richie with heavy sarcasm, ‘that you’re as baffled by it all as we are?’

  Emerald Greene seemed to give the question serious thought. ‘Possibly,’ she said, ‘but then I do have the advantage of being a little ahead of you... May I see that?’ she added politely, pointing to Richie’s phone.

  Jessica suddenly had a strange feeling that something was going to happen. And a second later, she was proved right.

  One minute the small, black phone was sitting in Richie’s hand. The next, it seemed to flip over in a somersault and land neatly with a thwack in Emerald Greene’s palm, as if someone had smacked his hand from underneath.

  Jess and Richie gasped.

  Emerald Greene, seemingly oblivious to the amazement she had caused, gave the mobile phone a perfunctory examination. ‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘Fairly primitive device. Hand-held, operated by simple rechargeable energy cells... Linked to some kind of transmitter network, I would imagine.’ She beamed and held the mobile out for Richie. ‘Very interesting. Thank you.’

  He took the phone back gingerly, as if expecting it to be hot, and tucked it very carefully into his blazer pocket. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Right,’ he added.

  Emerald Greene stood up, hands in pockets, and strolled off, whistling an indefinable tune. In her own little world. Her own universe.

  ‘Weird,’ said Jess, shaking her head.

  ‘Well weird,’ Richie agreed.

  They both stared after the retreating figure of Emerald Greene for a few moments.

  ‘You know,’ Jess said thoughtfully, ‘I had two all-chocolate Kit-Kats in a row last week.’

  His eyes widened. ‘The ones with no biscuit in? You... I love it when you get those!’ He frowned. ‘Two in a row? Chances of that happening?’

  ‘Oh, infinite,’ she said. ‘Like winning the lottery twice. There are definite weird vibes in this school now, Rich. You can feel it in the air.’

  ‘So, um... what are we going to do about it?’ Richie asked nervously, straightening his tie. ‘If anything?’ he added hastily.

  ‘I think you ought to take a closer look at that exploded computer,’ Jess murmured.

  ‘What about you?’ he asked.

  ‘Me?’ Jess lowered two index fingers like pistols in Emerald’s direction. ‘I’m gonna keep tabs on Madam there.’

  Small and slight, Richie often went unnoticed. Now, he was hoping this would work to his advantage. He crouched behind a large rubber-plant and peered between the leaves.

  The top of the stairs leading to the IT Room had been screened off with what appeared to be a sheet of white plastic and there were some people talking in front of it. He recognised the Head, Miss Pinsley, and the head of IT, Mr Watson. The other two were men in long, dark coats. The older man, who had grey hair and a bushy moustache, seemed to be doing most of the talking. Every so often the men would exchange a nod and the younger one would write something in a notebook.

  Richie, straining to hear, caught odd snatches of the mumbled conversation:

  ‘...pupils in the building?’

  ‘...never expected it would...’

  ‘...but if it’s replicated...’

  ‘...surely a simple parameter adjustment...’

  While Richie was watching and trying to listen, something very odd happened which made his stomach do a backward flip and his fingertips tingle with excitement.

  A black, green-eyed cat appeared to emerge from the plastic barrier and trotted past the group on the stairs.

  Not one of the adults turned to look at it.

  As if it wasn’t really there - or as if they couldn’t see it.

  The cat padded down the steps, eyes seemingly scanning the route ahead. And suddenly, some instinct made Richie duck behind his plant-pot and try to curl himself up very, very tightly.

  Richie could hear his own breathing, amplified horribly. Distantly, from outside, the usual playground sounds echoed - shouts, squeals and bouncing footballs. He could also hear the cat making quiet, thoughtful skerrowling noises to itself as it walked softly in a slow circle around the Plaza.

  It seemed to be looking for something.

  Sniffing.

  Hunting.

  Richie, biting his knuckles, pressed himself between the wall and the plant-pot. The next few seconds seemed like an eternity.

  He could smell it. That damp, feral, cat-litter smell... it was that close to him.

  He wondered if the cat was looking for a mouse, and almost giggled. Somehow, this cat didn’t seem like the sort to be hunting mice - it gave the impression of being after bigger prey. And yet Richie had absolutely no idea why he should be thinking this, nor why he should be trembling with irrational fear.

  He risked a glimpse. It was still there, furry feet padding on the varnished floor of the school corridor, the shiny green jewel in its collar catching the reflection of the strip-lights above. He bit down hard on his knuckles and screwed his
eyes up tightly.

  And then, to his relief, he heard the pitter-patter of feline footsteps receding. He glanced out from his leafy hideaway, just in time to see the cat’s tail disappearing between the swing doors.

  Only now, as he relaxed, did he realise how hard his heart had been thump-thump-thumping against his ribcage.

  He let out a long, deep breath and uncurled himself from behind the plant-pot, straightening up.

  ‘Blimey,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘If this kind of thing carries on, I’m going to need nine lives myself.’

  ‘Emerald!’ Jessica called. ‘Emerald, wait!’

  Pushing her way past a squabbling group of Year 7 boys, she caught up with Emerald Greene by the lockers.

  ‘Ah, Jessica. You are passing a pleasant day, I trust.’ Emerald Greene looked through her in that mesmerising, unearthly way of hers. She gave Jess her fixed, switched-on smile, all gloss and radiance with nothing behind it.

  ‘Um, yeah. Not bad... You know, Emerald, you talk like a book.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Um... no problem. So... how’s the encyclopaedia-reading going?’

  ‘Very well, thank you,’ said Emerald Greene politely. ‘I have informed myself on everything from Cataracts to Devolution this lunchtime.’

  ‘Are you... swotting up for something?’ Jess wondered, furrowing her brow.

  ‘Swotting... up?’ Emerald repeated the unfamiliar phrase, shook her head.

  ‘Revising? You know, like, for a quiz or something? Schools Challenge? Junior Mastermind?’ Jess pulled a face. ‘You’re not telling me this is just for fun?’

  ‘For enlightenment,’ said Emerald, and smiled.

  ‘Okaaaaay...’ Jess decided it was best to move on. ‘Listen, Aunt Gabi said I could have someone home for tea on Tuesday. D’you want to come round?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Emerald Greene, her smile unwavering, and she left Jess standing open-mouthed as she headed off down the corridor.

  What kind of answer was that? Okay, so it wasn’t rude exactly, but it was a bit more abrupt than it needed to be. She could have said she was washing her hair, or shopping, or that she’d set Tuesday aside to learn about everything from Eggplants to Fiji.

  Something was definitely up with that girl. Emerald’s smile wasn’t natural, and her eyes were always so big and staring. Jess shivered. Could Emerald, she thought, be like the girls in those bad Channel 5 movies? Kids who always turned out to have awful things happening at home, or a mysterious, unrecognised illness?

  Anything was possible.

  The Friday end-of-school bell always seemed more triumphant, more shatteringly beautiful than any other. It brought with it a heady rush, a feeling of energy in the limbs, of freedom and power. A liberation. Pupils poured downstairs, chattering and shouting and giggling and whirling bags over their heads.

  Jess Mathieson and Richie Fanshawe, oblivious to the conversations of their classmates, were ticking things off on their fingers.

  ‘So we’ve got an exploding computer,’ said Jess, as they hurried along with the tide. ‘And a house that doesn’t exist.’

  ‘A girl who wanders home into the middle of the woods and disappears,’ added Richie indistinctly, chewing on a Mars bar.

  ‘She seems to know everything,’ Jess said, ‘and nothing.’

  They stopped at the bottom of the stairs and faced each other, arms folded.

  ‘Don’t forget the singing,’ said Richie, gesturing with his Mars bar. ‘The weirdo chanting.’

  Jess gently pushed the chocolate bar away from her face where he was waving it. ‘And the fact that she reads the flipping Encyclopaedia Britannica for fun.’

  ‘Not even Wikipedia.’

  ‘I know. Crazy.’

  ‘And the cat,’ he said, finishing the last mouthful of Mars bar and shoving the wrapper into his pocket. ‘The cat who walks through walls... and nobody sees it.’

  Jess sighed. ‘This is so doing my head in.’

  ‘Mine too... Hey, only a few hours till the Mad Professor’s dig, by the way. Don’t want to miss that. It’s not every day someone discovers a Viking tomb, is it?’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Better get home. Aunt Gabi’s doing that well-known recipe, sandwiches. Want to come?’

  ‘Sure. Thanks.’

  Jess hoisted her bag on her shoulder. ‘I dunno,’ she said as they followed the hordes out into the playground. ‘Don’t you miss those days when the most complicated thing in life was SATs?’

  The Darkwater. That was the only name it was called now, although it had been known by other names, long ago. Silent and imposing, the great lake nestled in the moorland above Meresbury.

  That evening, mist drifted across its smooth surface, wraithlike fingers of vapour trailing on the water. The surface rippled slightly in the breeze, and the reflection of the setting sun dissolved in the lake into sparkling orange shards.

  Out in the centre, where the lake was at its deepest, a bubble broke the surface. Then another. Then another. After a few seconds, a patch of water about three metres across was bubbling like a pan of soup.

  With a low sploshing noise, a shadowy shape was heading out across the water from the shore. It emerged from the mist and revealed itself as a small rowing-boat, steered by a figure in a coat, its face hidden under a cowled hood.

  The figure manoeuvred the oars expertly, guiding the boat to the edge of the bubbles. It fished out something from its pocket - a heavy lead weight, attached to a roll of twine on a wooden bobbin. The figure threw the weight into the water and watched it sink, allowing the twine to unroll from the bobbin as the weight went deeper and deeper. A good half-minute passed before the twine went taut over the edge of the boat, and the hooded figure nodded, apparently satisfied.

  It took a small calculator out of its inside pocket, tapped in a few figures and nodded again.

  The bubbling appeared to become more agitated, as if something had been disturbed. The mist, too, seemed to have grown thicker around the little boat. The figure, after looking over its shoulder one way and the other, hurriedly began to wind up the twine into a ball again. When it had finished, it grabbed the oars once more and rowed back into the thickening mist, heading for the shore.

  For now, its job was done.

  3

  Moonlight Shadow

  ‘Why,’ said Aunt Gabi, slicing bread, ‘does this guy want to open an ancient burial chamber anyway? The dead should stay buried, if you ask me.’

  Jess looked at Richie and raised her eyebrows. They were sitting on the sofa, sharing a huge plate of cheese-and-pickle sandwiches. They had half an hour before catching the school minibus to see Professor Ulverston’s unveiling of his wondrous discovery.

  ‘It’s history, Ms LaForge,’ said Richie in his Serious Voice. ‘Bringing the past to life.’

  ‘Believe me, I wouldn’t want any of my past bringing to life,’ said Aunt Gabi with raised eyebrows. ‘It’d be most unedifying. And please, it’s Gabi, okay?’ She tutted. ‘I don’t know, kids today are so proper. When I was your age I was out on the town drinking pina coladas with unsuitable boys and getting tattoos.’

  ‘Have you got one?’ Richie asked, wide-eyed and pausing in mid-chomp.

  Jess groaned in mock despair. ‘Don’t encourage her, Rich!’ she exclaimed, and flicked the TV on. On the screen, bronzed Australians bickered in a brightly-lit lounge.

  Gabi grinned. She sashayed over, bread-knife still in her hand, and plonked a foot on the coffee-table. With a jangle of bangles, she pulled down the left shoulder of her top. ‘There,’ she said proudly.

  Richie peered at the artwork etched into her skin. It was a clenched fist, about the size of a coin, and underneath it there was an inscription, made to look like ill-matched letters
cut from a newspaper.

  ‘PrettyVac,’ Richie read, and frowned. ‘PrettyVac? What’s that, some kind of hoover?’

  Gabi blushed and pulled her top back over her shoulder. ‘It’s meant to say Pretty Vacant,’ she said. ‘Punk rock, you know?’ They stared blankly. ‘Well, anyway, I passed out in the middle. Never plucked up the courage to have it finished off.’ She waggled a finger at them. ‘So let that be a lesson to you, kids - tattoos are not big or clever. There, that’s my responsible parenting done for the day. Now get those sarnies down you.’

  Jess just tutted, scowled and pretended to be interested in the antics of the Aussie actors. Sometimes, Gabi just embarrassed her.

  Her name was Xanthë. She hovered between life and death.

  She had died long before this world of hot, angry engines and tar-black roads cutting through the countryside. She had died in a place which was already cursed, and now she was cursed again, for although she was meant to be dead, she had not passed over. Not like others in the Craft, others who had gone on to new existences up or down the timeline, or whose souls had passed into their familiars. Those who had completed the cycle.

  Her name was Xanthë and she was a witch-ghost. A witch hanging between life and death. A witch, like others, slipping between the timelines, never wholly present nor wholly absent.

  In this form, her body was hideous. It had been beautiful and lissom before, so slender, her hair like spun gold as they danced around the stones. Now, she dared not look at herself. The Timelines had taken a hideous toll. They were all the same, all nine of the group; twisted, ragged-haired, their skin like parchment and liver-blotched. They hid from the light beneath cowled hoods, hunched and shuffling.

  They seemed lost in different sectors of the totality. Sometimes they would glimpse one another, passing through a village or across a moor, and they would exchange the latest intelligence from their travels; but mostly, they passed in and out of phase, flickering like candles in a cold church.

  But now, the news was astonishing. There had been a fragmentation at one of the points of energy, a discharge which had rippled through the timelines like a storm, causing huge breakers to crash against rocks. Pure psychic power converting itself into something which could be channelled - something called electricity.