Soul Stealer Page 10

  “In that time,” Sebastian explained, “Christian and Muslim men were not enemies as later they were to become in the Crusades.”

  “So where does his book fit in?” asked Tim.

  Sebastian went on, “In Cordoba, Gerbert studied under a famous Muslim magician whose considerable magical power was based upon spells recorded in a volume locked in an iron strongbox. Realizing this, Gerbert seduced the magician’s daughter, promising to take her away and marry her if she helped him acquire the book. She drugged her father, removed the key from his person and, unlocking the chest, gave the book of spells to Gerbert.”

  “And they lived happily every after?” Pip suggested.

  “Indeed not,” Sebastian continued. “Gerbert fled, leaving the girl behind. When her father regained his consciousness, he was enraged and set off in pursuit, but Gerbert succeeded in escaping him.”

  “Sounds like a real jerk,” said Tim vehemently.

  “There is, I fear, more,” Sebastian added. “It is said Gerbert prayed to Satan to save him from the magician, and that he bartered his soul to the Devil and that Satan promised him even greater powers than were in the book of spells. For the remainder of his life, Gerbert was said to keep a human head, presented to him by Satan, with which he conversed, learning many more evil secrets which he added to the book.”

  “And Scrotton’s got the book,” Tim said.

  “In the year of Our Lord 983,” Sebastian said finally, “Pope Otto the Second appointed Gerbert as abbot of a famous monastery and in the year 999, he was elected Pope Sylvester the Second.”

  “Cosmic!” Tim remarked. “A pope who sold himself to Satan and owned a book of the Devil’s personal spells.”

  “More to the point,” Pip half whispered, “if Scrotton’s got it now, Yoland’s got it, too.”

  For some minutes, Sebastian was silent. Finally, he stood up and declared, “I feel assured now that Yoland is not concerned with the creation of a homunculus, the transmutation of iron into gold or the perfection of aurum potabile. For these, he would have no use of the book.”

  “Then what?” ventured Tim.

  “I know not yet,” Sebastian admitted, “but you may be assured it is more evil and ambitious than anything of which Malodor could have dreamed.”

  Tim’s first attempt at a sick note was superb. Modelling his writing on his mother’s, it read, Please excuse Sebastian from school today. He has a badly upset stomach. Yours, Anna Gillette. Then, after practicing the signature, he incorrectly signed it Annette and had to start again. Eventually, with it finished, he folded it into an envelope and wrote, B. Yoland Esq. on the front.

  “If Yoland asks, I’ll tell him your mother asked me to deliver it.”

  “Are you sure this will be sufficient?” Sebastian asked as they waited in Tim’s room for Pip to finish putting on her uniform.

  “Course,” Tim replied. “They don’t check if it’s true. At least, not unless you keep on falling ill. Then they give your parents a ring. But for a one-off? No problemo! Now,” he went on, “don’t forget. Our dad’s out on business and Mum’s going to get her hair done after she drops us off. If the telephone rings in the house three times, then stops, then rings once, it means Scrotton’s in school.”

  “And if it rings twice, pauses, then rings twice again, he is in absentia,” Sebastian said.

  “You’ve got it!” Tim retorted, checking that his mobile phone was fully charged.

  Half an hour later, Pip and Tim walked through the school gates ten paces behind Scrotton, who looked as scruffy as ever and carried his tattered sports bag with the handles slung over his shoulder. At the bicycle racks, Tim paused and made the pre-arranged call. Once in the classroom, he put the sick note upon the register where it lay on the demonstration bench.

  Back at Rawne Barton, Sebastian shape-shifted into a crow and flew off in the direction of the woods, arriving at the oak tree within ten minutes. Once perched on a stout bough, he cawed three times. It was not inconceivable that Scrotton had stationed a sentry, especially if he had sensed his burrow had been recently visited. Yet nothing seemed out of the ordinary, so Sebastian glided to the woodland floor and started to strut about in the jaunty way of crows. A squirrel seemed momentarily interested in his presence but, listening to its intermittent squeaking and churring noises, and watching as it collected twigs, dead leaves and lengths of shredded bark, Sebastian realized it was intent on constructing a nest in a nearby ash tree and protecting it from another squirrel which was busy burying nuts.

  Satisfied that Scrotton had stationed no guards, Sebastian stepped behind the oak, transformed himself back into human form and approached the burrow entrance. Placing a piece of the blue gum in his mouth, he lowered himself into the cavity. To avoid the worms, he pulled himself quickly forward on his elbows until he reached Scrotton’s chamber, where he felt under the bed of bracken, lifted out the box, sprang the padlock and opened it. Very carefully, he removed the book of spells and began to read, his eyes moving quickly over the archaic text. Every now and then, he looked up and scanned the burrow to ensure he was still alone.

  The spells, mostly written in Latin or Middle French, dealt with a wide variety of subjects, from simple curses against individuals to complex ceremonials that could purportedly destroy a nation or bring down a kingdom. However, one in particular drew Sebastian’s attention. It involved a complicated four-part process but this, however, was not what initially caught his eye. The page was bookmarked with a dead oak leaf.

  Sebastian memorized the spell then, returning the book to the box, locked it, slid it back into its hiding place and set about a thorough fingertip search of the burrow.

  Meanwhile, at Bourne End Comprehensive, Tim and Pip — and Scrotton — were in a double period of geography, commencing a project on Africa. The first forty-five minutes of the class involved watching a video. Halfway through, Pip nudged Tim. Scrotton was clearly very agitated. He wriggled in his seat, fumbled with his books and ballpoint pen and tapped his feet on the rung of his chair.

  He knows, Pip wrote for Tim in her notebook.

  Tim nodded.

  At the end of the lesson, the bell for the midmorning break rang. In a second, Scrotton was out of his seat as if it were red hot and heading for the door.

  “Excuse me!” the geography teacher called after him. “We wait until…”

  Scrotton was already out of the door and heading down the corridor.

  “He’s going to the woods!” Tim muttered. “We’ve got to stop him. Get my books.”

  Tim followed hard on Scrotton’s heels but, as Scrotton made for the science department and his locker, Tim headed for the playground and the main school entrance. It was, he knew, the only way into or out of the school grounds during lessons: all the other gates were kept locked.

  A minute later, Scrotton appeared halfway across the playground, carrying his bag. Tim ran hard at him, deliberately slamming into him, knocking him off his feet to sprawl across the concrete.

  “I don’t like you,” he said loudly as Scrotton got to his feet. “You’re ugly, you smell like a dung heap, you’re a bully and,” he added in case these insults were insufficient to raise Scrotton’s anger, “you’re a big-headed, poisonous little dwarf.”

  Scrotton dropped his bag and launched himself into midair, clenching his fists. He swung a punch at Tim’s head. Tim weaved aside but still took a painful hit on his shoulder. Scrotton spun around and came at him again, hurling himself on to Tim’s back with the ferocity of a leopard leaping onto an antelope. Tim felt Scrotton’s hot stinking breath on his neck. His short legs quickly wrapped about his waist, and his arms locked around his chest. For a moment, Tim thought that, had Scrotton not been wearing shoes, his toes would have linked together like a monkey’s, to tighten their grip.

  “Think you’re clever, don’t you?” Scrotton muttered into Tim’s ear, flecks of spit spraying on to Tim’s cheek and into his ear. “You don’t know nothing, you don’t! Noth
ing!” Scrotton spat, a gob of warm, glutinous saliva slithering down Tim’s neck and under his collar. “You’re’n ignoramus!”

  “And you’re a moron,” Tim rejoined as he reached over his head, grabbed Scrotton’s collar and, leaning forward, tried to tug him over his head as a television wrestler might, to slam him on the ground. Yet Scrotton’s legs prevented the ploy and Tim realized that he was in a losing position. His only hope was to fall and try and get on top of Scrotton, but when he attempted this maneuver, Scrotton leaned the other way to maintain their balance.

  By now, a jostling crowd of both boys and girls had gathered around the fight. Most were egging Tim on. Some shouted insults at Scrotton from the safety of the mass. Pip came up, trying to push her way through to help Tim, but the throng was too tightly packed.

  Suddenly, Tim felt Scrotton’s teeth nibbling on the side of his neck and he knew, if Scrotton succeeded, he would bite through his jugular and he would bleed to death before any ambulance could arrive.

  “Right!” shouted a voice. “You two stop this this very instant!”

  Scrotton still clung onto Tim’s back, but his teeth halted their searching.

  Standing in front of them was one of the teachers on playground duty, a cup of coffee in his hand. He had clearly spilled much of it in his hurry to arrive on the scene.

  “Break it up! Now! Separate yourselves!” He nudged Scrotton’s bag with his foot. “Whose is this?”

  “Mine,” said Scrotton.

  “Mine, sir!” snapped the teacher. “Pick it up. You two follow me.”

  A few minutes later, Tim and Scrotton stood side by side in front of the headmaster’s desk. The teacher on duty recounted what had happened. Dr. Singall leaned back in his chair and surveyed them both.

  “This kind of behavior is not tolerated at Bourne End Comprehensive,” he announced sternly. “I will not condone fighting. Scrotton, you will spend the remainder of the day sitting on a chair outside my office where I can keep an eye on you and where you will do work set by your teachers. At lunch break, you will accompany Mr. Taylor here wherever he goes on duty. That will keep the two of you apart and give you a chance to cool down.” He looked at Tim. “And you, Ledger, will attend your classes and, tomorrow morning, will present me with a 300-word essay on why you think I will not condone fighting.”

  The bell rang for the start of classes.

  “And bear in mind,” Dr. Singall said finally, “if there is a repetition of this, I shall call your parents in. Now, both of you get out.”

  “Well?” Pip asked as she met Tim in the corridor outside their next lesson.

  “Scrotton’s doomed,” he replied. “Tied by a leash to the teacher or a chair outside the headmaster’s office.”

  “And you?”

  “Only got an essay to write. The head clearly doesn’t like Burrow Boy.”

  That evening, after completing their homework and Tim’s punishment essay, Tim and Pip tapped on the panel and, accompanied by Sebastian, descended to his chamber.

  When Tim told Sebastian what had occurred at school, Sebastian smiled and said, “You did well, Tim, and at considerable risk to yourself. Scrotton is not to be meddled with, for he would assuredly have bitten deep into your neck had he had the opportunity.”

  “If he had,” Tim replied, “I would’ve bled to death.”

  “Yes,” Sebastian concurred. “Thus have you earned my eternal gratitude. Had he apprehended me in the woods, I could have shared a similar fate.”

  “But surely he wouldn’t…” Pip began.

  “Be assured he would,” Sebastian interrupted. “Remember, he is a wodwo and, as such, is not guided by common morality. To him there is no distinction between right or wrong, good or evil. As with any animal, there is only survival.”

  “What about your visit to Scrotton’s hole?” Tim inquired.

  Sebastian unfolded a square of heavy paper.

  “This is the spell upon which I am certain Yoland is concentrating his efforts,” he declared. “I memorized it from the book. Translated into modern English, it is entitled: To Captivate the Minds of Many.”

  “You mean,” Tim said, “it’s a spell Yoland can use to control minds?”

  “Indeed,” Sebastian concurred. “At present, he may have the power to see into a person’s soul but he has yet to fully develop the ability to take complete control over it. This spell will give him that.” Sebastian folded the sheet of paper and slipped it into one of his father’s volumes for safekeeping.

  “How can you be certain this is the one?” Pip asked.

  “First,” Sebastian replied, “Scrotton had marked the page. Second, it is a four-part spell requiring four keys, one of which you found in the dilapidated house, Tim. Third, in closely searching the burrow, I have discovered the other three thrust into the soil of the roof.”

  From his pocket, Sebastian produced several other squares of paper, spreading them on the table. Upon each of them he had drawn an esoteric symbol.

  “These are engraved on the keys,” he began.

  The first was the symbol:

  “This,” Sebastian explained, “refers to divinity and power. It is the symbol from which Christians derived the halo. However, the divinity need not be that of Our Lord but also of the powers of darkness.”

  The second bore the emblem:

  “It was first used,” Sebastian stated, “by the ancient Greeks to represent the world. It is today still used by astrologers to represent the world upon which we live.”

  On the last was:

  “This,” he paused to allow its significance to sink in, “is the symbol for the essence of the human soul.”

  “What were the keys made of?” Tim inquired.

  “The first of gold, the second of silver, the last of platinum.”

  “And the furnace key which Tim found is made of all three,” Pip remarked. “That must be the most important.”

  “A furnace, power, the world and the soul,” Tim thought aloud. “Mix them all together in a cauldron with eye of bat and toe of toad and what do you have…?”

  “Without your fanciful additions,” Sebastian replied, “a grand and terrifying ambition.”

  Seven

  A Bungalow like Any Other—Not!

  “Zoland’s house,” Tim considered as they sat at a table in the dining hall, “is going to be easier said than done.” He bit into an apple. “Scrotton’s hole only had guardian worms.” He winced at the thought. “It didn’t have doors and windows with locks. And while it’s true that as long as we’re in school, so is Yoland, and therefore we know where he is, I don’t see how we can take advantage of that. We certainly can’t risk the sick-note scam again so soon and we can hardly stake the joint out. What’s more, Scrotton must have told his master that someone had searched his burrow on the day Sebastian supposedly had the runs. If we’re not careful, Yoland’ll put two and two together and make 193.”

  “Two plus two equals four,” Sebastian interrupted, perplexed by Tim’s arithmetic. “And what are the runs?”

  “Use your imagination,” Tim retorted.

  “Surely if we do get in,” Pip added, “won’t he have a warning system like Scrotton has?”

  “Assuredly,” Sebastian answered, which did little to allay Pip’s uneasiness.

  They were still contemplating the problem an hour later when, during a library study session, the answer to it fell into their laps.

  Halfway through the period, a Year Nine boy entered, handing a slip of paper to the librarian, who briefly perused it then announced, “Notice from the headmaster. Due to an emergency staff meeting, classes will end ten minutes early today. Pupils are to vacate the grounds as quickly as possible and by four o’clock at the latest. School buses will arrive ten minutes early. Only those involved in the soccer trials may remain on school property, congregating in the gym. It is hoped the trials will commence at five-fifteen.”

  “You know what this means?” Pip whispered from behind
a book on the history of costume. “For as long as the staff meeting lasts, Yoland will be here. And we’ve got until about a quarter past five.”

  “How so?” Tim replied.

  “Think, dumbo!” Pip came back at him. “The team trials don’t start until five-fifteen when the staff leave the meeting.”

  No sooner was the lesson over than Tim phoned his mother on his mobile phone and asked her if he, Pip and Sebastian could go to the cinema straight after school. She agreed and said she would pick them up at eight o’clock at Burger King, giving Sebastian a lift as well. “Sure thing!” he answered and hung up.

  Mounted on the corridor wall by the school secretary’s office was a map of the town and the surrounding countryside, color-coded to show the streets and areas from which the school drew its pupil intake. Tim quickly identified Keats Road, a suburban street across the other side of the town and just outside the school’s district.

  “It won’t be wise for us to approach or leave the place together,” Tim decided. “A threesome might attract attention.”

  “And,” Pip added, “if we meet Yoland when we’re on our way back, one can offer an excuse easier than three.”

  They each studied a different route, memorizing it.

  When the final bell rang, Sebastian hung back to watch as Yoland headed for the lecture theatre where the staff meeting was being held. Pip made sure Scrotton was on his way to his burrow while Tim joined the trail of pupils walking home through the town, the number growing thinner the farther it went from the school.

  One street away from Keats Road, Tim went into a corner shop, bought himself a large Mars bar and lingered around outside eating it until the others caught up with him.

  Pip looked at her watch. “Four-twenty,” she stated. “To be on the safe side, we’ve got forty minutes.”

  They made off down Keats Road. It was a quiet suburban street lined with laburnum and lime trees. Every so often along the roadside, there was a sandpit for dogs. The buildings mostly dated from the 193os or 194os, semi-detached houses with pebble-dashed walls; a few were bungalows of the same age. The gardens were neat, the flowerbeds well-kept, hedges trimmed, lawns mown and gates painted. Most of the properties had garages at the end of short concrete drives.