Amethyst (2 page)

It began with a noise. A peculiar, scratching, gnawing noise.

Amy sat bolt upright and stared round.

Nothing to see. But,
scritch, scratch, scuffle.

Amy pulled her knees up under her chin. She fixed her eyes on the wall where she thought the sound came from. Mice? No, this sounded bigger than mice. A bird? She glanced at the chimney. No, it had been bricked up long ago.

Suddenly, with a ripping, splintering sound, a small section of the skirting board burst out in a shower of wooden shards. An instant later, a large white rat flew from the hole and skidded across the smooth lino towards her.

Amy bit back a scream.

This is it! This is it! she thought. My something!

Little pin-pricking tingles ran up and down her skin. Her throat tightened. Her heart pumped overtime.

The white rat slid over the floor. It crashed into the table leg with a thud. It cleared its head with a quick shake and looked around the bedroom. As soon as its little pink eyes lit on Amy, it smiled. It had neat white teeth. It began to peer around the room; Amy realised it was planning to come up onto her bed.

The rat scrambled onto her abandoned school bag. It sniffed at a bit of toffee stuck to the top of it, then jumped onto the chair. It climbed up the back of the chair and leaped onto the table. It scooted across the table, feet slipping sideways as if it were on a skating rink. Then it jumped onto the linen basket and from there to the bedside table. With a final leap it plopped onto the pillow beside her.

Amy shrank back nervously.

The rat stared at her. ‘Pss pss, squeak,’ it said meaningfully.

‘What? What is it?’

‘Pss pss, squeak.’

When Amy shrugged, the rat looked rather annoyed. It began to leap about in a most peculiar way. It twisted and jumped. It did a somersault. It did a backward flip. Finally, with no response from Amy, it lay down flat on its back. It had a very fat tummy. Amy now saw that tied round the rat’s waist was something like a small single cigar tube. It was white, just as white as its fur, and therefore almost invisible.

The rat smiled and lay still. Amy reached out and gingerly took the cannister from the belt. The moment she had it, the rat jumped up onto all fours. ‘Pss, squeak.’

It flew off the bed, missed the linen basket and landed heavily on the chair. It turned back to wink at Amy, as if to let her know it wasn’t hurt, then jumped down to the floor. It skidded across the floor, nails scraping over the lino and bumped against her school bag. It pumped its feet against the smooth surface to regain position, aimed for the hole in the skirting board, shot through it, and was gone.

Amy let out her breath, which she didn’t even know she’d been holding in. She listened, head on one side, for any signs of life in the corridor outside. Nothing. Good.

She examined the tube.

It was made of thin white metal, so thin, it felt as if it would easily shatter, but when she squeezed it, it was hard like steel. Etched into the metal were these words:

FOR THE ATTENTION OF AMETHYST

FROM: GRANITE

Amethyst?
thought Amy. A mistake. But she knew it was for her. The rat had known it was for her and Amethyst was such a nice name. Not that different from Amy. It
had
to be for her. But why should Granite write to her? He was, as far as she knew, just some guy who bought the ugliest gargoyles from her aunt and uncle.

She unscrewed the top and shook out a letter written on thin, almost see-through paper.

Dear Amethyst
,

Greetings from the Lord of the Rock People.

Yes, your Lord, as you are stone and grit and rock as ever there were such things.

It has long been my intention to get you back to the land of your birth, but your aunt and uncle have needed you in their work. I know this. But now I need you and a Rocker does not ignore a call from her Lord.

Come to me at Malachite Mountain. Without delay. There is work to be done. Work which will make you rich.

No school.

No gargoyles.

Rich.

G

Amy read the letter several times then lay back on her bed and stared hard at the ceiling. This is what she’d been waiting for! Malachite Mountain and Granite.

And he hadn’t got her name wrong.

She suddenly knew, without a doubt, that her real name was Amethyst.

Uncle John and Aunt Agnes sat opposite each other at the narrow kitchen table, clutching their mugs of iced water and staring deep into each other’s eyes. It was breakfast time and they had just heard Amy’s news.

‘Well, Agnes!’ Uncle John rubbed his eyes behind his spectacles. ‘Fancy Granite writing to our Amy like that!’

‘It’s not fair,’ wailed Agnes, softly. ‘It’s not fair. It’s not as if we don’t provide him with as many gargoyles as he wants for Malachite Mountain. He’s jealous. Oh, John, what’ll we do?’

Amy gripped the table, hard. All night she’d been imagining this moment, rehearsing what to say. They had to let her go. They had to!

‘You’ll manage without me,’ she said.

‘No, but we won’t,’ said Aunt Agnes. ‘There’s only you that can put that touch of horribleness onto everything. Only you that’s got the fingers for foulness and unpleasantness. We’ll never be able to sell our gargoyles if they look friendly.’

‘You could learn to spoil.’

‘No, but we won’t,’ said Aunt Agnes. ‘I don’t think you should leave us. I think you should stay and do your duty.’

I’ve done it. For years, thought Amy. Let me go!

‘Granite is the Lord of the Rock People, which is us all,’ said Uncle John. ‘We have to obey.’

‘Oh, phooey!’ said Aunt Agnes. ‘What’s he to us, now we’re safe in the South? He’s only Lord of Malachite Mountain because he says he is – he used to be Lord of some little place in the Marble Mountains. I liked that Lord Lazulite, personally. Shame he upped and died so sudden.’

Uncle John took off his spectacles and polished them on his dressing gown. ‘It’s just a bit of a shock. But we’ll have to get used to it, Agnes, dear. Maybe we should all go,’ he added. ‘I mean, after all, we belong up there, not down here in this infernal heat.’

Amy bit her lip. She didn’t want them to come. They’d spoil everything.

‘No, but no,’ whined Aunt Agnes. ‘I couldn’t leave this house! My lovely brown lino and my new net curtains. Anyway, it’s boring up there and you get bossed around.’

‘I know, but—’

‘And I’m settled here, John, I like my TV and up there is so, so … well, so old fashioned. That’s why we left, if you remember.’

‘I know—’ He paused. He rubbed at his head as he tried to puzzle out what was to be done. ‘Then Amy will have to go on her own. And Amy, when you get this fortune Granite’s on about, you’ll have to send us our share. For lodgings and such, all these years we’ve had you. It’s the law you know.’

Amy tried to hide her smile. Good. She could go.

‘Tell me about Malachite Mountain. What’s it like?’ she asked.

‘Lots of snow,’ said Uncle John.

‘And ice,’ said Aunt Agnes. ‘Lovely. But no supermarkets. Or schools. No cars. No electrics. No TV. No lino.’

Amy’s spirits began to soar. ‘No school?’

‘No. There isn’t time for school. Rockers are so busy digging out metals and precious stones. It is more lively down here, I must admit.’

‘And it’s so far from everything,’ said Aunt Agnes. ‘And you can’t get good white tripe or quality pigs’ trotters.’

‘Can’t you?’ Amy almost squealed with delight.

‘And it snows all the time,’ said Uncle John. ‘All the time.’

‘Well, it sounds horrible,’ Amy lied. ‘But I think I’d better go. I mean, I can’t disobey Granite, can I? I wonder why he wants me? What can
I
do?’

‘Perhaps he wants you to spoil something,’ said Aunt Agnes, craftily. ‘He’ll know how good you are at that. Yes, I bet he wants you to do something mean and destructive!’

‘He’s not a good man,’ said Uncle John in a low voice. ‘He’s bad inside and it shows on the surface – he’s as bent and warped as a bit of twisted iron.’

‘Once he was in love, wasn’t he, John?’ piped up Aunt Agnes. She hugged herself. ‘He was so in love with that Wood person, that Amber, that he locked her up in a block of ice for years and years and nobody could get her out.’

‘And he
loved
her?’ asked Amy.

‘Oh, yes, very much. It was romantic. But she escaped. Went to live with the Wood Clan.’

‘Yuk!’

‘Revolting,’ agreed Aunt Agnes. ‘We heard all about it, though we lived down here.’

‘But you used to live up there?’

‘We did. We’re all Rockers, aren’t we? We lived in a mountain near Malachite itself.’

‘Granite left the Marble Mountains after Amber escaped,’ Uncle John said. ‘There was a big to-do. The Wood people were involved.’

‘And a bit later on, we started delivering such ever-so horrid gargoyles for him.’

Amy hadn’t ever heard of the Marble Mountains or Malachite Mountain before. She was greedy to hear more. Aunt Agnes looked at her narrowly.

‘You’ll find out, soon enough,’ she said. ‘And I don’t think you’ll like it!’

‘I’ll tell him you’re coming, then,’ said Uncle John. ‘School can go to the blazes. You get on working with the gargoyles. It’ll be the last chance you have. Agnes’ll have to try and copy your style, I suppose.’

‘I’ll never get it, not that way of making things so bad that our Amy has,’ moaned Aunt Agnes.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Amy, jumping up from the table. ‘I’ll make this batch the ugliest, most malicious, spiteful and revolting that there’s ever been. But, just one thing,’ she added. ‘Amethyst? Is that my real name?’

Aunt Agnes snorted. ‘Real? Well, it’s the name you were born with, but it’s too fancy and flighty for a plain Jane like you.’

‘My mum must have thought I was an Amethyst,’ said Amy, quietly.

‘Yeah, well, she was a flighty, fancy girl, my sister,’ said Aunt Agnes. ‘And she’s dead. No, you stick to Amy and even that’s too pretty for someone with such spoiling fingers as yours.’

Amy didn’t say anything. But she thought lots.

When I get away from here, she thought, the minute I get away from here, I’m going to be Amethyst for ever and ever!

Amy worked all day in the basement, helping to get the last batch of gargoyles ready. She carved and moulded until her fingers were sore and her eyes stung from the close work. Her thoughts weren’t on the job, though, they were flying ahead to Malachite Mountain, to snow and icicles and cold blue waterfalls. She saw herself seated beside Granite (who had become very young and rather good-looking in her mind). They had matching gold thrones. Her fingers dripped with rubies and diamonds. Her thick black hair was tamed, coiled and elegant.

‘Give him warts on his nose!’ snapped Aunt Agnes, jolting Amy back to reality. ‘Concentrate, girl. Make him evil! Granite likes them as ugly as can be.’

‘Why?’

‘To stop them from wandering. Keep them tied down.’

‘
Wandering
—?’

‘Never you mind.’

‘But what do you mean?’

Uncle John came in. ‘Here we are. Train ticket for Amy Basalt. One way only. North.’

Amy grabbed the ticket. She studied it feverishly. There it was: freedom, a new life. The ticket trembled in her fingers.

‘Train leaves at eight tonight,’ he said. ‘It’s a sleeper. Arrives tomorrow afternoon at a place called Schist. That’s where you get off. It’s the last stop. No trains go as far as Malachite Mountain. You’re to get off the train and wait there until someone comes for you.’

‘Nervous?’ asked Aunt Agnes, peering at her.

‘No.’

‘You should be.’

‘You’ll need these,’ said Uncle John. He handed her a roll of brown cloth.

‘What’s that? You haven’t bought her something, have you?’ said Aunt Agnes.

Amy unwound the cloth. It was a short apron. It had ten long pockets with flaps, like envelopes, on the front. Nestling in the pockets was a set of beautiful steel instruments for carving and working stone. It was the first gift that Amy had ever received from her aunt and uncle. They didn’t celebrate birthdays or Christmas.

‘Don’t want Granite thinking we don’t look after you,’ said Uncle John. ‘And it’ll mean you can work anywhere, anytime. Might come in handy.’

‘And you’ll have to work, my girl, you’ll see,’ said Aunt Agnes, gleefully. ‘It won’t be a picnic up there in Malachite Mountain, it’ll be hard graft.’

Amy didn’t say anything. She wouldn’t let her aunt spoil things. She was happy. It was the first time in years and years she remembered feeling so good. Nothing was going to alter that.

Her uncle took her to the station. He wouldn’t wait for the train. ‘You know I don’t like crowds, Amy,’ he said. ‘All this pushing and shoving and the noise and the heat. It’s not nice or healthy.’

He handed her her suitcase and melted back in the crowd.

Amy found her seat. She was sharing the sleeping compartment with three other people. They were all women and although they chatted together and smiled at her, she avoided looking at them.