Griffin of Darkwood (8 page)

They sat at the table and Thom dished it out with a giant spoon. Emma declared it was one of Thom’s best desserts yet.

“Hooo-whooo-hoooo,”
howled a voice from the street below.

“I’ll let him in!” said Thom. He raced downstairs. Peaches bounded up ahead of him, a brown boot clamped firmly in his mouth.

“I can’t get it away,” panted Thom.

“It’s old Mr. Branson’s,” said Emma. “That’s the third time this week.”

“Does he take things a lot?” said Will.

Emma nodded. “He’s a retriever. Last week it was Mrs. Thompson’s tablecloth and the Howard twins’ baseball mitts.”

Peaches dropped the boot and Emma grabbed it. “It’s a full-time job taking everything back,” she grumbled.

Will looked at John Fairweather. “Morgan Moonstone,” he reminded him. “You were going to tell me about him.”

“
Right," said John. “Where should I begin? Over four hundred years ago a tapestry weaver came to Sparrowhawk Village. His name was Morgan Moonstone.
He travelled with his wife and infant son.”

“He wove magic tapestries!” said Thom.

“Is that true?” said Will. “Were they really magic?”

“Lots of people in this village believe it,” said John. “They say that the tapestries could make things happen. You see, a tapestry tells a story. If a lord was planning a tournament, he would ask Morgan Moonstone to weave a magic tapestry showing his favourite knight winning, and
then that knight
would
win!”

“Everybody would want a magic tapestry,” said Will.

Would a magic tapestry have saved his mother? Would it make Mr. Barnaby publish
The Magical Night?

CRAAASH!
Emma and her chair toppled to the floor. Peaches leapt on top of her and washed her face with his slobbery pink tongue. “Hey! Get away!” said Emma picking
herself up.

“I keep telling you not to tip back like that. Chairs are meant to stay on all four feet,” said John. “We call Emma our jumping bean. Now, to get back to our story. Morgan Moonstone’s tapestries are extremely valuable and today they’re in museums all over the world. Like the ones in your postcards.”

“Sparrowhawk is famous for its weaving,” said Thom.

“You wait, any day now the first tour buses will arrive full of people looking for tapestries,” said John. “Most of our best weavers are Moonstones, but even though their tapestries are splendid, they’re not magic.”

“You’re a great weaver, too, Dad,” said Thom, “and you’re a Fairweather.”

“And that’s enough chatter for me or I’ll never finish this tapestry.” John wheeled his chair back to his loom.

“When are we going to look for the secret passageway?” asked Emma.

“What?” said Will. He was still thinking about magic tapestries.

“The secret passageway. Remember?”

“Right. I think I found the dungeon. I bought a torch so we can explore.”

“Maybe we should clean up the kitchen first,” said Thom quickly.

“I’ll look after that,” called out John.

“Chicken,” taunted Emma.

Thom flushed. “I am not!”

“Then what are we waiting for?” said Emma.

Chapter Twelve

The Dungeon

Thom and Emma waited beside
the suit of armour while Will took Aunt Mauve’s packages to the Red Chamber. His aunt wasn’t there, so he left them on the bed. He took the red candles to his tower.

He led Thom and Emma along the shadowy corridor to the heavy studded dungeon door. He tugged it open and flicked on the torch. He was the first down the steep dark steps, picking his way in the beam of light. The air smelled dank. Water dripped somewhere in the darkness. When they got to the bottom, Will waved the torch in a wide circle. They were in a large room with stained brick walls. A piercing squeal and the rustle of scurrying feet made everybody jump.
“RUFF!”
barked Peaches.

“A rat!” screeched Emma.

“It won’t hurt you,” said Thom. “It was more scared to see us. I’m sensing fear.” He shuddered. "This place is mega-creepy. This is a bad idea. Let’s get out of here!"

“How should we start?” asked Emma, ignoring Thom.

“Loose bricks,” suggested Will. “Or maybe places where the bricks are a different colour.”

He shone the light slowly across each wall. Iron rings
were embedded in the old bricks. Pieces of chain lay scat
tered about on the uneven rocky floor. Rusty spikes stuck out of the back of an old wooden chair.

“Ohmigod!” said Emma. “This was a torture chamber!”

Thom moaned. Will swept the light into a corner. A sledge hammer and a metal rod lay on the floor. Someone had smashed the wall and pried out some of the bricks. Another wall of bricks lay behind. “Mr. Cherry’s been in here!” he said. “I saw him sneaking that sledge hammer and that rod thing into an old shed behind the castle.”

A low growl rumbled from Peaches’ throat and the hair bristled on his back. They swung around. A lantern blazed at the top of the stairs but it was impossible in the glare to see who was holding it.

A voice sneered, “Oh, my. What do we have here?”

Mr. Cherry! He swung the lantern to the side, revealing his sallow face and long nose. He descended the stairs and waved his arm into the darkness.

“Having a look around, are you? The cells are over there. I suppose you’ve guessed what this room was used for? Torture! Sometimes I think I can hear the prisoners screaming.”

Peaches barked. Mr. Cherry spat, “I warned you to keep that dog away from me!”

Emma slipped her hand under Peaches’ collar.

“I was just making my rounds,” said Mr. Cherry. “I said to myself, now who would have left that door open? Good thing I didn’t lock it. You’ve heard that the castle is cursed? Just think of it. Three kiddies locked up in a dungeon forever. How tragic.”

“Let’s go,” said Will in a loud voice.

“So soon?” said Mr. Cherry. “I haven’t shown you the Duke’s Tomb."

He swung the lantern over a hole in the floor. “There’s a cell down there. They lowered the duke in with a rope. He didn’t obey the king’s orders.”

Mr. Cherry licked his lips. “For twenty years, the duke was caged in there like an animal. His only entertainment was the screams of the tortured prisoners above him. They say he scratched a mark for every day on the wall. With his fingernails.”

Peaches erupted in a frenzy of barking.

“Get out!” snarled Mr. Cherry. “Don’t you dare come down here again! You or that scruffy dog!”

He turned to Will. “Brats who don’t listen have a tendency to disappear forever.”

Will forced himself not to run as he led the others up the stone stairs. Mr. Cherry breathed heavily behind them. He locked the studded door with a large key, attached to a brass ring and disappeared around a corner. No one spoke until they were safely in the tower.

“Whoa,” said Emma. “He is one scary servant!”

“And now he’s locked the dungeon door," said Will. “That messes everything up.”

“Who cares?” said Thom. “Are you crazy? You couldn’t pay me to go back down there. Hey! Look at that!” He pointed to the blue pencil box on the little round table. A faint golden light shone out from under the lid. “What is it?”

“A pencil box,” said Will. “It does that sometimes. It was my mother’s. She kept her writing pencils in it.” For some reason, it had been easy to tell Favian about his mother, but now the words stuck in his throat.

“Can I open it?” said Thom.

Will nodded. Thom opened the box, and the light faded away. “There’s nothing in it except this,” he said, picking up the piece
of rolled-up cloth and the photograph of Will’s grandparents. He turned the box upside down. “I don’t get how it works. Is it some kind of magic?”

“It just does it,” repeated Will.

Thom unrolled the cloth. He read out loud the words woven in delicate gold thread. “
The Griffin of Darkwood
. What’s this?”

“Just something someone gave me,” said Will.

“Let me see,” said Emma. She studied it with interest. “Not a new tapestry. An old one.”

Will had never thought that it might be from a tapestry. How had a piece of tapestry ended up with a photograph of his grandparents?

Emma picked up the photograph. “Who’s this?”

“My mother and my grandparents,” said Will.

“You look a little bit like your grandfather."

“His name was Sterling,” said Will. “He was a writer. And my grandmother was a dancer. Her name was Carmelita.”

“I wish the box would make that light again,” said Thom. He put the strip of cloth and the photograph back inside and closed the lid.

“We need to look for the secret passage when Mr. Cherry’s not here,” said Emma. She flipped onto her hands and walked in a circle.

“He goes out sometimes,” said Will, “but I never know when he’s coming back.”

“Let’s just forget it,” said Thom. “We could go back to my house and look up recipes or something.”

“I’ll come later,” said Will. First he wanted to go back to Lantern Lane to have another look at the cat, Macavity.

Chapter Thirteen

Tea Leaves

Will heard a clinking, clanking
sound as he walked along Lantern Lane. He spun around. The Muses were following him.

“It’s no use!” he shouted. “You might as well leave me alone. You won't inspire me any more. I’m never writing again!”

He started to run and was gasping for breath by the time he got to Vespera Moonstone’s house. Vespera, wearing a blue batik skirt and several long ropes of wooden beads, answered his knock. Her deep brown eyes were welcoming.

“Will Poppy! I’ve heard about you from Favian. You must come in.”

Vespera’s house was untidy. Papers, books, pens and empty teacups were strewn across every surface in the front room. Macavity was stretched out on a rug in front of a gas fireplace. To Will’s disappointment, his eyes were shut. Several cardboard boxes in the middle of the floor overflowed with copies of slim purple books with the title
A Mystical Muse
on the cover. Vespera had been in the middle of unpacking. “This is my newest book. I ordered more copies from my publisher. I never know how many will sell when I do a reading.”

“I came here this morning,” said Will. “And…um…your cat. I’m pretty sure I saw his eyes change colour.”

“They have a tendency to do that,” said Vespera.

“That’s amazing!”

Vespera looked closely at Will. “Do you believe in magic?”

“Yeah, I do!”

“Good. If you keep your eyes open, you’ll find all kinds of magic in Sparrowhawk. This is an ancient village. Now I’m going to make some tea and we’ll have a proper visit.”

Vespera Moonstone disappeared. Will knelt down beside Macavity, but the cat was still fast asleep. In a few minutes, Vespera returned with a tray of cups and saucers, a little pot of honey and a teapot. She poured the tea, which she declared was from China. “None of the cheap Indian teas for me. Too many bits of twigs for properly reading tea leaves.”

While Will stirred a spoonful of honey into his tea, Vespera said, “Favian Longstaff told me the story of your mother and Mr. Barnaby. He said that you’re a writer too.”

“I
was
,” Will corrected her. “I don’t write any more.”

“Oh, but that doesn’t mean you’re not a writer,” said Vespera. “Once I didn’t write a single word for five whole years.”

“Why didn’t you write? Did your Muse desert you?”

“So you know about Muses, do you?”

“My Muse won’t leave me alone. And my mum’s Muse is bugging me too. They want me to write. But I won't."

“Really? Well, I think maybe I was afraid to write. And then one night I woke up at two o’clock with a poem in my head that was begging to get out.”

Vespera peered into Will’s cup. “Save a little of your tea and I’ll read your tea leaves. But first, tell me what kinds of things you like to write about.”

In between sips of tea, Will told Vespera about his latest novel with the Knights of Valour and the Knights of Death. “The problem is, I never finish anything. I get partway through, and then I get another idea and I want to work on that instead. And now –” His voice broke off. He didn’t know if he wanted to keep talking about it.

“Well, I think the Knights of Death and Valour sound intriguing,” said Vespera. “It might be the novel you’re meant to write. I think you should bring it back to life.”

“I’m not planning to,” said Will. “I hate the thought of writing now.”

When he had a drop of tea left in the bottom of his cup, he gave it to Vespera who swirled the cup around and around three times. Carefully, she tipped it over the saucer. She waited a minute and then turned the cup right side up. Will peered at the wet tea leaves spattered inside the cup. “It doesn’t look like anything.”

“It’s like seeing pictures in clouds. You can’t rush it. We’ll wait until they tell us your story.”