Poppy Pym and the Pharaoh's Curse

by Laura Wood

  “Yeah,” said Kip, “it’s true. You could feel all the … oldness.” He paused for a second before adding in a quiet voice – almost a whisper: “Like it was … the curse.”

  A gasp went around the room. There had been a lot of talk about the curse buzzing around the school all day, especially after word got out that the power cut had happened just after the ruby entered the building. (A lot of this talk, as you have probably guessed, started with Kip, who played up the moment as dramatically as possible. I even heard someone saying that they’d heard that the second the ruby arrived, lightning had struck the school roof, shutting off all the power, and a ghostly figure had appeared, drifting about screeching, “OOOOO … I WANT BRAAAAIIIIINS.”)

  “Now, Kip,” said Mr Grant softly, “I don’t think we need to be talking about the curse, do we? After all, we all know curses don’t—” He broke off suddenly, tipping his head to one side. “Do you hear that?” he murmured, almost to himself. “It sounds like…” Mr Grant’s eyes widened underneath the brim of his hat.

  We all turned our heads to face the way he was looking. I could hear a distant humming noise. It was very faint, somewhere near the back of the greenhouse. It almost sounded like…

  “BEES!” shouted Mr Grant. “The bees are loose! Everyone out! NOW!” and he started hustling everyone towards the door as fast as possible.

  Someone screamed and I could hear the buzzing getting louder and louder, a droning sound, thundering and shaking the air around us like when you’re near a plane about to take off. I had just been swept through the nearby door with the crowd when I heard a shout. Turning back around, I saw with horror that Kip had fallen over and was lying face down on the floor. I tried to run back, pushing hard against the crowd. I had to go back and get him!

  Then, with a horrible creak, the door swung closed.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Kiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip!” I wailed. I scrambled over to the door and started wiggling the handle, but it seemed to be stuck. I wrapped both hands around the handle and pulled with all my might but nothing happened. I pressed my ear against the door, trying to hear what was going on inside, but there was total silence.

  Suddenly the door swung open, and I went flying backwards. As I soared majestically through the air, I saw Mr Grant emerging at top speed, with Kip tucked up under his arm like a rugby ball. The rumbling, swarming sound of thousands of bees was cut short abruptly as, thankfully, the door slammed shut once more. Then, THUD! I landed on the floor, and Mr Grant deposited a Kip the colour of skimmed milk on the ground.

  “Everyone all right?” he shouted, and then after we all nodded dazedly, he tore off into the distance.

  “Kip!” I gasped, rushing over to him. “Are you all right?”

  Everyone crowded round to hear what had happened. Kip blinked as if waking up from a deep sleep.

  “Yeah,” he said slowly, patting his arms and legs as if reassuring himself he was really all there and in one piece. “I don’t know what happened…” he continued dazedly. “One second I was running, and then I was on the floor, and I could just hear them all getting closer and closer.” He paused, his eyes as wide as Ingrid’s. “Then Mr Grant was there and he was … he was …”

  “What??!” burst a voice from somewhere in the crowd.

  “He was … chanting something,” said Kip, “and then all the buzzing got sort of quiet and drowsy for a moment, and he scooped me up and then ran out here.”

  We all stood in silence, digesting what Kip had said.

  All of a sudden someone was pushing through the crowd – it was Miss Baxter.

  “Hello, Kip, old thing, been having adventures?” Miss Baxter’s voice was its usual sunny and relaxed self, but she crouched down and gave Kip a pat on the shoulder. I noticed that Miss Susan was hovering behind Miss Baxter, her eyebrows drawn together in a frown.

  “Is that … an astronaut??!” Kip squeaked, pointing over Miss Baxter’s shoulder. Clearly the shock had been too much for him, poor boy.

  But then I saw where he was pointing and, yes, it really did look like an astronaut striding purposefully towards us. He was in a big all-in-one white suit with a helmet. In one hand he was holding a small box, and in the other a flute. As the astronaut waddled closer I could finally see through the mesh covering his face. It was Mr Grant.

  “Why is Mr Grant dressed like a spaceman?” I wondered aloud.

  “It’s a beekeeping suit!” exclaimed Ingrid.

  “Everyone all right?” asked a slightly muffled Mr Grant.

  “Yes, Michael, everyone seems to be fine. Thank you,” said Miss Baxter.

  “OK, well, I think it would be best if we cleared the area while I set up the smoke machine,” he answered.

  “Of course,” Miss Baxter replied, pulling Kip to his feet and ushering us all towards the main building.

  I, like many of the others, craned my head back over my shoulder for as long as I absolutely could, trying to see what Mr Grant was up to. Finally when we rounded the corner, I asked, “But Miss Baxter, what is Mr Grant actually … doing?”

  Miss Baxter smiled. “I believe Mr Grant is going to employ some of the skills he learnt from the Bushmen of the Kalahari Desert.” Then, laughing at my blank face, she added, “I don’t really know an awful lot about it myself, but as I understand it, Mr Grant uses the smoke to calm the bees; then he locates and separates the queen and charms them back into the hive using his flute. Extraordinary, really. Like magic.”

  I nodded. “Miss Baxter…” I began, and then stopped, not quite knowing how to say what was on my mind.

  “What is it, Poppy?” she asked gently.

  “It’s just … the power cut … and then … the bees. You don’t think … I mean, you don’t think it’s the … the CURSE?” I finished, wildly.

  Miss Baxter’s face looked very serious for a moment, and she squeezed my shoulder. “No, Poppy, I don’t believe in curses, but I do think it’s terribly bad luck. I’m also worried about the other students getting scared by this rumour of a curse, so I would prefer it if we didn’t discuss it any more.” Seeing my disappointed face, she broke into a laugh. “Oh, I know the curse is much more exciting than a coincidence, but unfortunately for us we don’t live in a Dougie Valentine mystery, and things here are much more ordinary!”

  I nodded, but deep in my heart I knew Miss Baxter was wrong. Hadn’t Mr Grant been saying exactly the same thing when a giant swarm of angry bees was released?! It seemed obvious to me that the spirit of the pharaoh was still angry, and my fingers and toes went cold as I remembered what the article had said about the deadly effects it had had on the Van Bothings. Was Saint Smithen’s next on the pharaoh’s hit list?

  Kip, Ingrid and I had arranged to have our next session of circus school that afternoon after lessons had finished. Despite the dramatic morning we’d all had, the sun continued to shine away as though nothing had happened, and we returned to the quiet area next to the pond where we had practised before. Kip and Ingrid had a go at walking the tightrope again, and I even moved it up a few more centimetres because my students were so impressive.

  “What about some gymnastics?” asked Kip, a wide smile over his beaming face.

  “OK,” I said. “How about something like this?” I pushed myself into a neat handstand and then started walking up and down on my hands, my legs stretching straight into the air. Slowly at first, and then faster and faster, I started spinning around and around until I crumpled, laughing, on the ground. Kip and Ingrid clapped and cheered as I pulled myself to my feet and took a wobbly bow. “First,” I said, “we have to master the handstand.”

  It took a long time, but eventually Kip managed to keep himself in a slightly wibbling handstand. Ingrid, on the other hand, just couldn’t get her balance, and her face looked decidedly glum.

  “Don’t worry, Ing,” I said, putting an arm a
round her shoulders, “gymnastics isn’t for everyone. That’s why there are loads of different people in a circus. There are lots of other things I can teach you.”

  “Like what?” asked Ingrid, perking up.

  “Like juggling, or making balloon animals, or magic tricks, or—”

  “Do you have any books?” she interrupted.

  I laughed. “Er, yes, I think I’ve got one on escapology somewhere back in our room, but I’m not really sure that a book can teach you this kind of stuff.”

  “Books can teach you anything,” said Ingrid very seriously. “I’ve been my mum and dad’s accountant since I was seven thanks to Accounting for Beginners.”

  “What’s escapology?” Kip interrupted before Ingrid got too excited talking about complicated maths problems.

  “It means being able to escape from things,” I answered.

  “Harry Houdini was a really famous escapologist.” added Ingrid. “He was even buried alive a few times.”

  Kip looked a bit queasy. “Well, I think you’d better read a few more books before you try that one,” he said. “Anyway, Poppy, I want to learn a big, proper acrobat trick. Walking on your hands is really cool, but what about some of that tumbling stuff you do? Can’t I be part of your routine?”

  I frowned. “I don’t know, Kip. I think that stuff is a bit tricky. Unless we did something together.” I paused thoughtfully. “Tina and Tawna sometimes boost each other into a routine, but I think you have to be quite strong—”

  “I can do it!” Kip burst in indignantly. “I’m actually really strong, you know.” Then, after a pause: “Um, what would I have to do exactly?”

  “You make your hands into a cradle like this.” I twisted my fingers together to show him. “And then I put my foot in it. Then you push me up as hard as you can, and it means that I can get much higher and fit an extra twist in while I’m in the air.”

  “Let’s do it!” said Kip, full of gumption.

  We tried the trick a few times, but each time I put my weight into Kip’s hands we both collapsed into a jumbled heap on the ground.

  “This wouldn’t be a problem if I was taller,” sighed Kip wistfully, rubbing his aching arms.

  “We’ll get there with a bit of practice,” I said.

  “Yes,” said Ingrid supportively, “on that last one you almost did it perfectly. You know, just before you fell down.”

  Kip looked a bit cheerier at this, and as the sun went down the three of us trooped back to the dining hall happy, hungry and full of laughter.

  Chapter Twenty

  The next day was Tuesday again, and the best day of the week because it was one of the days that I could telephone the circus. I felt like my lessons couldn’t go fast enough and impatience pushed up inside me like a helium balloon. One thing that did take my mind off it was my first-ever music lesson. I knew I wasn’t very musically talented. Sharp-Eye Sheila had tried to teach me the banjo a few times, but I just couldn’t quite get the hang of it. She also tried to teach me how to read music, but it still all looked like a load of sultanas swarming around on a piece of paper to me.

  So it was that I approached the music lesson with a faint feeling of dread. That was until I met Madame Patrice. Madame Patrice didn’t just walk into a room, she made an entrance. We were quietly sitting in the classroom when the door swung open with a loud crashing noise and there she stood. Madame Patrice was big and tall. I think she was quite old because her face was covered in wrinkles, but her short, curly hair was a very bright red. She wore a lot of make-up and a long dress covered in bits of lace that looked like it must have once been very grand but was now a bit faded and tatty. Over the top of this was a very long fur stole, and in her hand she held a long black cigarette holder without a cigarette in it.

  “Daaaaaaaaaaaaarlings!” she cried in a deep, husky voice.

  We all sat open-mouthed and speechless at this dramatic vision of a lady.

  She put the empty cigarette holder in her mouth and ran her eyes over us. “There is TALENT in this room,” Madame Patrice said, placing a hand over her heart. “I feel it, here. And the heart NEVER lies.” With this proclamation she dropped down on to a long red velvet sofa at the front of the room and stretched out a graceful arm. “On top of the piano is some music. Let’s hear you all sing together.”

  We shuffled over to the piano and picked up the music. I couldn’t make head or tails of it. There was a long silence and some awkward coughing. Madame Patrice looked at us for a moment.

  “I see. You need some encouragement!” And with surprising agility she leapt from the sofa and plonked herself down on the piano stool. Her fingers started crashing down over the keys, and that old machine began to wheeze out a cheerful melody. Madame Patrice’s strong, throaty voice soon joined in, singing the song that was written down on the sheet of paper in my hand.

  “Now, YOU!” cried Madame Patrice, and she stopped singing.

  Quietly at first, but then with more enthusiasm, we all began singing, and Madame Patrice’s jolly clanging on the piano was so infectious that soon I found myself joining in loudly. At first the experience was so much fun that I didn’t notice it, but gradually I became aware of a loud honking noise. I stopped singing, and slowly, so did the rest of the class, as the honking noise grew louder and louder. It was only when everyone had stopped singing that I realized what the noise was.

  It was Kip.

  He had his eyes closed and his hands held out, and he looked completely lost in the music. Unfortunately, you could hardly call what was coming out of Kip’s mouth “music”. It was loud, certainly, and sometimes very flat, and sometimes very squeaky, and often very shouty. Even Madame Patrice’s enthusiastic tinkling came to a crashing halt.

  Kip opened his eyes and jumped when he saw everyone staring at him.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  There was a moment of silence and then Madame Patrice jumped up and clapped her hands together in a quick, decisive motion. “My dear boy,” she said. “You are NOT a singer.”

  There were a few muffled giggles, and Kip looked a bit upset before Madame Patrice broke in again, her eyes shining. “YOU are a tuba player.”

  “A-a-a tuba player?!” Kip repeated, wonderingly.

  “A tuba player,” repeated Madame Patrice firmly, and she moved over to the large store cupboard, which she opened to reveal a jumble of musical instruments. Madame Patrice disappeared inside it for a moment and there were a lot of clunking and smashing noises before she emerged carrying an enormous black case, which she plonked down next to Kip. It was exactly the same size as him.

  “Er, thanks,” Kip said, eyeing up the huge object.

  “It will be splendid,” said Madame Patrice serenely. “Now, let us continue with the lesson.”

  The rest of the day seemed to pass in slow motion as I waited until it was time for my call to the circus. That evening was the last the circus would spend at the Flying Ferret before they moved on to their next venue, and I skipped back to the library, excited to share all my news with the rest of my family. I’ll stick in another copy of our actual conversation for you.

  **Beginning of transcript**

  Leaky Sue: ’Ello, the Flying Ferret, ’ome of the famous ghost lion.

  Me: Hi, Leaky Sue!

  Leaky Sue: Poppy!

  Me: Did you say something about a – a ghost lion?!

  Leaky Sue: (cackling) Yes, I’m doing a roaring trade – if you’ll excuse the pun – thanks to that bloomin’ lion. Seems like the combination of zoo animals and ghosties is just what the tourists like. I’m going to be sorry to see the back of ’er, truth be told.

  Me: Oh, right. Well, maybe you could get a different ghostly animal. Something more manageable? A parrot might be good.

  Leaky Sue: (thoughtfully) A ghost parrot, you say. Hmmm.

  Me: Yeah!
Then you could teach it to say spooky things!

  Leaky Sue: Bloomin’ ’eck, you could be on to something there, my girl! Ghost parrot … hmmm. I’d only need an ’andkerchief with some ’oles in it.

  **Scuffling noise**

  Doris: (muffled) That’s enough of your caterwauling, Sue, stop hogging the phone! Poppy?

  Me: Hello, DoDo!

  Doris: Hello, Poppy, love! Don’t you mind Sue; we’re all wanting to hear your news.

  Me: Oh, well, it’s all still a bit strange, but I’m feeling a lot better, and Kip and Ingrid are so great. There’s some strange stuff going—

  **A faint whooshing noise followed by a loud THWACK!**

  Doris: That’s wonderful news, dear!

  **Another whooshing noise. Another THWACK!**

  Me: Errr … And how are you all doing?

  Doris: Oh, you know, can’t complain. We’ve had a lovely week here, sold-out shows. I knitted a dear little hat for Marvin with flaps to keep his ears warm. And I invented a new high-powered laser. Not a lot new with us.

  **Whoooooooosh. THWACK!!!**

  Poppy: DoDo … what’s going on?!

  Doris: Oh, nothing, love. Sorry, is it making a noise? It’s just … hang on…

  **Clunking sounds of phone being laid down. Muffled shouting**

  Leaky Sue: If I’ve told yer once, I’ve told yer a THOUSAND times … NO KNIFE THROWIN’ IN THE SITTING ROOM.

  Sharp-Eye Sheila: (sulkily) I haven’t touched the wallpaper. It’s hit the apple every single time.

  Doris: That’s true, Sue. We haven’t made any mess.

  Leaky Sue: Well, what d’yer call all them chopped-up apples round yer feet, then?

  Doris: But they have to go somewhere when they fall off my head, don’t they? Anyway, I’ll clean them all up. Actually, Pym gave me a bin bag earlier. She’s a knowing one, eh?

  **Clunking noise**

  Doris: Hang on, Poppy, Sharp-Eye wants a word with you.