Araminta Spookie 2: The Sword in the Grotto
As told to
Angie Sage
Illustrated by
Jimmy Pickering
For
Araminta Clibborn,
with love
Contents
1
Shirley
2
Thud
3
The Broom Closet
4
The Mushroom Farm
5
Old Morris
6
String
7
The Secret Tunnel
8
The Portcullis
9
The Grotto
10
Rinse Cycle
11
Deep Water
12
Edmund
13
Happy Birthday
About the Author
About the Illustrator
Other Books by Angie Sage
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
1
SHIRLEY
Spookie House, which is where I live with my aunt Tabitha and my uncle Drac, has recently gotten pretty crowded. First of all I found two ghosts living here, and then the Wizzards turned up and decided to live here too. So now that makes eight of us, as there are three Wizzards—Wanda and her mom and dad, Brenda and Barry.
Our two ghosts are Sir Horace and Edmund. Most people think that Sir Horace is just a boring old suit of armor—which is what I thought for ages—but he is our biggest ghost. Then there is his faithful page, Edmund, who is shy and acts like he’s a bit of a wimp. Wanda really likes him, but she would, as she can be a bit of a wimp too, as you will see.
Sometimes I think Sir Horace likes Wanda better than me. Not that I am jealous or anything, even though Sir Horace was my ghost first. But after the Wizzards came to live here, they repaired Sir Horace so that he looked almost like new, and Wanda got rid of all Sir Horace’s rust with her bike oil, which he was really pleased about. After that, Sir Horace walked around a lot more than he used to. He didn’t creak anymore either, which was a bit weird, as sometimes you might be just hanging around planning an ambush for Aunt Tabby or something, and suddenly there would be Sir Horace, standing right behind you.
But last month Sir Horace stopped walking around and started getting sulky. He took to lurking behind some revolting old curtains on the landing, and one night he really frightened Uncle Drac when he let out a horrible groan just as Uncle Drac was coming out of his turret.
Another time Sir Horace deliberately took his head off and left it on the stairs. Aunt Tabby tripped over it and blamed me. When I gave him his head back, he was not polite at all. He told me that he was trying to forget something and he didn’t want his head just then, thank you very much. But I made him put it back on. After that he disappeared. We looked everywhere, but we couldn’t find him, so Wanda and I went down to his secret room to see if he was there.
To get to Sir Horace’s room, you have to go through a secret passage and then down in a funny old elevator, called a dumbwaiter, which you have to work yourself by pulling on a rope. Wanda and I are not allowed to go there, as Aunt Tabby says the elevator is dangerous, and she does not like us hanging around in secret passages. But the real reason is that Aunt Tabby does not like people being anywhere where she cannot see what they are doing, as she is extremely nosy.
But even though Aunt Tabby is so nosy, she does not know everything. For example, she does not know that I have the key to the door to the secret passage. So yesterday, when Wanda and I were sure that Aunt Tabby was safely out of the way, we opened the secret door, which is in the paneling under the attic stairs. We walked along the secret passage. I had to go first because of the spiders—which Wanda does not like—then we went down in the creaky elevator—which Wanda does not like—and went into Sir Horace’s room.
The room was very small and dark—Wanda did not like that, either. But I don’t know what else she expected, as there are no windows in it because it is a secret room in the middle of the house. I shone my flashlight into all the corners to see if Sir Horace was sulking there while Wanda looked scared.
“He’s not here,” said Wanda. “I hope he hasn’t run away.”
“Why would he do that?” I asked. “He likes it at our house. Can I have the cheese and onion chips?”
Wanda was carrying our Secret Passage Kit, and she gave me my bag of cheese and onion chips. Then she lit the two candles above the fireplace. They cast strange shadows on the walls, and I made a big monster shadow loom over her.
Wanda, who is even more nosy than my aunt Tabby, started looking through all the old books that were piled up. They were very boring, and I didn’t know why she was bothering, but Wanda likes boring old stuff—which is why she likes Sir Horace, I suppose. Anyway, suddenly Wanda snorted like a pig inhaling its food and started rolling around the floor. I didn’t take any notice, as I know that this is Wanda’s way of laughing. So I let her do her pig impression for a bit, and then I asked her what was so funny.
“Oink oink oink,” snorted Wanda, “oh, oink!”
“Oh, come on, Wanda. Tell me.”
Wanda shoved a funny old book into my hands. “Shirley,” she snorted. “Oink oink. Shirley!”
Inside the book was an old piece of paper with a picture someone had drawn of a cute baby lying on a rug. Underneath the picture was some spidery writing. It was not very easy to read.
“Go on…oink,” snorted Wanda. “Read it.”
“Er…‘Horace Cuthbert Shirley George, age foure monthe,’” I read out. “Their spelling was terrible in the old days, wasn’t it?”
“Not as bad as yours,” oinked Wanda. “See? He’s called Shirley.”
“Well, maybe his mom wanted a girl or something. Anyway, I think he looks sweet. But that can’t be Sir Horace. He was never a baby.”
Wanda managed to sit up. “Everyone was a baby once,” she said. “Even my dad was a baby once, although that was ages ago. Probably about the same time as when Sir Horace was a baby.”
“Your dad may be old, but I don’t think he’s nearly five hundred years old,” I said, staring at the date in the book.
“He might be,” Wanda said. “I wouldn’t be surprised. What are you doing?”
“Counting,” I told her. Math is not one of my best subjects, and I was counting up on my fingers to make sure I had it right. One hundred, two hundred, three hundred, four hundred…Hey it was right—the day after tomorrow it will be five hundred years exactly since Sir Horace was born!
“The day after tomorrow is Sir Horace’s birthday,” I said. “His five-hundredth birthday.”
Wanda whistled. “That’s a big birthday.”
“The biggest birthday ever,” I said. “I mean, who else do you know who has had a five-hundredth birthday?”
Wanda thought for a while and then she said, “I don’t think I know anyone. That is so old. Hey—that’s why he’s sulking. My dad did that last year. He had what Mom called a big birthday, and he got really funny the week before. He turned all his frogs blue and he wouldn’t talk to anyone. But he cheered up at his surprise birthday party. He was fine after that.”
I finished eating my cheese and onion chips, and then suddenly I had a Plan. “Problem solved,” I said. “We’ll give Sir Horace a surprise five-hundredth birthday party, and then he’ll be fine too.”
Wanda smiled. I could see she was impressed with my brilliant Plan. And then she stopped smiling and said, “But we don’t know where he is. You have to know where someone is if you want to give him a surprise party. Otherwise you end up having a party and he’
s not there to be surprised. And then it’s not a surprise party; it’s just a—”
“All right, all right,” I said. “I get the point.”
Trust Wanda to make things difficult.
2
THUD
“Sir Horace will soon come out of wherever he’s hiding when he hears he’s having a surprise party,” I told Wanda. We were on our way down to the third-kitchen-on-the-left-just-past-the-boiler-room to check out the party food situation.
“It won’t be a surprise if he hears about it,” said Wanda. She is what my Uncle Drac calls “pedantic.” I am not sure what that means, but it sounds about right for Wanda, if you ask me. Plus you can add picky to that.
“Anyway, we don’t have to have a surprise party for him,” Wanda said. “Perhaps he would like to drive a race car or something. My mom did that when she turned forty. And Sir Horace already has his own crash helmet.”
I wasn’t so sure about that. Something told me that Sir Horace and racing cars would not go together well.
“Or we could just get him a really good present,” said Wanda. “But it’s no good buying him a pair of socks because he’s got no feet. Or aftershave because he doesn’t shave. Or handkerchiefs because he’s got no nose, or boxer shorts because he’s got no—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. There’s no need to go on and on, Wanda,” I told her. Sometimes Wanda does not know when to stop.
The party food was no problem. Brenda had a whole cupboard stuffed full of chips and candy. In fact, it was so full that when Wanda opened the door, a torrent of bags of gummi bears fell on our heads. One of them burst, so we had to eat all the bears, as Aunt Tabby always says, “If you make a mess, Araminta, you clean it up.”
We had very nearly cleaned up all the bears when a massive THUD echoed through the walls of the kitchen. It rocked the cupboard, and another shower of gummi bears leaped out and hit Wanda on the head.
“Ouch! Wharrerat?” she said.
“I don’t know, do I?” I told her. Wanda still thinks I know what’s going on in this house, but I don’t.
Wanda gulped down the last of the bears. “It sounded like someone heaved a huge sack of potatoes out of a window right at the top of the house,” she said.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I told her. “Who would want to throw a huge sack of potatoes out of the—Uncle Drac!” Suddenly I just knew what had happened. I ran out the door and crashed straight into Aunt Tabby.
“It’s Drac!” yelled Aunt Tabby. “Come on, Araminta—quick!” Aunt Tabby picked herself up from the floor and zoomed off around the corner and along the long corridor that winds through the basement. I couldn’t see her very well, as all the lights in the corridor burned out years ago and she always wears black, but that didn’t matter. I knew exactly where she was headed—to the bat turret poo hatch.
Wanda was close behind me. “Why,” she puffed, “would Uncle Drac want to throw a sack of potatoes out of a window? And what’s the fuss, anyway? We can always pick them up. Potatoes don’t break or anything. It’s not like he threw a sack of eggs out of the—”
“Oh, be quiet, Wanda,” I told her.
Like I said before, Wanda is picky and does not know when to stop. She doesn’t think, either, because if Wanda had stopped to think for one moment, she would have realized that the THUD we heard was Uncle Drac in his sleeping bag falling four floors down from the top of the bat turret. Which was not a good thing, particularly for Uncle Drac.
Aunt Tabby skidded to a halt at the far end of the corridor. In front of her, at the base of Uncle Drac’s bat turret, was the bat poo hatch. It was like a huge and very heavy cat flap. Aunt Tabby heaved it open and grabbed Uncle Drac’s shovel, which was leaning up beside it. Then she started digging.
Aunt Tabby was like a dog digging for its bone. Bat poo flew everywhere as she frantically heaved great shovel loads out of the hatch. I got out of the way quickly, but Wanda, who had not seen the hatch before, was not as fast.
“Eeow!” she yelled as a large shovelful of bat poo splattered over her. “That’s disgusting!”
“Shh, Wanda,” said Aunt Tabby, “I thought I heard Drac. Araminta, can you hear something?”
I listened as more shovelfuls of bat poo flew through the air.
“Errrgh…” A faint groaning came from inside the turret.
“Drac, Drac, are you all right?” yelled Aunt Tabby. “Hold on, Drac, we’re coming to get you.”
“Errrgh…arrgh…”
“What’s he doing in there?” asked Wanda. “I thought he was upstairs with the potatoes.”
“What potatoes?” asked Aunt Tabby suspiciously.
“Don’t take any notice of Wanda,” I told Aunt Tabby. “Just keep digging.”
“Why?” asked Wanda, who is very nosy. “Why doesn’t anyone tell me what’s going on?”
“Done!” said Aunt Tabby. She had dug a tunnel up through the huge pile of bat poo. She took out her flashlight and shone it up through the tunnel. I could see the rafters right at the top of the turret, where Uncle Drac’s sleeping bag usually hangs. It wasn’t there.
“Hold the shovel, Araminta,” said Aunt Tabby. “I’m going in.” So I held the shovel and watched Aunt Tabby scramble through the poo hatch and disappear.
“Errgh,” said Wanda, holding her nose. “How can she stand going in there?”
“Because Uncle Drac has just fallen four floors down from the top of the bat turret and she is going to save him, that’s why.”
Wanda looked surprised. “But I thought you said—”
“And I’m going in to help her,” I said, deciding that crawling through a few tons of bat poo was better than trying to explain anything to Wanda.
Actually, it was a lot worse than explaining anything to Wanda. It smelled revolting, and some of it was horribly soft and squidgy. But I climbed in, and soon I was standing on the floor of the turret. Well, not exactly on the floor—on the pile of bat poo that covers the floor. And lying there on the pile of poo was a large, flowery sleeping bag.
“Errrgh…” groaned the sleeping bag.
Aunt Tabby was kneeling beside it, and I could see Uncle Drac’s white face peering out. He didn’t look too good.
“It’s all right, Drac,” said Aunt Tabby, but she didn’t look like it was all right at all.
“No…it’s not,” moaned Uncle Drac. “Something terrible has happened.”
“Oh, Drac, dear. Tell me, what—what has happened? What have you done?” Aunt Tabby gasped.
Uncle Drac slowly lifted his head, and Aunt Tabby and I leaned close to hear what he was going to say. We both thought it might be Uncle Drac’s last words.
“I—I’ve squashed Big Bat,” he groaned.
3
THE BROOM CLOSET
The next morning Aunt Tabby yelled up to our Saturday bedroom, “Uncle Drac’s back from the hospital. Two broken legs, nothing to worry about.”
I jumped out of bed and looked through the small trapdoor. Aunt Tabby was standing at the bottom of the rope ladder in the corridor below.
“Two broken legs?” I said. “But that’s awful, Aunt Tabby.”
“Better than having three, dear,” she said briskly. “Drac’s resting in the broom closet. I want both of you to be very quiet this morning and leave him in peace.”
Wanda sat up in bed with her hair sticking up like it always does. “Why is he in the broom closet?” she asked. “Shouldn’t he be in bed?”
“Uncle Drac doesn’t have a bed, silly,” I told her. “He sleeps in his sleeping bag in the bat turret.”
“Why?” asked Wanda, rubbing her eyes.
“I don’t know. Because he likes being with his bats, I suppose. Come on, let’s go and see him.”
“But Aunt Tabby said—”
“Duh,” I told her. “You don’t want to take any notice of what Aunt Tabby says. Come on, Wanda. Get up.” And I pulled her duvet off.
The broom closet is downstairs by the back door. Barry�
�s frogs were waiting for him outside, and we could hear Barry’s voice coming from the closet. He was arguing with Uncle Drac.
“I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss, Drac,” he was saying grumpily. “I told you, I’m going in a minute.”
“You promised me you’d deliver it last night,” Uncle Drac complained.
“No I didn’t,” said Barry. “I promised I’d deliver it. I didn’t say I’d take the wretched stuff there at midnight. That’s ridiculous, Drac.”
“It is not ridiculous,” Uncle Drac growled. “I always deliver it at night. I’ve been doing it for years. That’s when Old Morris expects it, and that’s when the mushrooms like it.”
“How can you possibly know what mushrooms like?” Barry asked.
“I understand mushrooms,” said Uncle Drac. “Me and mushrooms have a lot in common. We both like dark and peace and quiet. Now go away, close the door, and leave me alone.”
Barry stomped out of the broom closet and nearly trod on one of his frogs. “I wouldn’t go in there,” he said to us. “He’s in a really bad mood. Would anyone like to take a trip to the mushroom farm? I could use some help.” He scooped up his frogs and put them in his pocket.
“I’ll come, Dad,” said Wanda, and she ran off without even bothering to see how Uncle Drac was.
Angie Sage Page 1
