by Robin Jarvis
The maths teacher began heaving him up the steps again. Then he halted.
A shadow had fallen across the top of them, cutting off the sunlight. Martin’s heart thumped violently. A pair of trainers came into view as the person began to descend. It made its way down three steps then stopped.
Martin blinked. The daylight was flickering around the figure and dazzled him. Then he recognised it.
“Carol!” he exclaimed.
The woman stared down at him, but said nothing. Martin felt afraid.
“I… I’ve got Paul,” he told her.
The boy’s mother remained silent.
“Carol?” Martin said, climbing the steps to stand beside her. “How… how did you know I was here?”
The boy in his grasp began to giggle.
The woman lifted her face and turned to him. Martin choked back a cry. Her eyes… her eyes were dark and glassy.
“Not you,” he whispered dismally. “Dear Lord, not you.”
“The woman Carol wanted to be with her son,” she answered in a cold, unfeeling voice. “So yesterday she sampled the minchet. It was not unpleasant for long, Martin. Try it.”
She raised her hand and held out an open jar. Martin tore his horror-stricken gaze away from her emotionless face and looked at the vile ointment.
“You can be with us always, Martin,” she told him. “Come to Mooncaster with us, with Magpie Jack and I.”
Martin began to tremble. Now he knew who had betrayed him to the Ismus last night. He let go of Paul. His hands were shaking. He reached out to take the jar from her hand.
“The Kingdom of the Dawn Prince is all you ever wanted, Martin,” she continued. “You hate this grey world already. Why do you hesitate? There is order under the rule of the Ismus, there is respect, there are standards, there is magick and wonder – everything this nothingness lacks.”
“And who are you in that place?” he asked in a shuddering voice. “If I taste this stuff – will we even be together?”
“I am paired with another there,” she answered. “This is the emptiness of sleep, Martin. It is not real. It does not matter. You will know that when you join us.”
The man looked at her one last time. His vision was bleary with tears. Then an awful sound of abject despair came welling up and screeched out of him. He dashed the jar from her hand and it smashed on the steps below.
Carol regarded him blankly.
“Come away with me!” he begged her anxiously. “From this place – it isn’t too late. There is a way back. I know there is.”
And then a new voice interrupted them.
“Haw haw haw!” it laughed.
Martin stared around them. Through the open doorway of this smaller pillbox he saw an old man hurrying towards them along the road. It was Gerald Benning. Concern and anguish were written on his face. But the laughter had not come from outside. It had echoed up from beneath – from the underpass.
“Hoo hoo hoo!” the mocking voice sounded again. “I rode you, I rid you. I played you, I puzzled you. I helped you, I hindered you – and now… I’ve shocked you!”
Martin felt a sickening coldness in the pit of his stomach. He knew that voice now. He turned from the sunlight and peered back down the steps to the mouth of the tunnel.
There came the squeak and creak of new leather. A pair of caramel-coloured trousers danced into sight. The torso above was paunchy and the brand-new, bellboy-style costume was slightly too tight, just as in the illustration. At first the peak of the cap concealed the face, but Martin didn’t need to see those florid features.
“Barry,” he uttered.
The Headteacher raised his face and let out another “Haw haw haw!” The ex-rugby player, the man who had always looked like a hard-bitten detective superintendent, came skipping forward.
“The Jockey has been up to his usual naughty tricks,” he confessed with a mischievous twinkle in his eye and a shrug of his shoulders. “The Ismus is most displeased, but now I shall atone and be spared the gaol. I will deliver unto him something he prizes most highly and earn his gratitude. My pranks shall be forgotten – till the next time I ride those at Court. Hee hee hee!”
He lifted his arm and beckoned. “We must not keep the Holy Enchanter waiting,” he said.
Paul smiled and hopped down to join him.
Now Martin understood why Barry had allowed the card-wearing and the hanging sleeves of the uniforms to continue through the week at school. And that was why he had brought up the subject of getting bespoke fantasy outfits made.
Martin struggled for something to say. Then he realised Barry was still beckoning.
“Come!” the Headteacher said again, with a welcoming wink. “Come, Carol… abella.”
Without giving Martin another glance, the woman walked down the steps. She took the Jockey’s outstretched hand and he capered around her. Then he led her and Paul back along the tunnel and they danced out of sight.
Martin slumped against the wall, stunned and bereft. His world was shattered.
Moments later Gerald Benning found him there, staring at the emptiness of the tunnel entrance.
“Martin!” the old man cried. “Martin. I followed Carol here. I think – I think she’s been…”
The maths teacher stirred.
“She’s gone with them,” he murmured desolately. “She’s one of them now. It’s over.”
Gerald’s face went pale, but he tightened his jaw and somehow managed to pull Martin to his feet.
“It’s not over!” he said angrily. “It’ll never be over. Hurry, Martin, back to the car.”
Martin stumbled after him – out into the open air. But what was the use? He looked across the deserted road, to where the gorse thickets concealed the sunken courtyard. He could hear the sound of chanting. The Ismus had commenced a reading from Dancing Jacks. Every voice was reciting the infernal words of Austerly Fellows.
“Beyond the Silvering Sea,” the many voices of the Court repeated joyously, “within thirteen green, girdling hills…”
A plume of thick smoke was rising into the sky. A fire was blazing upon that iron throne. He could see they were burning the effigy of the Bad Shepherd.
“Quickly, Martin!” Gerald urged.
“Why?” the maths teacher asked, wretched and bitter. “What can we do?”
Gerald stared at him. In a resolute voice, the old man said, “We have to fight, Martin. We have to warn the world.”
The dance will go on…
Addicted to Dancing Jax?
Then watch out for the sequel in February 2012.
* * *
And if that’s too long to wait, get another fix of Robin Jarvis with his darkly mysterious Wyrd Museum trilogy, coming soon in paperback...
The Wyrd Museum, Book One:
The Woven Path
Out July 2011
Dare to enter the Wyrd Museum, where fantasy meets the seriously sinister…
In a grimy alley in the East End of London stands the Wyrd Museum, cared for by the strange Webster sisters – and scene of even stranger events.
Wandering through the museum, Neil Chapman, son of the new caretaker, discovers it is a sinister place crammed with secrets both dark and deadly. Forced to journey back to the past, he finds himself pitted against an ancient and terrifying evil, something which is growing stronger as it feeds on the destruction around it.
The Wyrd Museum, Book Two:
Raven’s Knot
Out October 2011
Brought out of the past, elfin-like Edie Dorkins must now help the Websters to protect their age-old secret.
For outside the museum’s enchanted walls, a nightmarish army is gathering in the mystical town of Glastonbury, bent on destroying the sisters and their ancient power once and for all…
Revisit the chilling, fantastical world of the Wyrd Museum in this sepell-binding sequel to
The Woven Path.
The Wyrd Museum, Book Three:
The Fatal Strand
>
Out February 2012
The thrilling conclusion to the chilling trilogy.
But something has come to disturb the slumbering shadows and watchful walls of the Wyrd Museum. Miss Ursula Webster is determined to defend her realm to the last as the spectral unrest mounts. Once again, Neil Chapman is ensnared in the Web of Fate, facing an uncertain Destiny. Can he and Edie avert the approaching darkness, or has the final Doom descended upon the world at last?
Copyright
Text copyright © Robin Jarvis 2010
Illustration copyright © Robin Jarvis 2010
ISBN 978-0-00-734237-2
EPub Edition © 2011 ISBN: 9780007342389
Robin Jarvis reserves the right to be identified as the author and illustrator of the work.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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