Return of the Emerald Skull

by Paul Stewart

  As the footsteps and voices retreated, I stole a glance from behind the wrecked armchair. The last couple of teachers – both of them escorted on either side by boys who were prodding them viciously with their makeshift weapons – were disappearing through the door. A tall prefect with red hair and a blue feathered head-dress, who was bringing up the rear, reached out and grabbed the door handle.

  Seconds later, the door slammed shut. I waited a moment, then emerged from behind the armchair, to see Mr Cripps sitting on the floor and staring out of the window, his eyes lifeless, his gaze unblinking. It was unlikely that he'd noticed a single thing that had just happened.

  ‘Here,’ I said gently as I poured him a cup of water from a chipped pitcher. ‘Drink this.’

  He neither heard me nor saw me, and when I put the cup to his cracked lips, the water simply trickled down over his chin. It was hopeless. The master was like one of those stuffed birds I'd seen earlier – hollow, lifeless … There was nothing I could do for him.

  I shuddered. I doubted there was anything anyone could do for him.

  The masters had been taken to the bird hall and I intended to follow them, but at a safe distance. I, for one, had no intention of being sent to the headmaster. Gripping the handle of my swordstick tightly, I set off along the corridor.

  I heard the footsteps retreating, and the sound of the masters’ protestations and appeals fading away.

  ‘Please, Ridley,’ beseeched one. ‘Stop this madness. You're a good lad at heart …’

  ‘Morrison!’ came another. ‘It's not too late. Release us, and we can talk about it …’

  At the end of the hallway I glanced through a large window. Outside, in the quad, the boys of Heron and Eagle houses were working on the pyramid of wrecked furniture.

  And what a pyramid it was!

  Its four sides consisted of a series of rough steps, rising to a flat platform at the top, almost as high as the roofline of the quad. The surrounding classrooms must have been stripped bare to construct this massive pile.

  Ahead of me, the crocodile line of teachers was being led up a separate staircase – one that, from my previous visit, I knew went to the headmaster's bird hall. The prefects beat their cudgels and bellowed at the hapless masters, who were still pleading to be freed.

  ‘The head says, “No talking!” Hurry, time is short!’

  Just then, from behind me, I heard a noise that made my heart jump into my mouth. I spun round, my hand gripping my sword-stick beneath my curtain cape, to find myself staring at a rather hot and sticky-looking Sidney junior. He was struggling up the stairs with a carpet bag under one arm and a wickerwork basket under the other.

  ‘Give me a hand,’ he wheezed breathlessly, shoving the wicker basket into my hands.

  I took it and followed Sidney, who was redder than ever from his recent exertions in the quad, his flaxen hair plastered to his temples with sweat.

  ‘What is this?’ I asked.

  He frowned. ‘Matron's sewing basket, of course,’ he panted. ‘The head wants it in the bird hall. Immediately. And this’ – he held up the carpet bag – ‘is the rest of her yarn. Come on! We've got to hurry, the head says …’

  I followed him along the corridor, past the big window, round to the left and up the staircase towards the bird hall. I remembered the last time I'd been here. The headmaster had been insistent that no boys were allowed in there unsupervised – yet there were Sidney and I, making our way up the stairs on his express orders.

  Nothing about this school rebellion made sense.

  The route to the bird hall bore all the scars of the chaos and destruction that had afflicted the rest of the school. The carpet had been torn from the floor; the pictures on the walls had been smashed to smithereens. As for the door to the hall itself, the wood around the handle was a mass of jagged splinters, where the lock had been smashed in.

  Sidney knocked. The broken door opened with a creak, and Thompson stood there, hands on his hips and an impatient expression on his face.

  ‘The head said to hurry,’ he said. ‘Time is short.’

  ‘I came as fast as I could …’ Sidney began, tears springing to his eyes.

  Ignoring him, Thompson pointed across the room.

  If the corridor had been damaged by the unruly pupils of Grassington Hall, then the headmaster's beloved bird hall had been all but destroyed. Without exception, the glass in each and every one of the display cabinets had been smashed, and now lay on the floor like the shattered surface of a frozen lake, which crunched underfoot as we stepped inside.

  ‘Put them down over there!’ Thompson commanded, pointing towards the window at the far end of the long, thin gallery.

  We did as we were told. I kept my head down and my curtain cape pulled close round me as I took the opportunity to glance furtively around.

  Inside the broken cabinets were the masters, seated upon the floor. Before them lay a pile of birds, wrenched from their mounts; beside them were sacks full of feathers. Each of the birds, which had been so lovingly stuffed, named and mounted in a setting that matched its origins, was now being systematically plucked.

  The master nearest to me was sitting in a jungle scene, tugging the feathers from a green and red parrot. His crouching neighbour was plucking a duck. The hooknosed teacher I'd spoken to earlier squatted in a beige and khaki savannah, his head down as he yanked out the salmon-pink feathers of a giant flamingo with the single-minded determination of a man possessed.

  ‘“Faster!” the head says. “Faster!” ‘ urged the red-haired prefect, striding between the stooped heads of the masters, brandishing a cane.

  Even as he spoke, I heard a voice close by my ear. ‘Faster, my children,’ it whispered urgently. ‘Work faster!’

  As if in answer, the red-haired prefect rained a series of savage blows down on the shoulders of the hapless masters, who groaned and whimpered pitifully. I felt the blood rush to my face, and took a step towards the bully, only to feel a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘You! Grimes minor, isn't it?’

  I turned to see Thompson eyeing me suspiciously. ‘Gather the feathers and take them to the cloak maker.’

  He nodded across the hall. I followed his gaze.

  There, at the centre of the chaos, a small fair-haired pupil in wire-framed spectacles and an over-sized apron festooned with needles of all shapes and sizes was busily working on what looked at first sight to be a great carpet of feathers.

  I stooped and picked up a sack of exotic feathers, recently plucked from what had once been a pink-kneed stork from the Ocavandia Wetlands, according to the label on the case. Brushing past Thompson, I made my way across the broken glass to the diminutive carpet weaver.

  As I stood over the little fellow, whose nimble fingers darted back and forth in a blur of movement, I could see that it wasn't a carpet he was working on after all. In fact, dashing backward and forward like a crazed woodpecker, he was sewing feathers onto roughly cut squares of some dark material – formerly stage curtains by the look of them.

  Working on what looked at first sight to be a great carpet of feathers.

  There were twelve in all, and the boy was working at phenomenal speed, like someone possessed. I dumped my sack next to him, and he grasped a handful and continued sewing without looking up. I watched, mesmerized, as he reached the bottom of the twelfth square, only to dart back to the first, to begin stitching another layer of feathers.

  What on earth could this frenzy of activity be for? I wondered.

  Just then, a loud bugle call sounded, echoing up the stairs from the hallway. Around me, a loud baying went up as the boys raised their heads and howled.

  Sidney appeared at my elbow, licking his lips. ‘Food!’ he grinned.

  I suddenly realized how hungry I was. The last thing I'd eaten was a Stover's Special, and that more than twenty-four hours earlier. I was so hungry I could have eaten a drayman's horse in full harness – and the cart as well …

  The prefects
sprang into action, shouting commands. Three boys were told to gather up the feathered squares and take them downstairs. A dozen more – along with two of the prefects – were charged with returning the masters to their common room. The rest of us were instructed to make our way down to the dining hall.

  ‘The head says, “Feast!” You have done well!’ the red-haired prefect called after us.

  Down the stairs I went, amid a surge of whooping and yelling schoolboys, all evidently as hungry as I was. The doors of the dining hall were thrown open at our approach and, pushing and shoving in the crush, I found myself in a huge dark room with wooden panels on the walls and heavy beams spanning the vaulted ceiling high above my head – though completely emptied of all benches and tables.

  Presumably, I thought, the furniture had all been smashed up with the rest to be used to build the great pyramid outside.

  As more boys arrived, the noise in the hall grew. Howling, barking, yelping and snarling, they sounded more like a pack of starving hounds than a hall of hungry schoolboys. Suddenly the doors at the far end were thrown open. Inside the hall, the crowd fell back, leaving an aisle which led from the entrance to the centre of the floor. All around me, the baying boys pulled out short, sharp knives from their belts, and raised them into the air, while their cries became blood-chilling screams.

  A moment later, half a dozen older, athletic-looking boys appeared in the doorway. They seemed to be carrying something between them on their shoulders.

  All at once – as they stepped forward – a hush descended over the dining hall as each and every boy held his breath. You could have heard a feather drop. The six boys made their way across the hall, and as they drew closer, I peered over the bobbing heads of my companions.

  With a sharp intake of breath, I saw that resting upon their shoulders was the body of a slaughtered deer, its head lolling to one side and blood dripping down onto the floor from a vicious wound in its neck, from which two feathered arrows emerged. When they reached the centre of the dining hall, they eased the carcass off their shoulders with a grunt and stood back as it fell to the floor with a dull thud.

  As I looked down, I heard a voice close to my ear whisper, ‘Feast, my children. Feast.’

  The next moment, the silence of the great dining hall was shattered by the sound of two hundred voices, high-pitched and screaming, baying for blood. All around me the boys surged forward, their knives raised. They fell upon the carcass like wild beasts, and began tearing and hacking at it with their knives, nails and teeth. Strips of raw flesh were ripped from the still-warm body of the deer, and the floor became slippery with blood as the boys fought to get close enough to grab a morsel.

  I staggered backward as they surged forward, howling and screaming. Those who had already cut off flesh of their own allowed themselves to be shoved aside. They retreated to the corners, guarding the chunks of raw meat against anyone who came too close with snarls and growls and slashes of their blades – to be replaced by others, fresh to the slaughtered body, who buried their faces in the bloody carcass and hacked off chunks of meat of their own.

  Extricating myself from this sickening mob, I made my way to the back of the hall. My head was spinning; my brow was wet and clammy. I was badly shaken, and I needed a moment to think.

  Abandoning any thought of extracting a letter from Sidney, or anyone else, I knew that I had to escape from Grassington Hall and alert the authorities to this horror without delay. I slunk away cautiously, glancing back over my shoulder to ensure I wasn't being followed, and was making my way towards the gatehouse when something suddenly occurred to me.

  The masters were still locked up inside their common room.

  I couldn't leave them there. Not with the madness infecting the school. If the boys had been capable of slaughtering and devouring a deer, what might they do to their hapless masters?

  Turning on my heel, I sped back the way I'd come. I leaped in through a broken ground-floor window, dashed across the ruins of a devastated science laboratory and up the stairs on the other side. From somewhere behind me, echoing loudly, I could hear the shrieks and howls of the bloodthirsty mob of boys, still tearing into their bloody feast. Along the upper corridor I went until I came to the door of the masters’ common room again.

  It was only when I reached into the pocket of my waistcoat for the skeleton key that I realized just how much my hands were shaking. Suddenly all fingers and thumbs, I managed to pull the key free — breathing deeply in an attempt to calm my shattered nerves — and inserted it into the lock. From inside, I heard the sound of voices, suddenly raised in panic.

  ‘It's all right,’ I murmured. ‘It's me, Barnaby Grimes …’

  I was just about to turn the key when a voice hissed menacingly behind me.

  ‘Grimes minor, I might have known …’

  spun round, to be confronted by Thompson in his emerald feathered head-dress, a heavy fives bat clutched in both hands. Behind him, the eleven other prefects each one similarly head-dressed and armed glowered at me like country kestrels eyeing a town pigeon.

  ‘Grimes minor,’ Thompson snarled. ‘I've had my eye on you from the start …’

  ‘I can explain,’ I began, playing for time while I sized up the odds.

  They didn't look good. One of me and twelve of them. I didn't stand a chance in a fair fight. I fingered my swordstick beneath my cape – knowing what terrible damage I could do with its blade.

  But no. I couldn't shed blood. Whatever had got into them, they were still just schoolboys after all. There had to be another way …

  ‘I was just passing,’ I said, ‘when I heard a commotion inside. I thought the masters might be trying to escape, so I thought I ought to check—’

  ‘Seize him!‘ a voice hissed, close by my ear.

  The next instant, Thompson and his mates threw themselves at me like out-fielders in a Farrow Fives match. They were quick, but I was quicker. I hadn't studied the ancient art of yinchido with my beautiful teacher, Mei Ling, all summer for nothing. Now ‘The Way of the Silver Mist’ came to my rescue.

  I leaped to my right, through the gap between Thompson and the big red-haired prefect at his shoulder. Dropping to my knees, I upended a tall, solidly built lad in a crimson head-dress coming up behind me, and roughly shoulder-barged two more as I slid clear on my knees.

  The next moment, I was back on my feet, racing down the corridor with the feathered prefects snapping at my heels like a flock of enraged peacocks. I took a left turn, then a right – the sounds of footsteps behind me echoing down the bare corridors. I was heading for the staircase that led down to the entrance hall.

  If I can just make it out into the quad, I might stand a chance, I told myself …

  Turning the next corner, I slammed on the brakes. The prefects had obviously split up. Six were still behind me. But the rest – led by Thompson – had doubled back, and now appeared ahead of me on the landing, blocking my escape.

  I was surrounded!

  I fingered the catch on my swordstick. It would have been so easy to flick it back and unsheathe the blade …

  No! I once again reminded myself sharply. These are schoolboys. I can't hurt them!

  ‘Seize him!’ the voice hissed.

  In front of me, three prefects closed in, their mallets swinging in classic ankle-height scything sweeps, while three stayed behind to cover their backs. Mr Cripps had coached his fives team well, I thought, with bitter irony. Behind me, I sensed three more bat-wielding prefects approaching.

  One … two … three … I counted off the beats in my head. Now!

  I leaped high in the air, my legs raised up beneath me, swinging my swordstick in a broad shoulder-height sweep as I did so. Below me, six prefects scythed each other's ankles out from under one another, while my swordstick clattered against their heads. Down they went, like painted skittles in a fairground sideshow, as I landed on my feet and backed against the balustrade that ran the length of the landing.

  Bel
ow, in the entrance hall, boys were emerging from their gruesome feast and raising inquisitive, blood-stained faces towards the commotion at the top of the stairs. In front of me, Thompson and the five remaining prefects stepped over their groaning colleagues and closed in for the kill.

  ‘Look, I don't want to fight you,’ I pleaded. ‘Let me go before it's too late and someone gets badly hurt …’

  I might as well have been talking to myself for all the notice Thompson and his chums took of my words. Their faces were masklike, their eyes as dead and expressionless as if set in marble statues.

  The red-haired prefect swung his bat viciously at my head from the left, while two others attacked from the right, their mallets at shin height. I jumped back out of the way of Ginger's blow, jutting out an elbow that caught him full in the throat, while kicking out at the two on my right. The heel of my boot slammed into two faces, one after the other – and all three prefects went down on their knees, gurgling and gasping for breath as I landed back on my feet. Behind him, Thompson's two remaining companions hesitated as I brandished my sheathed sword-stick at them in desperation.

  ‘It's not too late—’ I began.

  Suddenly, with a guttural, animal-like roar of rage, Thompson threw himself at me, his face contorted into a mask of pure hate. Instinctively, I sidestepped and ducked, falling to my knees as I did so.

  Thompson – arms flailing and unable to stop himself – shot past me and over the balustrade, into the great gaping void of the entrance hall. Stomach pitching, I peered after him, through the spindles of the balustrade, just in time to see a look of startled panic flash across his face as he fell.

  Suddenly, with a guttural animal-like roar of rage, Thompson threw himself at me

  Moments later, there was a sickening crunch, and I forced myself to look down. There, on the marble floor of the entrance hall, lay Thompson's broken body – arms twisted, legs bent, his head surrounded by a spreading halo of dark red blood.