by Martin Booth
Pip also noticed he had very few of the kinds of possessions the other pupils owned. He did not have a mobile phone nor even wear a wristwatch. His pencil case was just an old wooden cigar box held shut with a perished rubber band, the words Cuba Corona printed on the lid. His calculator was an old solar-powered Casio, the casing held together with peeling tape.
All the while Pip was, as Tim put it, on Scrotton’s case, Sebastian decided to discover what he could about Yoland. As the head of chemistry was teaching a double-period senior-school class in the chemistry laboratory until lunch break, Sebastian reasoned he was very unlikely to come out of his laboratory and so, waiting until the school had settled down to the timetable, he excused himself from the class they were in and headed for the staffroom.
Knocking lightly on the door, Sebastian entered without waiting for a response. Inside, three or four teachers were sitting around a large table, marking exercise books. Another lounged in a battered chair, reading a newspaper, a mug of tea balanced on the arm.
Against a long wall stood a rank of large wooden pigeonholes, each bearing a name card in a tarnished brass holder. Sebastian walked calmly across to them, soon finding Yoland’s. He was about to start looking in it when the teacher reading the paper put it down and said, “What do you think you’re doing, boy?”
Sebastian had to think fast and, casting a quick glance at the pigeonhole next to Yoland’s, read the label on it.
“Miss Williams asked me to get a book for her,” he said.
“Next one over,” the teacher replied, “and don’t just barge in. Wait at the door.” He resumed reading his newspaper.
“Thank you, sir,” Sebastian replied, yet he continued to look in Yoland’s pigeonhole.
There was nothing of interest in it: some Year Eight answer sheets, a few textbooks, a box of pencils and markers and some teaching notes and printed examination papers.
At lunch break, Pip bought Sebastian a pack of tuna and cucumber sandwiches and a carton of orange juice. Sebastian bit into the sandwich, chewed briefly upon it and swallowed: then he reached over and read the label on the packet.
“What is tuna?” he asked.
“A large fish,” Pip told him.
“And cucumber?”
“A sort of vegetable,” Tim replied after a moment’s thought, “but keep your voice down. You’ll be branded a weirdo if you don’t know what a cucumber is.”
“Do you like it?” Pip inquired.
Sebastian considered for a moment and began, “It has a most piquant…”
“It’s wicked,” Tim interrupted.
Sebastian smiled and replied, “It’s cool.”
At that moment, Yoland appeared in the dining hall carrying the Year Eight answer sheets Sebastian had seen in the pigeonhole. At his arrival, the hubbub died down a little only to become louder a few moments later. Yoland chose a table at the far end of the room, bought himself a coffee, sat down and started to mark the answer sheets.
“He’s on lunch duty,” Pip said.
“What a chance!” Tim exclaimed. “We’ve got him for the next forty minutes.”
Tall, thin and with a lean face, Yoland moved with an almost insect-like precision, reminding Pip of a pale green, giant praying mantis she had seen on a wildlife documentary. His hands had very long, bony fingers ending in nails that were trim and neat. They looked as if they had been buffed by a manicurist. His graying hair was thick around the sides of his head, his nose and chin sharp, his eyes always on the lookout for trouble. He wore a trimly tailored pinstriped suit, which was quite unusual because most of the teachers chose more casual clothes, and he also wore a tie with a college crest on it. His legs were long and thin, his ears flat against the side of his head, with, on this occasion, his hair curled neatly behind them. He looked, Tim considered, fastidious, a typical scientist, a man fascinated by intricate details.
When he walked around the dining hall, he did so in an almost upright fashion, not leaning forward but striding out as if his legs were determined to go first, his body following without any choice. Whenever he turned his head it was with a quick motion, like that of a wary lizard.
And, whenever he approached their table on his occasional patrol of the room, the pendant vibrated.
After they had finished their lunch, Sebastian suggested they go out into the playground, where he led them to the farthest point from the school buildings. There, a centuries-old horse chestnut tree stood on the boundary of the playing fields, the grass beneath it scattered with conkers.
“If Yoland needs a familiar, he must be up to something serious,” Tim reasoned.
“It is on the subject of Scrotton,” Sebastian said, “that I wished us to come outside.” He looked around to ensure Scrotton was out of earshot.
Tim, recalling the boy’s Tarzan comment and Scrotton’s performance in the gym, looked into the branches of the horse chestnut above them. Scrotton was nowhere to be seen.
“Now that I have seen Scrotton’s nimble demonstration in the gymnasium,” Sebastian began, “I am convinced, as my father once suspected, that Scrotton is a wodwo.”
“A wod what?” Tim exclaimed.
“A wodwo,” Sebastian repeated. “It is a word long lost from the English language and very difficult to explain. It is — or was — a creature that lives in the forest.”
“The Monkey Man of the Woods!” Tim joked, swinging an arm over the back of his head, gripping his chin and grunting.
“Tim’s jest may be nearer the truth than you expect,” said Sebastian. “A wodwo is not entirely human, nor yet animal. It has the cunning and instincts of a wild beast, but,” he went on, “where Scrotton is concerned, because of his time spent in the company of humans, he has acquired many human attributes and much intelligence. Furthermore, as a familiar, he has also gained much alchemical or magical knowledge. This wodwo, therefore, unlike most, is a very dangerous creature.”
At that moment, they caught a glimpse of Scrotton across the playground. He had a small, thin boy in a neck lock and was repeatedly punching his upper arm.
“As you may see for yourself,” Sebastian declared, “the bestial in him comes forth when the human retreats.”
Six
A Burrow and a Book
The next afternoon, Pip, Tim and Sebastian watched through the library window as Scrotton set off through the school gates, carrying his scruffy bag. As soon as he was out of sight, they left the school and followed at a discreet distance.
Walking briskly, he headed out of the town and along the road towards Brampton. At a point where the road and the river went past a steep wooded hill, Scrotton suddenly veered right through the trees along a barely discernible trail that might have been made by deer or foxes. His pace did not slow even as the hillside grew progressively steeper. Pip, Tim and Sebastian, hiding their school bags under a thicket of brambles, followed him through the trees, taking care not to step on fallen twigs. Yet it seemed that Scrotton was oblivious to them and kept on ascending the hill, keeping to the path. Squirrels, busy here and there burying nuts, paid him no heed. Pheasants, pecking around in the leaf litter, merely looked up then continued their foraging.
“Notice,” Sebastian said quietly, “how the animals are not afeared of him, for he is one of them.”
Three hundred meters up the hill stood a vast oak tree. Tim reckoned it had to be at least a thousand years old. Leaving the path, Scrotton headed straight for it, scuffing his feet behind every step to erase his tracks.
Nearby was the substantial trunk of a fallen beech tree. Sebastian quickly crouched behind it, signaling to Pip and Tim to do likewise. Beneath the oak was what looked like a badger’s sett, fresh earth turned out from between the roots. As they watched, Scrotton got down and thrust his schoolbag into the hole. Then, with the agility of a snake, he slithered in after it. They saw his shoes disappear into the darkness of the cavity.
“What on earth is that?” whispered Pip.
“I don’t know a
bout what on earth it is,” Tim said quietly. “It seems he’s gone to earth.”
“This is his place,” Sebastian said softly.
Tim asked, “Why doesn’t he live in that old house?”
“He is ill at ease in houses,” explained Sebastian. “Here he feels safe.”
“What now?” Pip pondered.
“We bide our time,” said Sebastian. “He will be out shortly for it will be night in an hour or two and he must find food.”
Sure enough, ten minutes later, Scrotton reappeared. The first they saw of him was his face peering through the entrance to the tunnel, looking around like a wary animal assessing whether or not it was safe to exit. Finally, he wriggled out of the sett, no longer wearing his school uniform but a pair of muddy jeans and a soiled brown sweatshirt. Turning, he went up the hill, over the brow and disappeared into the depths of the wood.
“Now is our chance,” said Sebastian. “Pip, keep guard. Call to us if he returns. But softly. Do not alarm him. Tim, come with me.”
At the entrance, Sebastian handed Tim what looked like a ball of dark-blue gum the size of a cherry.
“As long as we are within, chew upon this.” He placed another piece in his own mouth, his cheek bulging. “Now, let us descend into the lair of the wodwo.”
Two meters in, it was pitch dark, only a glimmer of late afternoon light seeping in through the entrance. Tim blinked to try to adjust his eyes but with no success. However, as soon as he put the ball of gum in his mouth, it was as if he was wearing a pair of military night goggles. The interior of the sett was immediately bathed in a pale glow.
“Hey! Cool!” he exclaimed. “What’s in this stuff?”
“Extract of carrot,” Sebastian replied, “and a few other ingredients of which you are to remain ignorant.”
The tunnel was about a meter wide and high, with a right-angle bend approximately four meters in. The walls were of earth with, here and there, the massive roots of the oak above supporting them. In places, they were polished where Scrotton had rubbed against them in passing. Beyond the bend, it carried on for at least another eight meters. The earth of the floor was smooth and as hard as concrete, while the roof was loose and held together by a dense network of small roots, some of which hung down like inanimate tendrils.
At the far end of the tunnel was a larger chamber, the roof reinforced with intertwined sticks, the walls containing small cut-away shelves upon which Scrotton had placed his school books. Into one, he had jammed his school uniform. Towards the back was a large pile of brown leaves and bracken to serve as a bed. Beside it was a dented aluminium bowl of brackish water.
“He really does live like an animal,” Tim commented. “How long do you think he’s been here?”
“Several centuries,” Sebastian answered.
“Several centuries!” Tim replied with amazement. “And no one’s found him?”
“Why should they?” Sebastian said. “They believe this to be a badger sett.”
“But what about hunters? People with dogs? They used to kill badgers. Or government agricultural officials? They gas badgers because they think they carry tuberculosis to cattle.”
“Yes,” Sebastian concurred, “but Scrotton is not a badger. He will have killed any dogs that entered his den, and on occasion the men who accompanied them, too. There will be many skeletons in the woodland…”
Tim’s stomach muscles tightened with fear. Suddenly, what had seemed little more than a prank was now a deadly dangerous situation. He thought immediately of Pip outside.
“Will we be long?” he asked Sebastian nervously.
“We shall be but minutes,” Sebastian announced. He rummaged in the bed of bracken, pulling out from under it a wooden box, the corners strengthened with dull brass brackets, the hasp sealed with an ancient but well-lubricated padlock.
“Right! Let’s go!” Tim said. “We can open it back home.”
“That is not possible,” Sebastian stated, placing the box on the earthen floor. “If we steal the box, Scrotton will find it in our possession. It will call him to its side. Even now, I am sure it is telling him someone is tampering with it in his absence.”
“So what do we do?” Tim asked agitatedly.
“Open it,” Sebastian replied, “as rapidly as we may.”
“We don’t have the key,” Tim responded, looking fervently around the chamber.
Sebastian closed his eyes, cupping his hands around the padlock. There was a metallic click and the hasp of the padlock parted.
“Nice one!” Tim exclaimed.
“It is but a single-lever mechanism,” Sebastian replied, “and requires little skill.”
Opening the box, Sebastian removed a small, leather-bound book, the cover blotched with mold, the spine cracked with age.
“What is it?” Tim asked, his fear momentarily forgotten.
Sebastian opened the book at random, swiftly turning over page after page before announcing, “It is a compendium of spells known as The Book of Gerbert d’Aurillac.”
“Who?”
“I will tell you of him anon,” Sebastian replied.
Tim moved nearer to peer into the box. Reaching out, he asked eagerly, “What else is there?”
“Touch nothing!” Sebastian said sharply, pushing Tim’s hand aside. “Scrotton must not know we have been here.” He carefully replaced the book.
When he saw them, Tim was aghast at the other contents: a lamb’s skull, some cow’s teeth, the russet tail of a fox, a snake’s skin and what he assumed from their color were two dried crows’ wings. It was not until Sehastian began to close the box that Tim noticed an object about the size of a small child’s clenched fist, black and studded all over with small protruding nails like panel pins.
“What’s that?” Tim exclaimed.
“That,” Sebastian replied, “is a heart.”
Tim was momentarily silent. The vision of a gamekeeper or a man naively walking his dogs through the woods on a fine summer’s afternoon entered his mind. This was quickly followed by an image of Pip crouching behind the fallen log, Scrotton creeping up on her unawares.
“A human heart?” he asked querulously.
“No,” Sebastian answered. “It is a canine heart.”
“Why is it studded with nails?”
“This is a method,” Sebastian stated, “of protection against any others of its kind.”
He closed the box and put it back under the bracken. They headed on all fours for the sett entrance.
On reaching the right-angle bend, Sebastian ordered Tim to wait while he went ahead to signal to Pip and ensure Scrotton was nowhere in sight.
Tim, with some reluctance, agreed. He sat on the hard earth floor with his back to the wall, his arms clasping his knees.
After a few moments, he had the uncanny feeling between his shoulder blades that he was being watched. He glanced down the tunnel towards the chamber. There was nothing there. Looking the other way, he could make out Sebastian’s shape in the tunnel entrance, silhouetted against the light.
It was then something wet touched his neck. He reached up, thinking it was a drip of water from the soil above. His fingers met something thin, soft and damp: yet the moment he touched it, it was gone. Looking over his shoulder, there was nothing to be seen except a tiny hole in the tunnel wall.
“All clear?” he asked Sebastian in a stage whisper.
Sebastian gestured for him to stay put.
Just as Tim signaled his understanding, something slimy fell on his head, rolled off and briefly wrapped itself around his ear before dropping to the floor.
Instantaneously, the roof of the tunnel became festooned with gigantic earthworms, dangling from holes like obscene Christmas decorations. Shiny with slime, pink and brown, they writhed to and fro as if searching for him, tasting the air for him, pointing at him as if to tell the others where he was, a clump of them over his head fingering down towards his scalp. Two detached themselves from the roof and started to intertwi
ne with his hair. He clawed at them, pulling them free only to find others had replaced the first. His hands were slick with their translucent mucus.
Disregarding Sebastian’s order, Tim scrambled towards him. Just as he arrived at his side, Pip frantically beckoned to them. Running at a crouch, they made for the fallen beech, leaped over it and lay flat. In less than a minute, Scrotton came jogging down the hill, occasionally dropping to all fours and moving forward like a chimpanzee. He paused at the tunnel entrance, looked furtively around, then vanished into it. They waited five minutes then, as cautiously but as rapidly as possible, made for the road, collected their school bags from under the brambles and speedily headed home.
“So who’s this d’Aurillac?” Tim inquired as he and Pip settled down that evening on two stools, facing Sebastian across the table in his underground chamber.
Sebastian stretched, crossed his arms and, leaning on the table, began, “Gerbert d’Aurillac was born in the mountains of the Auvergne in France, in the tenth century. His date of birth and his original family name are not exactly known, nor is his background, but he is believed to have come from lowly stock.
“In the middle of that century, he became a Benedictine monk at the monastery of St. Gerald at Aurillac, hence the name by which he became known. About a decade later, he was sent by his abbot to Spain to study the quadrivium, the four subjects of arithmetic, music, astronomy, and geometry. After attending to his studies in the libraries of the cathedral of Vic and the monastery of Ripoll, he visited Cordoba, the capital of southern Spain, which was then ruled by Muslim Arabs. Very cultured and learned in mathematics, astronomy, and astrology, they possessed a library of many thousands of books.”
“I don’t understand something,” Pip interrupted. “If he was a Christian monk, how could he go to an Islamic land?”
