Emerald Greene and the Witch Stones

by Daniel Blythe

  Next to Jess, Emerald sighed and laid down her pen. ‘Yes, Miss?’

  ‘The capital of France, girl! Come on, don’t hang around!’

  ‘I’m afraid I have no idea,’ said Emerald, as if the question were of no consequence. ‘Please ask someone else.’

  A murmur of unease went around the room. Mrs Morris laid down her pointer on the overhead projector and folded her arms.

  ‘I - beg - your - pardon?’ said Mrs Morris, in that slow, measured tone which always meant You Have Said Something Dangerous.

  Jessica stared open-mouthed at Emerald, who just shrugged. It’s impossible, thought Jess. She must know. She’s just acting up for the sake of it. Only this morning she was rattling away in French like a native. Why is she pretending not to know where Paris is?

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Emerald again, in a bright, perky voice. ‘My apologies.’ There was a beat of silence, in which things could have gone either way. ‘Please do not ask me again,’ added Emerald.

  Jessica jumped in, for Miss Morris was evidently about to explode. ‘It’s just her... sense of humour, Miss,’ she said quickly, and said the first thing which came into her head. ‘She went to an alternative hippy school. In...’ (Somewhere that sounded bohemian... what was that place Gabi was often going on about? Yes...) ‘In Goa. She knows it’s Paris really. Don’t you, Emerald?’

  ‘No,’ said Emerald, her green eyes glittering and her face a picture of innocence. ‘I had no idea... Why did you just kick me?’ she added.

  It was the end of the day, and chattering, blue-blazered hordes streamed towards the gates.

  ‘Look,’ Jess said awkwardly, hurrying after Emerald. ‘You’ve got to try and fit in here. Otherwise people will think you’re... odd.’

  Did Emerald have something wrong with her eyes? They certainly seemed unnaturally bright and piercing. From behind the blue lenses, the Newbie fixed an unblinking, unyielding gaze on Jess.

  ‘Odd?’ She seemed amused by the idea.

  ‘Well, yeah. All that stuff you were coming out with in Maths... And don’t cheek old Doris Morris - you won’t get away with that next time. I saved your neck there. What did you think you were doing?’

  Emerald nodded as if it was all suddenly clear to her, and gave Jess a broad, friendly smile, full of dazzling, perfect teeth. ‘I have embarrassed you. My apologies.’

  ‘No, no...’ Jess thumped her school-bag in frustration. ‘You didn’t embarrass me, Emerald. It’s just that you seem... not like everyone else.’

  Emerald’s smile did not waver. ‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘Why be like everyone else? If you are like everyone else, you may as well not be you, Jessica Mathieson. You may as well cease being an individual.’

  It sounded like such a logical answer that Jess, for a moment, was completely thrown. ‘I’d... not really thought about it like that,’ admitted Jess.

  She opened her mouth to ask another question, but Emerald had disappeared. Jess gulped and looked around the playground. A second later she backed into Emerald, who was down on her hands and knees with a magnifying glass.

  ‘Definite traces,’ Emerald was muttering. ‘Here, of all...’ She looked up, appearing to notice Jess looming over her. ‘Oh, I see. This is embarrassing again, is it not?’

  Jess shook her head. ‘What are you playing at?’

  Emerald concealed the magnifying-glass in one of the capacious pockets of her duffel-coat. ‘I am not at liberty to disclose that for now,’ she whispered. ‘I shall see you tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jessica faintly. ‘I expect so.’

  Emerald Greene strode off, tomato-red hair bouncing in the sunlight. She didn’t turn to look back.

  Suddenly, Jessica felt a momentary chill pass over her, as if she’d passed by a grave with a familiar name, or seen a frightening shadow in the bushes at the bottom of the garden. She had a strange, deep sense of something beyond the everyday, but something that she couldn’t place or give a name to.

  It was just a feeling.

  And then, she was sure she could make out, just at the very edge of her hearing, almost round the back of her head like wraparound stereo sound - singing.

  Choir practice?

  Nope. Couldn’t be. She was too far from the Hall, and besides, it wasn’t a Tuesday.

  No, this was the sound of ethereal women’s voices, deep in a cavernous room somewhere... a beautiful sound, yet harsh as briars and cold as stone...

  She shook her head, and the odd sensation began to pass.

  The noise faded from her head and warm sunlight flooded over her again, painting her golden as she stood there, and the world tuned itself back in - car doors slamming, children laughing and squabbling.

  As Jess walked home, she was unnaturally nervous, and kept glancing over her shoulder at the sunlit streets, the gleaming cars, the washing billowing in the breeze. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she had brushed against something much bigger, deeper and darker than most people ever sensed in their lives.

  She had an inkling, too, that there was something dangerous about Emerald Greene, and that if she hung around with her long enough, she’d find out what it was.

  And even though the feeling frightened her somewhat, it made her a little bit excited.

  At home, she called Richie while she made herself a cup of tea.

  ‘Weird stuff alert,’ she said. ‘Need to talk about it.’

  ‘You too?’ he answered, not sounding surprised.

  ‘You promise not to laugh?’

  ‘Course. Look, Jess, we don’t take the mickey out of each other. Scouts’ honour.’

  ‘Richie, you’re not in the Scouts.’

  ‘Okay, well, Astronomy Club honour, then. Just tell me.’

  ‘All right, then.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I saw this cat on the way to school, right, and I think... well, I think it spoke to me.’

  ‘The cat spoke to you? What did it say? Eight out of ten of us prefer CattoBix?’

  ‘You said you’d take me seriously,’ she reprimanded him.

  ‘Sorry. So where did it speak to you, then?’

  ‘It was sitting on a street sign, right? Corner of Montrose Avenue. And it told me I was going to be late. Richie, I am deadly serious about this. There was nobody else in the road. The cat spoke to me.’

  ‘So this cat not only speaks, it tells the future too.’ Richie whistled quietly. ‘It could set itself up in business. It could appear on telly.’

  ‘That’s just silly, Richie.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘So, come on... what’s happened to you?’ she asked crossly.

  ‘Okay. I was on the Net this lunch-hour and I got a really nasty virus... Blew the front out of the computer and would have frazzled me if I’d not ducked.’

  ‘Phew...what did you do?’ she asked.

  ‘Told Mr Watson. He got the engineers in. He didn’t really seem bothered. He says the machines are too old and are always blowing a fuse somewhere.’

  ‘Which is true.’

  ‘Which is true, but this was a bit more than that. I got this... sensation. Like I could smell something damp, and... there was this singing.’

  Jess’s fingertips tingled. ‘Like a choir stuck at the bottom of a well?’

  ‘You heard it too?’

  ‘Uh-huh. In the playground. Just after she walked off.’

  ‘Blimey, Jess. Is someone having a laugh, do you think?’

  ‘If they are, it’s not funny. I tell you, Rich, whatever is going on in our school is somehow connected with her - and we’ve got to find out what she’s up to before it’s too late!’

  ‘Something else, too,’ he said. ‘What I was looking up, when the computer blew a fuse.’

  Jess listened as Richie told her
what he’d discovered from the website about Rubicon House. It was a splendid, old building, one of the best-known and best-loved stately homes in the county. Or at least, it had been - until it had burnt down in an unexplained fire in 1912. Nothing remained of Rubicon House, not even a shell - the authorities had stripped away its blackened beams and its burnt stones, and now the forest had grown up around it, trees which were nearly a hundred years old obscuring the place where the house had once stood.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ said Jess, when Richie had finished. ‘Why would she pretend to live somewhere that doesn’t exist?’

  ‘You know what?’ Richie said. ‘It’s a flipping good thing Emerald Greene wasn’t around a few hundred years ago. The people round here would have burnt her as a witch.’

  ‘I think you’re right, Rich... I think you’re right.’

  That weekend, it was warm for September. The residents of Meresbury found themselves in shirt-sleeves and summer dresses again. On Sunday morning, the pungent smells of fresh grass and car-wax drifted over the suburbs, while the snip-snip-snip of secateurs and the whirr of lawnmowers punctuated the glorious pealing of the Cathedral bells.

  At sunset, though, things changed rapidly. The temperature dropped and black clouds began massing above the Mere Valley. People scurried outside to bring their washing in and stack their tools away in their sheds, just as the first ominous roll of thunder boomed across the moors.

  In the darkening streets of the old town, fringed with their neat Tudor gables, lamps had begun to glow early. Umbrellas sprouted above the waitresses, the barmen and the late-night shop assistants who were hurrying to work. The Cathedral floodlights came on, bathing the stonework in a soft honey-gold glow.

  And then the rain began. First with a pit and a pat, edgy and nervous on the awnings of shops, as if it were feeling its way.

  The pitter and the patter grew by the second into a loud rushing as the drops formed bars of rain, striking the pavements and the Cathedral Close, making little silver sparkles; then the bars massed into torrents, filling the air with brackish water. The torrents formed great, foaming puddles. Grey pavements were sheened like glass and umbrellas sagged under the weight of the water. Young couples pulled jackets over their heads as they hurried for the shelter of pubs and restaurants. In just a few minutes, the whole of the City of Meresbury was cold, grey and awash.

  In Chadwick Road, the rain gurgled into drains and hammered on slate roofs. The occasional car sloshed its way home, its headlamps picking out the dancing raindrops in cones of light.

  Aunt Gabi pulled the curtains tightly to, shivering a little, and switched on the television for the local news on County TV.

  A pinstripe-suited man in his fifties was the studio guest, holding forth about something important. His hair was white, with a hint of curls, and he had a proud Roman nose, white teeth and bright blue eyes. A caption gave his name as Professor Edwin Ulverston.

  Gabi suddenly realised she had seen the name before.

  ‘Hey, Jess,’ she called, ‘it’s that mad professor bloke. The one Cameron’s - er, Mr Stone’s taking you to see.’

  Jessica, coming in from the kitchen, noticed the correction, but she smiled and didn’t say anything.

  ‘It’s a hugely important find,’ Professor Ulverston was saying in a mellow voice which commanded authority. ‘I think it could be the first really big archaeological event of this century.’ He sat back, and treated the audience to a toothy grin.

  ‘Now, Professor,’ said the smooth presenter, Mike Devenish, ‘the local and national media will be there, of course - but you’ve chosen to make this a very special day in another way for the people of Meresbury, haven’t you?’

  Professor Ulverston seemed to be enjoying the interview immensely, to the point where he appeared to be trying not to laugh out loud. ‘Yes, absolutely!’ he boomed, and his eyes bulged. ‘I feel it’s vital to show the young people of the area some of the important work we do, so I’ve invited several schools and colleges to bring groups along.’ He leaned forward, grinning conspiratorially, and lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘It’ll be a tremendous hoot!’

  Jess, sipping a Diet Coke, watched with detached interest. She knew all about Professor Ulverston’s project - they’d been doing it in their Local Studies module for weeks, in preparation for their visit to his dig. The Professor had made a wide-ranging study of the Ten Sisters stone circle on a desolate part of the moors known as Scratchcombe Edge. The stones were ancient, that much was certain, but they had never been the subject of a proper survey before. So, armed with the latest equipment, the Professor’s team had spent weeks measuring and logging every last detail of the circle.

  In the last few weeks, however, Ulverston had thrown the academic world into disarray with an astounding discovery. He claimed to have evidence that the tomb of a Viking warrior had been placed beneath the stones - in fact, that the western keystone had been displaced for the very purpose of a full ritual burial. Ulverston, ambitious like all academics, had used all his connections to allow an excavation of the ground beneath the circle. Ulverston would not reveal what he had discovered so far - rather, he had set a date for what he promised would be a spectacular revelation, and had sat back to let the media do its business.

  The Professor waggled a finger at the camera. ‘Believe me, they’ll be fascinated. After all,’ he added with satisfaction, ‘I am the country’s leading expert on megalithic structures.’

  ‘Yes, Professor - so we’ve established.’ Mike Devenish gave a slightly weary smile. ‘But tell me, isn’t an excavation of this kind fraught with hazards?’

  Professor Ulverston gave a snort of disapproval and leaned forward, his face flushing a deeper shade of pink under the studio lights. ‘Absolute rubbish!’ he exclaimed, waggling a finger. His big blue eyes opened wide again, fixing Devenish with a look of authority. ‘The opening of this tomb has been planned like a military operation! I assure you that we have done everything to ensure that the stones are completely unharmed.’

  ‘Now,’ said Mike Devenish, his smile intact, ‘throughout history, the Ten Sisters have been associated with numerous myths and legends, haven’t they, Professor?’

  ‘Of course they have,’ grumbled the Professor, waving a dismissive hand and scowling. ‘Come on, Mr Davenant. Every site attracts its fair share of gullible nincompoops and moon-worshippers.’

  ‘So, Professor, your message to the viewers on Mike’s Open Mike is that you don’t have any time for these people?’ persisted Devenish.

  ‘Weeeeell, come on. They eat too many lentils, you know. It can addle the brain, hmmmm? Believe that claptrap if you want.’ And the Professor beamed again, his teeth shining like beacons in the studio.

  ‘One of the legends you may choose to believe,’ Mike Devenish went on, to the camera, ‘is the story of the Ten Sisters, the young girls who went dancing on the moors one night. The story goes that they were lured by the Devil to dance on the Sabbath day rather than going to church, and were turned to stone in the morning sun. Any thoughts on that story, Professor?’

  The Professor’s eyes twinkled. ‘A great many people have a vivid imagination,’ he said solemnly. ‘They should be encouraged to go into television. Fortunately, Mr Dervish, science is about facts, not fairy stories.’

  Mike was unfazed. ‘Well, we shall be there, Devil or not, to cover the historic event - live, with me, Mike Devenish. Professor Ulverston, thank you very much... Now, let’s see what the weekend weather has in store. Jan, it’s been a bit changeable these past few days, hasn’t it?...’

  ‘How’s your new friend getting on?’ Aunt Gabi asked Jessica over their hurried, informal supper.

  Jessica looked up. ‘Um... she does... odd things,’ she said eventually, with a shrug.

  In truth, Jessica was getting pretty hacked-off with Emerald Greene. For one thing, she ap
peared to live in her own little world and only acknowledged other people - even Jess, her supposed mentor - when she felt like it.

  At break-times, Emerald appeared to be conducting her own little survey of the school buildings. Out would come the blue glasses and she would stroll back and forth, tapping the bricks and making notes on what looked like a palm-top computer (which always vanished into a pocket if anyone came close). Once, Jess and Richie watched her in fascination as she unrolled a lead weight on a piece of string and swung it like a pendulum over the bottom step. ‘Major weird points,’ was Jess’s comment.

  Furthermore, Emerald seemed to find most classwork insultingly easy. She would fling down her pen after a minute or so and lean back in her chair, hands behind her head, looking bored and humming quietly. A disbelieving teacher would usually come over, glance at her work and do a double take, before picking up and reading what turned out to be a 100% accurate set of maths questions, or a cross-section of an escarpment with all the strata correctly labelled.

  On the other hand, she found some things impossible. She would gnaw her pen to shreds, pick angrily at the paper of the worksheet and sit there sulkily, her arms folded. If the teacher asked her what was wrong, she would argue that the problem was too basic. ‘There must be information you are withholding!’ she would exclaim, or, ‘The parameters are not correctly defined!’

  It drove the teachers to distraction - and if Jess was honest, she felt a lot of sympathy with them.

  It was also difficult to have a conversation with Emerald Greene. Jessica couldn’t put her finger on what precisely disturbed her about the Newbie’s manner, but after a couple of days she had realised - Emerald couldn’t chat. She didn’t do the reassuring, meaningless conversations of friendship. If you asked her something, she would give a precise and rounded answer, or none at all, and then she would look at you with her sharp green eyes. And keep looking at you. And still keep looking at you. Until you felt so uncomfortable that you had to blow your nose, or hide behind your cup, or start babbling just to fill the silence.

  ‘But look,’ said Aunt Gabi, waggling her glass of wine, ‘everyone interesting is odd in some way, darling. Including me,’ she added. ‘What exactly does she do, then?’