Eden Chronicles Box Set Books 1-3

by James Erith

  Each tread groaned in protest under his weight. As he was reasonably tall and skinny, the noise sounded almost high-pitched. When Mrs Pye came up, the wood seemed to creak as though an buffalo was crashing about the house.

  This morning, the stairs moaned more than usual and every single floorboard Archie stepped on seemed to whine. It sank Archie to a new low. Why was he surrounded by old things that groaned and moaned all the time, like Old Man Wood and Mrs Pye ... and Isabella?

  As Archie walked, he noted a single shaded light bulb dangling rather sadly from the ceiling. In a funny sort of way, it reminded him of his experience in the night. Daisy had screamed as though possessed – loud enough to wake people in Northallerton ten miles away. And she’d slept through it all.

  Surely Isabella must have been disturbed, Archie thought. After all, every time he turned his music up she noticed. But the thing that nagged like a stubborn splinter was whether Daisy recalled any of it. Why did she scream his name and why did it feel so familiar?

  He’d ask her later – if he remembered – but not now. He didn’t have the will and, deep down, he was pretty sure she’d give him one of her dismissive looks with her big blue eyes and say, ‘Sorry, no reveally’, and he’d feel a bit of an idiot. And he hated feeling an idiot, especially when it came from Daisy.

  He toyed with the idea that instead of asking Daisy about her dream, he’d tell her what he’d seen, and then tell her that he’d had a dream that sounded, well, similar.

  He stopped as he reached the bottom step. Then again, why should he? Daisy wouldn’t be interested and anyway, he was over-reacting, right? He scrunched his eyes shut in frustration. I mean, the spidery-angel thing he’d seen was scary – and real, very real – but it was, he reminded himself, only a dream.

  If only it had felt like a dream.

  ON HIS WAY OUT, Archie poked his head around the door of the kitchen where Old Man Wood and Mrs Pye were washing up breakfast. ‘Just off,’ he said, ‘see you later.’

  ‘You’re off early,’ Mrs Pye said. ‘Anything the matter?’

  ‘Nah, just fancy a walk, that’s all.’ He spotted Mrs Pye placing some apples in the fruit bowl. ‘Ooh. Can I have one?’ he asked.

  Mrs Pye gave him a look.

  Archie sighed. ‘Please.’

  Mrs Pye selected one and lobbed it to him. ‘Now don’t you go getting them clothes ripped again or go tripping down any holes or burrows or bigger holes like those badger ones on them slopes. I’m fed up with constantly mending your things and darning your clothes and washing, young Archie, I am.’

  Then she smiled, although to most people it would have looked like a grimace. ‘But what am I telling you that for, eh? You’re on the cusp of thirteen and quite old enough to know better.’ She grimaced – or smiled again.

  ‘Seems hardly a minute since you were a lovely little boy. Now whatever you do,’ she continued, ‘don’t go breaking any of them bones of yours. Understand? It’s your football tomorrow and you know how Daisy would be disappointed.’

  Archie smiled. He loved it when she rambled on. He grabbed his bags and opened the thick oak door of the cottage, which creaked like mad, and slipped outside. He drew in a large breath of air as he watched the first rays of light slowly creep up over the vale, smearing the base of the thick cloud in a fiery orange glow. It looked, he thought, like sunlight creeping under a door.

  At first he followed the stony path towards the ruin but, before long, he cut along a makeshift animal track that weaved through the long grass before it met the forest and the steep slopes that ran down to the river.

  For several minutes he hurdled fallen branches and jumped rabbit warrens and fox holes, untangling brambles from his clothes as he ducked through thickets and bushes. Every so often he would stop and pluck a few blackberries or scavenge for hazelnuts on the ground.

  He chewed them as he went, savouring the tastes – be it tangy and sour or over-ripe and juicy – smearing his hands and lips with red berry juice.

  In the semi-darkness beneath the forest canopy, he found long creepers dangling down and swung on them, pretending to be a pirate boarding a ship. One gave way in mid-flight and he tumbled to the ground but he picked himself up and brushed his clothes down. He fingered a tear in his blazer and another in his trousers and shrugged. Nothing he could do about it now.

  He wished Daisy was with him, she loved this kind of thing, even if she didn’t like to admit it. She only came out in the holidays – when her friends weren’t around worrying about their looks and their make-up and nails and hair, and boys.

  When Daisy was out here, she went wild; her blonde hair tangled up in brambles and grass, her face smeared by mud and berries and blood.

  She wasn’t that into all the girlie stuff. In fact she wasn’t into anything particularly, except football. His thoughts were interrupted as he swiped at a fly buzzing round his head. Daisy and her passion for football – strange that, really. A girl up here by the moors playing football with farmers’ sons and country boys; she had to be good – and tough.

  Daisy was both.

  He loosened his clothes as his body warmed up and before long he came to a huge grey boulder three times his height. In his mind’s eye, he measured the distance and set off at a sprint towards it. At the last moment, he sprang up and grasped a stony outcrop just high enough to haul himself up onto the top of the boulder where he sat down and gulped in mouthfuls of morning air. Removing his rucksack, he reached into his bag and flipped open the lid of his bottle, grateful for the cooling effect of the water.

  The day wasn’t particularly hot, just sticky – muggy and steamy – like a Turkish bath without the heat. He rubbed an apple on his jumper and took a bite. How long would it stay like this, he wondered. He thought of old Miss Turner who smelt of a mixture of bad cheese and cat pee. Even Kemp stank; did he ever get his shirts washed? Archie lifted his arm and sniffed. Not too bad.

  Not everyone, he realised, was as lucky as them to have Old Man Wood and the wonderful Mrs Pye to clean their clothes so regularly. Well, at least she was wonderful to him.

  He wiped his lips on his sleeve and stared out over the valley. His eyes focused on the buildings of Upsall – particularly the school – perched above the flood plain at the foot of the moors. Above the school he noted the rugged, menacing, dark forest and jagged rocks that jutted out of the steep slopes like angry faces. In stark contrast were the manicured green stripes of the school playing fields, laid out symmetrically below.

  He smiled; man’s doing down below, he thought, God’s above.

  He cast his eye along the valley, where large weeping willows marked the course of the meandering river at perfect intervals, as though guarding the valley floor like sentries.

  Archie thought how Upsall appeared so much grander and more important than it really was. At school, they were constantly reminded of the school’s monastic heritage; how the main chapel and quadrangle with its grey stone and red-brick colonnade were relics from an age when it was a vital refuge for those heading north or east over the harsh Yorkshire moors.

  It had the medieval combinations of security and style; solid chunks of masonry on the school frontage, with a huge circular rose window inlaid with delicate stained glass filling the void above a huge oak door.

  With its tall, square, crenellated tower climbing into the sky, it must have been a welcome sight for weary travellers as they came off the hills. Archie looked at his blazer with the school badge on the left breast and the tower embroidered on it. Definitely a fitting emblem for Upsall School.

  The surrounding village nestled into the foot of the hills with the high edges of the moors protecting it like a shield. Raised on a platform above the river stood a jumble of buildings in varying shapes, sizes and colours. Some were rendered in plaster, but most were finished in grey stone or red bricks typical of the area. The effect was of chocolate-box charm but with no real order or sophistication.

  Old Man Wood often told them
that the ruin next to Eden Cottage – up on top of the hill – was far older than the rest. Archie spun to his right, towards the sheer rock face that rose high above him. A great position for a fortress, he thought, hidden away in the forest, but at the same time imposing and bold – as a castle should be – with a view that reached way into the Vale of York.

  But something was missing. He searched his mind. Nothing came. So he wondered what it would have been like in medieval times and for a while his imagination played with images of knights and swords and armies filling the valley and hill where he sat.

  No one really knew about their ruin, not from the school at any rate – they preferred the other side of the river with its rolling hills. Perhaps it was a bit too rustic, or too hard to get to, Archie thought. Mr Solomon called it, ‘the hinterland’, but for the de Lowe children there were endless possibilities for imaginative games – and battles. Using the battlements and ancient earthworks the children created swings and slides and aerial runways.

  Archie returned his gaze to the school. Had Upsall once been similar to the Abbeys of Fountains and Rievaulx, nearby? And then it shot into his brain. He stared at the rock face again. Where were the birds that soared from the high perches in the cracks in the rock? He listened. Not a birdcall in earshot. Where had they gone?

  He checked his watch and groaned; school beckoned. After the extraordinary events the previous night, the running, jumping, swinging and scrambling felt like a dose of medicine to clear his mind and fill his body with energy.

  Archie slid off the boulder and followed an animal track through the brambles. A little while later the shimmering silver of the river cut through the red, yellow, amber and brown colours of the leaves and before long he was in the green meadows adjacent to the river.

  ARCHIE RAN ALONG THE TOWPATH, over the bridge, across the playing fields and towards the chapel. As he neared the chapel steps, he dusted himself off and, noting the time, slipped in through the small oak door and sped, head down, over the large flagstones until he found his row and squeezed his way to the middle, where he sat down and caught his breath.

  He turned to see Daisy chatting to several of her friends. He caught her eye but she frowned and turned away. What did that mean? Was it about the team?

  For a brief moment he experienced a feeling that he was being watched, just as he had with the spidery-angel the previous night. His instinct was right. On the platform at the far end of the hall stood Mr Solomon, the headmaster, whose eyes bore into him.

  Archie’s heart sank. Another inspection.

  Those who had even the tiniest scuffs or tears, or buttons missing, were being entered into his dreaded red book..

  Archie gave himself a once-over. A shambles, possibly the worst ever.

  He felt for his tie halfway down his shirt and pulled it up. He drew up his socks and dragged a hand roughly through his hair, pulling out tendrils of a creeper and a few small strands of grass.

  Archie could sense it coming, but before he could tidy himself further, a familiar voice boomed through the hall. ‘Good morning, school,’ it said. ‘Please rise.’

  And with that, everyone automatically stood up.

  THREE

  GOOD & BAD NEWS

  Mr Solomon patted the breast pockets of his coarse tweed suit and raised his thick eyebrows. Twenty-five years he’d been at the school, almost to the day; twenty years as headmaster and his performance every morning was as similar now as it was then.

  ‘Quiet ... please,’ he said. Wasn’t it strange how the noise level always seemed to rise as conversations were rushed to a conclusion? He removed his glasses from his round, ruddy nose and glared around the hall.

  ‘Thank you, children. Please, sit down.’

  Two hundred and seventy-two pupils sat down on the hard wooden benches, lined out row upon row. The noise echoed back off the stone before drifting high into the rafters of the vaulted ceiling. On either side the walls were lined with large portraits of headmasters, interspersed with dark wooden panels where the names of past scholars, captains, and musicians were remembered. Above, tall cross-beams supported large chandelier lights that hung from thick metal chains.

  Mr Solomon stared out over the throng and cleared his throat. He enjoyed this part of the day the best, when he had the full attention of the school, when he was in the limelight – in control of his audience. He wondered how different his life would have been if he’d got a break in the theatre as a young man. But he couldn’t complain; he’d served the school as best as he knew and it had looked after him pretty well in return. Maybe his experiences on stage had stood him in good stead for the show of fronting the school, even if his methods were considered a little eccentric and old-fashioned by the school board.

  Yes, perhaps now, in his twilight years, he was a little out of touch, but he knew that getting the best out of a child wasn’t done just by talking softly, it was done by using a blend of strong discipline, action, a great deal of humour and a large dollop of unpredictability mixed up like a great big soup.

  It was the young teachers full of computer apps and agendas that were the problem. They fell back on technology, rather than personality, for their teaching methods. If they were all like this, children would never have interesting role models to look up to; only bland, square-eyed manager-types. That was no way to grow up.

  He took a deep breath, and began: ‘Now, there are three items on this morning’s agenda that require your attention. First off, please can years six, seven and eight hand in their project work to class teachers before they head forth on the half term break. Most of you have assignments, so please finish them as soon as you can and not at the very last minute.’

  The murmuring increased as Mr Solomon peered like an owl through his glasses to inspect his leather-bound clipboard. ‘Second: school dress!’ There was a groan.

  Archie felt a strong urge to disappear.

  ‘I see some of you shaking in fear,’ Solomon said, staring around the room, his eyebrows raised as if he were all-seeing and all-knowing. ‘And rightly, too,’ he continued. ‘There has been a marked deterioration in standards since the beginning of term. After half term, those who fail to comply with school regulation uniform will be given detention. Now, to show you what I’m talking about, no one is shaking more this morning than Upsall School goalkeeping hero, Archie de Lowe.’ A cheer went up. ‘Archie, please stand.’

  Archie sat stone-still in disbelief. Not again. He felt a jab in his back and then another from the side.

  ‘Come on, Archie. Up you get,’ the headmaster prompted.

  Archie stared down at his worn shoes and, taking a deep breath, rose from behind the large frame of his old friend Gus Williams. Every pair of eyes stared at him. Archie could hear girls giggling nearby. His face reddened, the heat of his blush growing by the second. He didn’t dare look up.

  Mr Solomon continued: ‘Archie, I hate to make an example of you, but this morning you have beaten your spectacular record of being a complete and utter shambles.’

  A ripple of laughter filled the hall.

  ‘In all of my time at this school, your attire is by far the most dreadful I have ever seen. In fact it is almost the perfect example of how not to dress. Your shoes are filthy; you have no belt, which shows off your very splendid and colourful underwear, and your socks are around your ankles because there are no elastic garters to hold them up.’

  Mr Solomon paused as laughter pealed into the high ceiling. ‘Your shirt has lost buttons; your tie is halfway across your chest, and I’m not sure how this could have happened, but you seem to be wearing the wrong coloured jersey. Please turn around, de Lowe.’ Archie shifted, pretending to slouch like a tramp and in the process getting a laugh. It somehow made the humiliation feel a fraction more bearable.

  ‘Yes, just as I suspected,’ Solomon continued. ‘Blazer ripped and, of course, your hair is the usual bird’s nest.’

  Everyone was laughing.

  Archie feigned a
smile while trying to pull his attire together and, on Solomon’s instruction, he sat down. Isabella would be livid with him; only this morning she’d told him to sort out his appearance and he’d completely ignored her again. It meant he’d not only be faced with more detention, which was bearable, but he’d finally have to go shopping. And Archie detested shopping. He bowed his head and didn’t dare look up in case he caught her eye. Then he turned to see Daisy staring at the floor.

  Solomon’s tone softened as he smiled, showing his small, tea-stained teeth. ‘Let this be a lesson to you, Archie. Today, and only today, you are excused because you’re an important member of our glorious unbeaten football team. And this, of course, leads me on to the third item on this morning’s agenda.’

  With these words the mood in the hall changed. The noise level increased. It was time for the news they had been waiting for with regards to their star player.

  The headmaster raised an arm for quiet before starting again. ‘Most of you are aware of our situation. As a small school our selection for teams is limited, and I regrettably endorsed that a girl could play in the boys’ team. This team has subsequently gone on to great things – to the very great credit of our school. However, I ... we ... were found out.’

  The headmaster pulled out a letter from the breast pocket of his jacket and waved it in the air.

  ‘Let me read you the important parts of this letter I received yesterday from the president of our Football Association.’ He unfolded the letter and nudged his glasses into the correct position on the bridge of his nose and thumbed his way down the page:

  ‘Rule 10.1.2 states that players must conform to the principles of a Boy’s League over the age of 11 at the beginning of the calendar year. Blah, blah blah,’ he read out as he scanned the letter ... ‘Ah-ha. Here we are: Now, what this means,’ he read, ‘is that we expect boys and boys only to play.’