Groosham Grange

by Anthony Horowitz

  In just two days’ time, David’s own turn would come. Either he would accept the ring and all that came with it or…

  But he couldn’t even consider the alternative.

  David swung himself off the bed and got to his feet. He couldn’t wait any longer. He had no more time. He knew he had to escape from Groosham Grange. He knew when he had to go.

  And suddenly he knew how.

  ESCAPE!

  The next day, one day before David’s thirteenth birthday, Captain Bloodbath returned to the island. It was a Tuesday and he had brought with him three crates of supplies. There was to be a big party the following night – and David had no doubt that he was supposed to be the guest of honour. But he had no intention of being there. If things worked out the way he hoped, the guest of honour would be on a train to London before anyone guessed!

  The sun was already setting as he and Jill crouched behind a sand dune, watching Gregor and the captain unload the last of the crates. The boat had arrived late that day. But it was there – David’s last chance. He had hardly uttered a word since his encounter with the heads, and Jill, too, had been strangely silent as if she was upset about something. But it was she who finally broke the silence.

  “It’s not going to work,” she said. “I told you, David. There’s nowhere you can hide on the boat. Not without him noticing.”

  “We’re not going to hide on the boat,” David replied.

  “Well, what are we going to do then? Steal it?”

  “Exactly.”

  Jill stared at him, wondering if he was joking. But David’s face was pale and serious.

  “Steal the boat?” she whispered.

  “When we first came to the island, he left his keys in the ignition. I noticed then.” David ran a dry tongue over dry lips. “It’s the last thing anybody would expect. And it’s our only hope.”

  “But do you know how to steer a boat?”

  “No. But it can’t be very different from a car.”

  “You can’t drown in a car!”

  David took one last quick glance back up the cliffs. Gregor and the captain had disappeared and there was no sound of the Jeep. He tapped Jill on the shoulder and they ran forward together, the shingle crunching under their feet. The boat was bobbing up and down beside the jetty. Captain Bloodbath hadn’t dropped anchor but he had tied the boat to a bollard with a knot that looked like six snakes in a washing machine.

  Ignoring it for the moment, David climbed on board and went over to the steering wheel, searching for the keys. The deck swayed underneath him and for a horrible moment he thought that he’d been wrong from the start – that the captain had taken the keys with him. But then the boat swayed the other way and he saw the key-ring, an emerald skull, swaying at the end of a chain. The key was jutting out of the ignition. He let out a deep breath. In just a few minutes they would be away.

  “How does it work?”

  Jill had got on to the boat and was standing beside him, her voice challenging him to explain. David ran his eyes over the controls. There was a steering wheel – that was easy enough – and a lever that presumably sent the boat either backwards or forwards. But as for the rest of the buttons and switches, the dials and the compass, they could have been designed to send the boat on a one-way journey to the moon and David wouldn’t have been any the wiser.

  “So how does it work?” Jill asked again.

  “It isn’t difficult.” David glanced at her irritably. “You just turn the key…”

  “Then why don’t you?”

  “I’m going to.”

  He did.

  Nothing happened.

  David turned it again, twisting it so hard that he almost bent it in half. But still the engine refused to cough or even whimper.

  “We could always swim…” Jill began.

  At the same moment, David reached out and hit a large red button above the key. At once the engine chugged noisily to life, the water bubbling and smoking at the stern.

  “I’ll see to the knot…” David began, moving away from the wheel.

  “No.” Jill leant down and snatched up a fish gutting knife that had been lying on the deck. “You stay with the controls. I’ll see to the knot.”

  The boat was tied at the very front and to reach the rope Jill had to climb back over the edge and on to the jetty. She stopped beside the bollard and set to work. It was a sharp knife but it was also a thick rope and although she sawed back and forth with all her strength she didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. David waited for her on the boat, the wooden planks of the deck humming and vibrating beneath him. The engine seemed to be noisier than ever. Would they hear it back at the school? He looked up.

  And froze.

  Captain Bloodbath was coming back. The sound of the engine must have been carried up and over the cliff by the wind. Or perhaps he and Jill had been missed from tea? Either way, the result was the same. They had been discovered and Captain Bloodbath and Gregor were speeding down the road in the Jeep, heading in their direction.

  “Jill!” David called out.

  But she had seen them already. “Stay where you are!” she shouted back and doubled her efforts, sawing at the rope like a berserk violinist. By now she had cut halfway through, but Gregor and the captain were getting closer with every second that passed. Already they were approaching the bottom of the cliffs. It would take them only another twenty seconds to reach the jetty.

  Jill glanced up, took a quick breath, then bent over the rope again, hacking, stabbing and slicing with the knife. The rope was fraying now, the strands separating. But still it refused to part completely.

  “Hurry!” David shouted.

  There was nothing he could do. His legs had turned to stone. The jeep reached the end of the jetty and screeched to a halt. Captain Bloodbath and Gregor leapt out. Jill’s face twisted with fear, her hair blowing in the wind. But she still sawed. The knife bit into the rope. Another strand broke free.

  Gregor was slightly ahead of the captain, his feet clambering down the jetty towards her. Jill cried out and sliced down the knife.

  The rope broke in half.

  “Jill!” David called out.

  But it was too late. Gregor had leapt forward like a human toad and now he was on her. Before Jill could move, his arms and legs were around her, dragging her to the ground.

  “Go, David! Go!” she screamed.

  David’s hand slammed down on the lever. He felt the boat lurch underneath him as the propeller boiled the water. The boat slid out backwards into the open sea, trailing the broken rope across the jetty.

  Then Captain Bloodbath dived forward. With a yell of triumph his hands found the rope and clamped shut on it.

  The boat was several feet out now. Jill was watching it with despairing eyes, pinned down on the jetty by the dwarf. Gregor was cackling horribly, his single eye bulging. The engine screamed. The propeller churned up white water and mud. But the boat was going nowhere. Captain Bloodbath was holding on to it, digging his heels into the wood, like a cowboy with a wild stallion. His mouth was set in a grimace. His face had gone crimson. David couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The captain had to let go! He couldn’t possibly stand the strain – not with the engine at full strength.

  But he hadn’t pushed the reverse lever all the way down. An inch remained. With a cry of despair, David threw himself on to it, forcing it the rest of the way.

  Captain Bloodbath still held on! It was an impossible tug-of-war, a man against a boat. The boat was rearing away, almost out of the water. But the man refused to let go, his hands fixed like vices on the rope…

  “Aaaaaaargh!”

  Captain Bloodbath screamed. At the same moment the boat shot backwards as if catapulted.

  David stared in disbelief.

  The captain’s hands were still clutching the rope, but they were no longer attached to his arms. The force of the engine had pulled them clean off and as the boat rocketed away they fell off, dropping into the sea with
a faint splash like two pale crabs.

  David twisted the wheel, feeling sick. The boat spun round. He jammed the lever forward. The water erupted. And then he was away, leaving Groosham Grange, Skrull Island, Jill and a now handless Captain Bloodbath far behind him.

  THE GHOST TRAIN

  David ran through the field, the grass reaching up to his armpits. Behind him the boat stood, not moored to the jetty, but buried in it. The crossing had been far from smooth.

  And now it was the morning of the next day. What with the mist, the currents and the unfamiliar controls, it had taken David longer than he had thought to make the crossing and it had been dark when he had crashed into the coast of Norfolk. He had been forced to spend the night in the wrecked cabin and it was only when daylight had come that he had realized he had ended up exactly where he had begun weeks ago.

  The field climbed gently upwards towards the brilliant white windmill that David had first noticed from the hearse. On closer sight, the windmill turned out to be broken-down and deserted, battered by the wind and the rain. The sails themselves were no more than frameworks of twisted wood, like skeleton insect wings. If David had been hoping to find a telephone there, he was disappointed. The windmill had died a hundred years ago and the telephone lines had passed it by.

  But on the other side he found a main road and stood there swaying, cold and exhausted. A car sped past and he blinked. It was almost as if he had forgotten what an ordinary car looked like. He glanced nervously over his shoulder. There was no way that anybody could follow him from the school. But with Groosham Grange you never knew, and he felt lost and vulnerable out in the great silence of the plain.

  He had to get to the nearest town and civilization. He had no money. That meant hitchhiking. David stretched out a hand and flicked up a thumb. Surely someone would stop. Someone had to stop.

  Seventy-seven cars went by. David counted them all. Not only did they refuse to stop but some of them actually accelerated as if anxious to avoid him. What was wrong with him? He was just an ordinary, crumpled, tired thirteen-year-old out in the middle of nowhere trying to get a lift! Thirteen! “Happy birthday!” he muttered to himself. Grimly, he stuck his thumb out and tried again.

  The seventy-eighth car stopped. It was a bright red Ford Cortina driven by a jolly, fat man called Horace Tobago. Mr Tobago, it turned out, was a travelling salesman. As he explained, he sold practical jokes and magic tricks. Not that he needed to explain. As David sat down, his seat let out a rude noise. The sweet he was offered was made of soap. And there were two doves, a rabbit and a string of rubber sausages in the glove compartment.

  “So where have you come from?” Horace asked, lifting his chin to allow his bow tie to revolve.

  “From school,” David muttered.

  “Running away?” Horace lifted his eyebrows one at a time and wiggled his nose.

  “Yes.” David took a deep breath. “I have to get to a police station.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m in danger, Mr Tobago. The school is mad. It’s on an island – and they’re all vampires and witches and ghosts … and they want to turn me into one of them. I’ve got to stop them!”

  “Ha ha ha haaargh!” Horace Tobago had a laugh like a cow being strangled. His face went bright red and the flower in his buttonhole squirted water over the dashboard. “So you’re a bit of a practical joker yourself, are you, David?” he exclaimed at last. “Like a bit of a giggle? Maybe I can sell you a stink bomb or a piece of plastic sick…”

  “I’m telling the truth!” David protested.

  “Course you are! Course you are! And my name is Count Dracula!” The joke salesman laughed again. “Vampires and witches. What a wheeze, old boy! What a wheeze!”

  David got out of the car at the first town, Hunstanton. Mr Tobago had laughed so much during the journey that there were tears streaming down his cheeks and a fake wart had fallen off his chin. He was still shrieking with laughter as he drove away waving, playing-cards tumbling out of his sleeves. David waited until the car had gone. Then he set off.

  Hunstanton was a resort town. In the summer it might have been full of colour and life but out of season it was something of a last resort, a tired jumble of grey slate roofs and towers, shops and pavilions sloping down a hillside to the edge of a cold and choppy sea. There was a quay with a cluster of fishing boats half-wrapped in their own nets and looking for all the world like the fish they were meant to catch. In the distance a number of grey tents and wooden boards surrounded what might, in the summer, be a fun fair. In these sunless days of spring, there was precious little fun to be seen anywhere.

  He had to find a police station. But even as he began to search for one, he was struck by a nasty thought. Horace Tobago hadn’t believed a word he had said. Why should the police? If he went in there spouting on about black magic and witchcraft, they would probably call the local asylum. Worse still, they might hold him there and call the school. He was thirteen years old now. And it was a fact of life that adults never believed thirteen-year-olds.

  He paused and looked around him. He was standing outside a library and on an impulse he turned and went in. At least there was something he could do – find out more. The more he knew, the more he could argue his case. And books seemed the best place to start.

  Unfortunately, Hunstanton Library did not have a large section on Witchcraft. In fact there were only three books on the shelf and two of them had accidentally strayed out of Handicrafts, which were on the shelf next door. But the third looked promising. It was called Black Magic in Britain by one Winny H. Zoothroat. David flicked through it, then carried it over to the table to read in more detail.

  COVENS A gathering of witches, usually numbering thirteen or a multiple of thirteen. The main reason for this is that twelve is often considered a perfect number – so the figure thirteen comes to mean death. Thirteen is also the age at which a novice will be introduced.

  INITIATION A new witch is often required to sign his or her name in a black book which is kept by the master of the coven. It is customary for the name to be signed in the novice’s own blood. Once the novice has signed, he or she will be given a new name. This is the name of power and might be taken from a past witch as a mark of respect.

  WITCHES Well-known witches in Britain include Roger Bacon, who was famed for walking between two Oxford spires; Bessie Dunlop, who was burned to death in Ayrshire and William Rufus, a 13th-century Master-Devil.

  SABBAT The witches’ sabbath – it takes place at midnight. Before setting out for the sabbat, the witches rub an ointment of hemlock and aconite into their skin. This ointment causes a dream-like state and, they believe, helps with the release of magical powers.

  MAGIC The best-known magic used by witches is called “the law of similarity”. In this, a wax model stands in for the victim of the witch’s anger. Whatever is done to the model, the human victim will feel.

  The witch’s most powerful magical tool is the familiar, a creature who acts as a sort of demonic servant. The cat is the most common sort of familiar but other animals have been used, such as pigs and even crows.

  David lost track of time as he sat there reading the book. But by late afternoon, he had learnt just about everything he wanted to know about Groosham Grange, as well as quite a bit that he didn’t. The book had one last surprise. David was about to pick it up and return it to the shelf when it fell open on another page and his eyes alighted on an entry that leapt off the page.

  GROOSHAM GRANGE See publisher’s note.

  Curiously, David turned to the end of the book. There was a brief note on the last page, written by the publisher.

  When she was writing this book, Winny H. Zoothroat set out for the county of Norfolk to research Groosham Grange, the legendary “Academy of Witchcraft”, where young novices were once taught the art of Black Magic.

  Unfortunately, Miss Zoothroat failed to return from her journey. Her typewriter was washed ashore a few months later. Out of respect to
her memory, the publishers have decided to leave this section blank.

  An academy of witchcraft! The words were still buzzing in David’s head as he left the library. But what else could Groosham Grange have been? Fluent Latin, wax model-making, weird cookery and very un-Christian religious studies … it all added up. But David had never wanted to be a witch. So why had they chosen him?

  He was walking down the High Street now, past the shops which were preparing to close for the day. A movement somewhere in the corner of his eye made him stop and glance back the way he had come. For a moment he thought he had imagined it. Then the same misshapen, limping figure darted out from behind a parked car.

  Gregor.

  Somehow the dwarf had reached Hunstanton and David knew at once that he must be looking for him. Without even thinking, he broke into a run, down the hill and out towards the sea. If he was found, he knew what would happen to him. The school would kill him rather than let him tell his story. They had already killed twice for sure. How many other people had ended up in the cemetery at Skrull Island earlier than they had expected?

  It was only when he had reached the sea front that he stopped to take a breath and forced himself to calm down. It was a coincidence. It had to be. Nobody at the school could possibly know that he was still in Hunstanton.

  A few feet away from him, Gregor giggled. The hunchback was sitting on a low brick wall, watching him with one beady eye. He pulled something out of his belt. It was a knife, at least seven inches long, glinting wickedly. Still giggling, he licked the blade. David turned and ran again.

  He had no idea where he was going. The whole world was swaying and shuddering each time his foot thudded against the cold concrete pavement. All he could hear was his own tortured breathing. When he looked back again, the dwarf was gone. Hunstanton lay in the distance behind him. He had reached the end of the promenade.