Amethyst

by Rebecca Lisle

  ‘Perhaps he wants you to spoil something,’ said Aunt Agnes, craftily. ‘He’ll know how good you are at that. Yes, I bet he wants you to do something mean and destructive!’

  ‘He’s not a good man,’ said Uncle John in a low voice. ‘He’s bad inside and it shows on the surface – he’s as bent and warped as a bit of twisted iron.’

  ‘Once he was in love, wasn’t he, John?’ piped up Aunt Agnes. She hugged herself. ‘He was so in love with that Wood person, that Amber, that he locked her up in a block of ice for years and years and nobody could get her out.’

  ‘And he loved her?’ asked Amy.

  ‘Oh, yes, very much. It was romantic. But she escaped. Went to live with the Wood Clan.’

  ‘Yuk!’

  ‘Revolting,’ agreed Aunt Agnes. ‘We heard all about it, though we lived down here.’

  ‘But you used to live up there?’

  ‘We did. We’re all Rockers, aren’t we? We lived in a mountain near Malachite itself.’

  ‘Granite left the Marble Mountains after Amber escaped,’ Uncle John said. ‘There was a big to-do. The Wood people were involved.’

  ‘And a bit later on, we started delivering such ever-so horrid gargoyles for him.’

  Amy hadn’t ever heard of the Marble Mountains or Malachite Mountain before. She was greedy to hear more. Aunt Agnes looked at her narrowly.

  ‘You’ll find out, soon enough,’ she said. ‘And I don’t think you’ll like it!’

  ‘I’ll tell him you’re coming, then,’ said Uncle John. ‘School can go to the blazes. You get on working with the gargoyles. It’ll be the last chance you have. Agnes’ll have to try and copy your style, I suppose.’

  ‘I’ll never get it, not that way of making things so bad that our Amy has,’ moaned Aunt Agnes.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Amy, jumping up from the table. ‘I’ll make this batch the ugliest, most malicious, spiteful and revolting that there’s ever been. But, just one thing,’ she added. ‘Amethyst? Is that my real name?’

  Aunt Agnes snorted. ‘Real? Well, it’s the name you were born with, but it’s too fancy and flighty for a plain Jane like you.’

  ‘My mum must have thought I was an Amethyst,’ said Amy, quietly.

  ‘Yeah, well, she was a flighty, fancy girl, my sister,’ said Aunt Agnes. ‘And she’s dead. No, you stick to Amy and even that’s too pretty for someone with such spoiling fingers as yours.’

  Amy didn’t say anything. But she thought lots.

  When I get away from here, she thought, the minute I get away from here, I’m going to be Amethyst for ever and ever!

  4

  Leaving

  Amy worked all day in the basement, helping to get the last batch of gargoyles ready. She carved and moulded until her fingers were sore and her eyes stung from the close work. Her thoughts weren’t on the job, though, they were flying ahead to Malachite Mountain, to snow and icicles and cold blue waterfalls. She saw herself seated beside Granite (who had become very young and rather good-looking in her mind). They had matching gold thrones. Her fingers dripped with rubies and diamonds. Her thick black hair was tamed, coiled and elegant.

  ‘Give him warts on his nose!’ snapped Aunt Agnes, jolting Amy back to reality. ‘Concentrate, girl. Make him evil! Granite likes them as ugly as can be.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To stop them from wandering. Keep them tied down.’

  ‘Wandering—?’

  ‘Never you mind.’

  ‘But what do you mean?’

  Uncle John came in. ‘Here we are. Train ticket for Amy Basalt. One way only. North.’

  Amy grabbed the ticket. She studied it feverishly. There it was: freedom, a new life. The ticket trembled in her fingers.

  ‘Train leaves at eight tonight,’ he said. ‘It’s a sleeper. Arrives tomorrow afternoon at a place called Schist. That’s where you get off. It’s the last stop. No trains go as far as Malachite Mountain. You’re to get off the train and wait there until someone comes for you.’

  ‘Nervous?’ asked Aunt Agnes, peering at her.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You should be.’

  ‘You’ll need these,’ said Uncle John. He handed her a roll of brown cloth.

  ‘What’s that? You haven’t bought her something, have you?’ said Aunt Agnes.

  Amy unwound the cloth. It was a short apron. It had ten long pockets with flaps, like envelopes, on the front. Nestling in the pockets was a set of beautiful steel instruments for carving and working stone. It was the first gift that Amy had ever received from her aunt and uncle. They didn’t celebrate birthdays or Christmas.

  ‘Don’t want Granite thinking we don’t look after you,’ said Uncle John. ‘And it’ll mean you can work anywhere, anytime. Might come in handy.’

  ‘And you’ll have to work, my girl, you’ll see,’ said Aunt Agnes, gleefully. ‘It won’t be a picnic up there in Malachite Mountain, it’ll be hard graft.’

  Amy didn’t say anything. She wouldn’t let her aunt spoil things. She was happy. It was the first time in years and years she remembered feeling so good. Nothing was going to alter that.

  Her uncle took her to the station. He wouldn’t wait for the train. ‘You know I don’t like crowds, Amy,’ he said. ‘All this pushing and shoving and the noise and the heat. It’s not nice or healthy.’

  He handed her her suitcase and melted back in the crowd.

  Amy found her seat. She was sharing the sleeping compartment with three other people. They were all women and although they chatted together and smiled at her, she avoided looking at them.

  She stared out of the window until it was so black that all she could see was her face reflected back at her. When the train guard came along and turned the seats into bunk beds, Amy was the first to crawl into hers. She turned her back on the others and closed her eyes.

  Amy was amazed to find it was morning when she woke; she had slept right through the night. She had also slept through the departure of her three travelling companions. She was alone at last.

  Amy turned off the heating and opened the window to let in some cool air.

  She looked at the passing countryside. It was wonderful to see fields and forests. She took her new toolkit out. Uncle John had given her a small round stone to carve. It fitted perfectly into her palm. She would make a head. Ahead with the fiercest, most awful face that anyone had ever seen. She set to work, digging and smoothing and sawing at the stone. The jolting train shook her carving so much, she had to hold it hard against her knees. Amy concentrated so intently that she didn’t notice the landscape outside slowly changing from green to grey and then to white. When the sun suddenly pierced through the dirty windowpane so brightly she had to put up her hand to shield her eyes, she looked up.

  She was amazed.

  Outside had completely altered. Everywhere was snow. Everything was white and the white was startlingly bright. The snow sparkled with a million dots of light as it reflected the sun. Beneath the shadows of the trees and in the shade of the rocks the snow was blue or purple or even black.

  The train sped past frozen lakes, flat and reflective like giant mirrors; past frozen waterfalls hanging like green and turquoise glass chandeliers. It swept past forests of pine trees weighed down with snow on their branches like dollops of whipped cream.

  The distant horizon wasn’t houses or hills, but mountain crags reaching far up into the pale blue sky. It was vast and empty and beautiful.

  How could Aunt Agnes and Uncle John not have wanted to be here? she wondered. It was perfect.

  At last the train came to Schist. She stepped out into a completely white landscape. Her breath clouded in front of her face. The cold air tingled her skin.

  ‘Wheeze!’ cried the train. Amy jumped out of the way as it retreated slowly, going back the way it had come. The train rails continued for twenty metres then hit a bank of snow. It was the end.

  The snow had been brushed aside to form a path. Amy followed it, trying t
o see over the high banks of snow. There didn’t seem to be a ticket office or station, or people, just snow. Once the rattling train had slipped away, there was total silence. The sort of silence that hits you in the face.

  She thought she could make out a gateway of some sort, though everything was so covered with snow, it was hard to tell.

  It was cold. A cold like no other she’d experienced. It penetrated her flesh like iced needles spiking through her skin to her bones. She undid her thick coat, took off her woolly hat and let the freezing air in. Delicious.

  What if they’ve forgotten me? she thought. Maybe Uncle John had given Granite the wrong information about the train, or which day, or—

  Something leaped out in front of her. Amy screamed.

  ‘Gargoyle!’

  The squat creature was the ugliest thing Amy had seen. His skin was a dingy blue. He had a large head with massive ears, goggly eyes and a big mouth full of sharp green teeth. If he had wings, they were folded under his jerkin and she couldn’t see them. His spiked tail curved out behind him.

  ‘I am a rockgoyle,’ said the thing, smiling greenly. ‘Welcome to Schist.’

  ‘You gave me a shock.’

  He grinned.

  He was so ugly. Repulsive. Amy suddenly wished she had never made such horrid faces on the clay gargoyles for her aunt and uncle. She felt as if she had made this thing, this creature. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

  ‘This rockgoyle. That rockgoyle. You rockgoyle. That’s all we are. This! That! You! We aren’t supposed to have names or feelings. Come. I’m to take you to Granite.’

  Meekly, Amy followed him.

  She was disappointed when she saw her transport. It was a small sledge. It had thin metal runners and only one torn leather seat. Not what she was expecting from the Lord of the Rock People. Nothing to pull it either.

  ‘I pull,’ he said, reading her thoughts. ‘Get on. Put your bags on the end there.’

  She did as he told her. She sat down and wrapped a fur rug over her. ‘You must be very strong,’ she said tentatively.

  The rockgoyle took the ropes over his head and settled the leather band across his chest.

  ‘Strong and ugly. Yes.’

  He yanked at the sledge and it slid smoothly across the packed snow behind him. He set off.

  Amy shrank nervously under the fur cover. A rockgoyle! Yikes! She fixed her eyes on the back of his head, daring him to do anything dreadful. He had a thick, muscular neck. The tendons and ligaments stuck out like tree roots beneath the blue skin as he pulled. His ears were pointed and rubbery and looked as if they had been borrowed from another, larger monster. He wore peculiar leathery clothes, tattered and well-mended.

  What if he means to kidnap me? Eat me? Lock me in a dungeon?

  Then Amy noticed that he had tucked his tail out of the way, stuffing it into the pocket of his trousers. Suddenly he became less threatening.

  The sledge skidded along smoothly. She could lie back against the cushions. She was snug. This is the way it’s going to be from now on – except when I’m rich my sledge will be ornate and made of silver and gold. I’ll have silky white fur rugs and a whole team of ugly old rockgoyles to pull me along …

  Her only worry now was Granite.

  5

  Granite

  The light faded; the surroundings blurred. The shadows crept up closer. Blackness seemed to nudge at her elbows.

  ‘It’s awfully dark …’

  ‘Yeah,’ said the rockgoyle.

  Instantly the sledge began to glow and gleam like moonlight. The snow became tinged with silver.

  ‘Special night metal,’ the rockgoyle said. He leered at her over his shoulder. ‘Glows in the dark, see.’

  ‘Cool!’ She tugged at her cushions, plumping them up more comfortably. ‘Are we nearly there?’ She had cramp in her knees. She was hungry and tired. All the excitement she’d felt before had drained away. ‘We’ve been going for ages.’

  ‘Not far. We’re on the lowest slopes of Malachite Mountain. His Nibs lives at the very top.’

  The landscape was monotonous and the rockgoyle was a poor companion. Amy slept.

  She awoke to the sound of a bell clamouring. The rockgoyle was tugging on a bell pull beside a vast white door in the wall of the ice mountain. Slowly the door opened. Yellow light spilled out.

  ‘In we go,’ said the rockgoyle. He helped Amy off the sledge. He took her bags inside. Amy followed.

  She stepped into an enormous cavernous hall lit by hundreds of candles. The floor was shiny marble. The walls glistened with rich veins of silver and turquoise and gold – like home, she thought, but grander.

  The rockgoyle showed her into a room on the side. ‘Deception Chamber,’ he muttered.

  ‘What?’

  The rockgoyle was already shuffling away. ‘Reception Chamber,’ he said gruffly.

  Amy decided the cold had frozen her ears.

  The room was very fine with six tall shuttered windows and a marble floor so smooth it was like walking on glass. There was a long metal table with elaborate iron chairs. A candelabra the size of a piano hung from the ceiling; it held at least seventy candles. There were massive paintings of purple mountains on the walls. There was also a grubby outline on the wall where a painting had recently been removed. The plaque beneath it was still there: Lord Lazulite. He had been the Lord of the Rockers before Granite. Probably a painting of Granite would soon be hung there, she thought … Maybe one day, a picture of me?

  Near the fireplace, there were three large sofas and some plush red chairs around a low, purple stone table. The chairs and sofas looked unused. In a black cabinet on one wall there was a collection of precious stones, chunks of gold metal and gleaming crystals.

  Beautiful, she thought. And no lino. I like it. I like it lots.

  Two small, pale-skinned men came in. They had long dark hair and black beards. Rockers. Uncle John must have looked like that before he moved to the South, Amy thought. Weird!

  They stood either side of the door. ‘Lord Granite!’

  Amy held her breath. Please let him like me, she thought. Please let him want me to stay.

  There was a shuffling noise, as if some animal like a badger was coming, and a small man waddled in. He was almost bent double, as though caught in a spasm of pain. He looked like a tortoise, the way his head emerged from his curved back. His grey hair was greasy and thin, draped over his shoulder in rat’s tails.

  ‘Amethyst! Amethyst! Welcome to Malachite Mountain, my dear,’ he said. His voice was rough and gritty. It sounded as if his throat was blocked with rock dust.

  He came closer. His skin was ingrained with black. His fingernails were rimmed with black too, as if he’d soaked each one in ink. The word GOLD was tattooed across one of his cheeks and over his knuckles, one letter per finger.

  ‘Pleasant journey?’ He directed her to sit in one of the soft red chairs. ‘I trust the rockgoyle didn’t alarm you? But maybe it wouldn’t. You’re used to that sort of thing, aren’t you?’ He patted her arm. ‘You’ll like it here. You can have everything you want. More than your stingy old aunt lets you have, eh? Rockgoyles to do your bidding. Any food you require will be brought to you. I’ve made up the finest chamber. I have brought you new clothes, fine white furs and pale blue wool. I thought they’d suit your colouring – I was right.’

  Amy wasn’t used to compliments. She blushed. ‘Face like a ferret. Ugly little orphan,’ she heard Aunt Agnes say in her head.

  Her heartbeat raced. Granite did like her. Granite was older and uglier than she had expected, but he liked her. He was rich. All those daydreams she’d had when she was tiny, all those stories she’d made up about really being a princess, were almost coming true.

  Three rockers came in with trays of food for her. They placed them on the low table, then bowed out of the room.

  Nice, thought Amy.

  ‘How are Agate and Jarosite?’ Granite was watching her through half-closed eyes.<
br />
  ‘Who?’

  ‘Agate and— Oh, ha, ha! You will know them as Agnes and John, I think. They changed their names when they moved South.’

  ‘Agate? Jarosite? Blimey, that doesn’t sound like them at all,’ said Amy. ‘They called me Amy instead of Amethyst, you know?’

  ‘Did they?’ growled Granite. ‘Here you will be Amethyst. I trust the gargoyle business is going well?’

  ‘Yes.’ She could not meet his coal-black eyes as he studied her. She wanted to like him. He was being kind and attentive, but she felt she was on trial.

  ‘You are perfect for my job,’ he said. ‘Both sensitive and clever. Just what we need.’

  Amy wriggled. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘This will be a dangerous mission, but one you are more than capable of, I think … The rewards are great.’

  ‘Yes?’ She leaned forward eagerly.

  ‘In the valley below the Marble Mountains is a house, a house made out of a Spindle Tree—’

  ‘Ugh,’ said Amy. ‘I mean, how disgusting. Doesn’t it smell? Everything in it must be woody and curved and … Ugh!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Granite, with a leering smile. ‘It is revolting. The people living there are enemies, Wood Clan folk … The very ones who drove me from the Rock. It is the girl, maybe not quite eleven, who I’m most interested in.’

  Amy nodded.

  ‘She’s called Copper.’ Granite’s voice rattled with emotion. ‘I want you to go to Spindle House. Get close to Copper. Pretend to become her friend. Then, when she trusts you, steal her pet wolf cub! Steal it and bring it to me.’ His eyes gleamed. He rubbed his blackened hands together. ‘Can you do it?’

  Amy bit her lip. She was surprised. She’d only ever imagined Granite might want her to do some stone carving. Make special gargoyles. She’d toyed with the idea that he might be searching for an heir … a partner … but a spy? A thief?

  She nodded. ‘Yes. I’ll try.’

  ‘Good, good. Rock solid.’

  Amy wanted to ask more questions, but she didn’t get a chance. A female rockgoyle with very large hands and enormous floppy ears came to take her up to her room.