by J. R. Wallis
Jones nodded to Ruby and she nodded back, then he held up the Y-shaped hazel stick he’d brought from the van. He held the forked ends lightly, in the ‘V’ of each hand, keeping them in place with his thumbs, and walked forward slowly into the graveyard. His feet crunching on the gravel path sounded too loud in the still of the night so he stepped onto the grass. As soon as he did, he felt the stick twitch and steer him slightly to the left.
He let the stick guide him between the gravestones, with Ruby and the gun following him, keeping an eye out for anything moving in the shadows. Eventually, Jones was led to a clear patch of ground where a large memorial stone lay on the grass. The inscription on it was worn by the wind and rain and difficult to read.
The stick tugged downwards and Jones let his arms drop until the end of the stick tapped the stone, and then it went dead in his hands.
‘It’s the Scucca’s lair,’ hissed Jones and Ruby nodded, crouching down as if wary of disturbing what was lurking below ground.
Carefully, she handed Jones the long metal tube she’d been carrying which was as light as a bamboo cane. Jones stuck the sharp pointed end of the tube into the ground beside the memorial stone and then pushed it into the earth. He kept on shoving until just over a metre of the tube had disappeared into the ground, and then he leant over and put an ear to the cupped end sticking out, and listened. When he stood up, Jones shook his head at Ruby.
‘It’s not there. We need to wait till it comes back and then we can seal it in.’
He withdrew the metal tube from the ground and pointed to a hedge across the road from the graveyard. ‘We’ll hide there.’
‘In the brambles?’
‘Yes! We don’t want to be out in the open when it comes back.’
Before Ruby could say anything else, Jones put his fingers to his lips and pointed behind her. She looked round to see a dark blob moving fast down the hill about a mile away.
‘We need to go. Now!’ shouted Jones, setting off at a run.
‘Go!’ shouted the gun and Ruby followed Jones, sprinting so fast the air whizzed in her ears.
They hid in the hedge, thorns digging into them at all angles, as the Scucca slunk between the gravestones, its two shoulders working like big pistons. It stopped and sniffed the air and growled in their direction and Ruby felt the noise rattle her teeth.
‘Scuccan don’t like being outside their deadland for long,’ said Jones, squeezing Ruby’s arm reassuringly. ‘So even though it can probably smell us we’re safe here cos it’s already been out of the graveyard tonight.’
‘They get so big, don’t they?’ said Ruby, watching the Scucca lose interest in what it could smell outside the boundary of the graveyard and start sniffing a gravestone instead, the top of which was brushing its chest.
‘He’s a large one,’ agreed Jones. ‘Your pup could grow up to be that size one day.’ Ruby wasn’t sure what to think about that but Jones was pointing before she could say anything. ‘Look! It’s going to ground.’
The Scucca stopped beside the large memorial stone, where they’d stood moments before, and started to paw it. A fissure appeared down the centre of the stone and then it split apart, the two parts opening up and folding back until they were lying flat on the grass. The Scucca padded down a set of stone steps and disappeared. When it was gone, the two parts of the memorial stone folded back into place and became a single slab again.
‘Come on,’ said Jones.
‘Where’s it gone?’ asked Ruby as they ran across the road back to the graveyard.
‘The deadland makes a burrow for the Scucca. The hound and the earth have a special relationship. It’ll sleep there. Now’s our chance to trap it in its burrow.’
When they reached the memorial stone, Jones plunged the hollow metal tube back into the ground and put his ear into the cupped end and listened. When he beckoned Ruby to listen too, she placed her ear into the cup and heard a deep rumbling underground and realized the Scucca was snoring.
Jones rummaged in the charmed pockets of his overcoat and drew out four silver pegs that tapered to sharp points and looked like huge silver fangs in the starlight. He pushed one into the ground beside every corner of the memorial stone until their tops were level with the grass.
‘The silver stops the door from opening. But it’s best the Scucca stays asleep cos he’s so big he could bash his way out, so I’ve got these too.’ Jones drew out a collection of black glass balls that looked like Christmas tree baubles and laid them out on the ground.
The gun in Ruby’s hand chuckled when it saw them. ‘Clever boy,’ it said. ‘Maitland would approve.’
After making sure the hollow metal tube was stuck fast in the ground beside the memorial stone, Jones picked up one of the glass balls and tapped it against the rim of the cup. It was like cracking open an egg and he dripped a dark ball into the tube. As Ruby watched the black substance unravel, she realized it was a collection of musical notes bound together in a tight ball, separating as they tumbled down the tube. A couple of them drifted free and she heard a beautiful, relaxing sound before Jones plucked them out of the air and shoved them down the tube after the rest.
‘They’re called Sing-Songs. They’re sleeping charms. Strong ones, enough to keep an Ogre asleep, so hopefully they’ll work on the Scucca.’
He placed a charm into the ground at intervals all around the memorial stone, eight in all, with three down each side and one at either end.
When he’d finished, he handed Ruby a piece of chalk and took one for himself and they started in one corner of the graveyard, taking the gravestones two at a time, writing on each one the symbol Du Clement had shown them and then listening to what each gravestone told them was lurking beneath the ground.
They each made a list as they went, recording anything of note hidden in the ground. Most of the time it was just bones in coffins and ashes in pots, but Ruby discovered a Vampyr lurking hidden undisturbed for centuries in one grave, a small Ghoul in another and a Wraith trapped in a tomb. She had to tell the gun to be quiet more than once as it became increasingly excited about all the creatures they were uncovering.
Jones discovered a pot of money that was over 200 years old. He also found a Dark Bottle buried in a grave beneath a simple-looking stone, but it did not belong to Mrs Easton. The stone whispered it had been put there by a Witch called Agnes O’Riordan over fifty years ago and that it was protected by a Gyldenne Wurm. When Ruby asked what sort of creature it was, Jones told her that a Golden Worm was a lithe, winged serpent that breathed fire and as far as he knew could only be killed by very select weapons about which he knew very little.
He made a note of the Golden Worm and then shook his head and sighed. ‘Who knows what we’re going to find guarding Mrs Easton’s Dark Bottle,’ he said, moving on to the next stone.
When Ruby walked on from one stone, having heard it whisper that all the ground contained was the corpse of a young man who’d died from tuberculosis, she heard a noise and looked round. She caught sight of something dropping off the outside of the church, from high up. It was a small figure that landed on the ground with a deep thud and then stood up with its pointed tail swishing angrily.
‘Gargoyle,’ warned Jones and Ruby aimed the gun, remembering what she had read about them in the Pocket Book. She waited for as long as the gun told her to as the Gargoyle ran at them, its stone body creaking, and the ground shaking, and then she fired at the weapon’s command. The bullet caught the creature on the shoulder, taking out a chunk of masonry in a spray of dust. A second bullet caught it square in the chest and detonated, causing the creature to blow apart, and Ruby and Jones had to duck as different-sized pieces of stone rained down around them. After landing in the grass, some of them crawled a little way until they shuddered and gave up. Jones kicked at one, pinging it off the end of his boot into a nearby bush. He grinned at Ruby.
‘Good shot.’
The gun was less complimentary. ‘Whatever’s next goes down in one c
lean shot. It might be the difference between living and dying, Ruby.’
They continued to work, moving methodically among the gravestones until the early morning light began to seep into the sky. There was still a lot of the graveyard to cover in their search, but they decided they should stop rather than risk being seen. Jones kept looking back over his shoulder as they left, trying to weigh up how many more nights it might take to discover where the Dark Bottle was hidden.
‘We’ll find it before St John’s Eve,’ said Ruby, patting him on the shoulder, and Jones nodded. ‘We’ve got three more days.’ But Jones just carried on walking, deep in thought, wondering whether that would be enough time.
When the small number of people turned up for the morning service, none of the congregation noticed that a stone gargoyle was missing from the outside of the church. And no one noticed a tiny inscription, a mearcunge, scratched on a post of the lychgate that read: Gargoyle (Ruby Jenkins).
TWENTY-FIVE
The next night, as they continued their search, the temperature dropped lower than they expected and they found they were cold and tired by the time the birds began singing and there was too much daylight for them to continue without being seen by ordinary people. Ruby had dispatched another Gargoyle as well as a small Grey Gobbling which had crept into the graveyard and watched them for some time as they moved between the gravestones. Jones had eventually spotted it digging down into a grave. He’d informed Ruby that Gobblings had extremely sensitive noses and were attracted to graves by the smell of gold and silver buried with their dead owners. The Gobbling had shrieked upon being discovered and sprinted at Ruby with its mouth full of sharp yellow teeth, and its clawed hands outstretched, but she hadn’t panicked and had taken only one shot to put it down this time, which the gun had been pleased about.
The Gobbling was a filthy, foul-smelling creature and Ruby was glad when she’d melted the body away. Jones warned her there might be a nest nearby since Gobblings weren’t usually solitary animals. It meant they kept looking up warily whenever they heard a noise. But no more of the creatures appeared.
By the time they left the graveyard in the morning, they had found the location of three more Dark Bottles. But none of them belonged to Mrs Easton. Jones trudged back to the van in silence, and didn’t seem to be listening to Ruby as she reassured him they would find the Dark Bottle they were looking for the next night. They were both tired and hungry and, by the time Thomas Gabriel appeared later that morning, he found them lying on blankets, fast asleep in the sunshine, and he woke them gently.
‘We’ve found Dark Bottles, but not the right one,’ said Jones, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
‘I’ll come and help tonight,’ Thomas Gabriel told them, ‘as long as I can get away from Simeon.’
‘Is he asking about us?’ Ruby asked as she sat up and stretched out her legs and made her knees click.
‘No, as far as he’s concerned, he thinks you’re doing what you’re told and getting Maitland’s house ready for him. He’s heard nothing from the gun or the imps he sent to you and I’ve told him I’ve dropped in a couple of times to check on you. He seems happy with that.’
‘Thank you, Thomas Gabriel,’ said Jones.
That evening, Ruby and Jones returned to the graveyard as early as they dared, in the twilight. They were optimistic about finding the Dark Bottle with Thomas Gabriel’s help. And they were proved right. Only half an hour after turning up, Thomas Gabriel discovered it, listening to a small gravestone covered in chewing gum-coloured spots of lichen. The name inscribed on it was ‘Jonathan Pryor’ but the stone whispered to him the coffin containing the bones of the dead man had been removed and replaced with a Dark Bottle belonging to a Witch called Mrs Easton. Thomas Gabriel waved the others over.
‘Is it here?’ asked Jones, breathing hard as he arrived, a smile lighting up his face.
‘Yes. But the gravestone said the creature guarding it is a horrible one.’ Thomas Gabriel lowered his voice. ‘Mrs Easton buried an Ent with her Dark Bottle.’
Jones lost his smile immediately. ‘What sort?’
‘Græge fýste.’
‘A Grey-Fisted Ent? You’re sure?’
Thomas Gabriel nodded.
‘What’s an Ent?’ asked Ruby.
‘A problem,’ muttered Jones as he lay down and put his ear to the ground. After standing up and brushing the dirt from his trouser legs, he started to discuss how best to proceed with Thomas Gabriel, while Ruby consulted the Pocket Book to find out more. She barely noticed Thomas Gabriel vanishing silently with a pinch of Slap Dust.
By the time Ruby had got the general picture and flipped the Pocket Book shut, Jones was already pushing silver spikes into the ground marking out four corners of a big square around the gravestone.
‘So an Ent is basically like a Giant?’ asked Ruby.
‘If you say so.’
‘Okay, maybe not technically but near enough, right?’
Jones just motioned to her to pick up the hollow metal tube as he took out some more Sing-Songs from his overcoat pocket.
Ruby clicked her tongue against her teeth and shook her head. ‘Actually, the Pocket Book doesn’t mention those as being any good for Ents. Not Grey-Fisted ones anyway.’
‘I’m improvising,’ said Jones, cracking open the first Sing-Song and dripping it down the hollow centre of the metal rod stuck in the ground. ‘The book doesn’t say they don’t work. Are you an expert on everything Ent suddenly?’
Clearly, Jones was very anxious about whatever was in the ground beneath them and Ruby decided it was best not to argue in a graveyard in the middle of the night. ‘So what’s the plan?’ she asked eventually, ‘or are you and Thomas Gabriel best friends now?’ which she regretted saying immediately.
Jones looked up at her. ‘We’re gonna dig the Dark Bottle out. Slowly. Thomas Gabriel’s gone to get help.’
Thomas Gabriel reappeared a few minutes later, holding a large canvas bag and a battered old tin with a label stuck on the top. When he opened the lid, six imps popped out like gymnasts and landed on the grass, lining up in a row. Despite their entrance, the imps looked quite old, with knock-knees and grey hair, and Jones was not impressed.
‘How long have they been in there?’
‘A few years.’
Jones peered down at the nearest imp, which had a wizened face like an old plum. When it smiled, it revealed only two top teeth. Jones looked straight up at Thomas Gabriel in disgust.
‘Okay, they’ve been in their tin for about fifty years,’ Thomas Gabriel admitted. ‘But they’re good workers. Simeon made a note about them on the label. I couldn’t take any of the jars or tins of younger imps he uses now in case he noticed they were missing.’
Jones sighed as he looked along the line of little creatures. ‘They look like they’ll struggle to lift a pebble, let alone dig.’
‘It’s the best I could do.’ Thomas Gabriel snapped his herringbone coat around him and reached into the canvas bag which was full of lanterns, their candles waiting to be lit. ‘Let’s get them digging, shall we?’
The imps worked more quickly and efficiently than Jones thought they would, their sharp nails cutting away the turf in long strips which they rolled up and laid neatly on the ground. Then they spaced themselves out evenly around the grave, one at either end and two down each side, and began to dig through the loose soil, using their hands, a brown spray going backwards, out between their legs. The little piles of dirt grew larger and larger, hissing as the earth landed. No one said a word. When a barn owl glided over the grass and passed them, Ruby was spooked at first and put her hand over her mouth to stifle her cry. She watched the bird disappear down the lane, as her heart pounded in her ears.
The imps stopped digging when one of them saw something poking up out of the earth. Jones lay on his front and peered down into the deep hole the imps had dug. He inspected the protruding thing carefully. It was not a bone or a tree root, and it took him a few sec
onds to work out what it was in the orange light the lanterns were giving out.
‘It looks like the hilt of a dagger,’ he whispered. Carefully, he reached down and just managed to touch the handle of whatever was sticking out of the earth. It was cold and he felt a tiny vibration, the beat . . . beat . . . beat of something.
He motioned for the imps to get to work again. ‘But go slower this time,’ he advised quietly.
The imps did as they were told, working carefully with their fingers to scrape away the earth. Slowly, they revealed the long, slim neck of a bottle poking up, which Jones and Thomas Gabriel crouched down to inspect.
‘That must be it,’ said Jones. ‘That must be the top of the Dark Bottle,’ and Thomas Gabriel nodded in agreement.
It was fashioned from black glass, making it impossible to see through. But it was obvious that something was lodged securely in the top and could only be pulled out using the hilt that Jones had touched.
The imps kept digging slowly. But they all froze when a clod of earth came away from below the neck of the Bottle revealing part of a very large finger. It was covered in tough grey skin, and ended in a big yellow fingernail, pointed and sharp.
‘Looks like a Grey-Fisted Ent, all right,’ said Thomas Gabriel. He held his breath as the imps brushed away the earth until everyone could see more of the finger. It was big. Covered with coarse black hair. A knuckle like a knot tied in rope under the skin.
Jones motioned to the imps to carry on digging. They went even more slowly now, but nobody complained as a very large hand was revealed, the slim neck of the Dark Bottle poking up through two fingers like the stem of a flower. As the other hand was uncovered, everyone could see they were clamped together around the body of the Dark Bottle, covering it completely.
Jones whispered to the imps to climb up out of the hole and they hauled themselves out and stood in a line, looking down at their work so far, the candles in the lanterns flickering around them.