The Curse of the Gloamglozer (8 page)

‘Unstable and insane,’ Quint muttered uneasily, and he found himself wondering why the professor would want information on such an unpleasant-sounding creature. Did he have one? Did he want one? What type of a person
was
the professor anyway? And more important than any of these questions, where was the next
something/not something
to choose from?

Having fumbled about in the near darkness of the vaulting for the previous ten minutes without finding any trace of lettering carved into the bark, Quint was feeling worried. He was on a thin, almost horizontal branch, far, far above the library floor. Despite his natural agility, the situation was not good. Every time he moved, the branch swayed ominously. If it should break, he would tumble into the darkness to certain death below. He tried hard to remain calm.

‘You must have reached the end of the negative ascent,’ he told himself. He looked round awkwardly. In the darkness, he could just make out the shapes of various barkscrolls hanging around him. Some were on their own, some in the holders. As for finding which specific one the professor wanted… ‘Find two twigs,’ he had said. What were they again?
Legendary
and … and … and
what
? His head spun. His legs shook. He hadn't come so far to fail now – yet, try as he might, he could not remember…

‘Blast,’ he muttered and, though softly spoken, the word echoed round and round the circular building, desecrating the hushed stillness of the library before fading away. At the same time, the full moon appeared from behind the clouds and shone down through the windows of the crown-like tower above Quint's head. Light – wonderful silver light – flooded into the Great Library.

‘
Celestial
,’ said Quint happily. ‘That was it. I …’ As the narrow branch bucked and dived, he groaned queasily and clung on ferociously, his cheek pressed to the wood. Gradually, the swaying steadied. Quint looked round. Then up. Then down. ‘Thank Sky for that,’ he whispered.

In the silvery moonlight, Quint had seen that there was no longer any need for him to remain on the ‘tree’ at all. He was now up in the well-ventilated, pest-free environment – the air heady with the scent of pine-sap – where the barkscrolls hung. Here, where the librarians of old would have worked, were the ladder-ways and hanging-baskets on rope-pulleys which connected the trees, and gave access to the scrolls that he had seen from below.

With a sigh of relief, Quint edged back a little and lowered himself down into the nearest basket. A cloud of dust sparkled in the moonlight as it sprinkled down from the rope it was suspended from.

By tugging on the pulley-rope, Quint pulled himself further along, checking every twig-like protuberance he passed, as well as the occasional barkscroll. The fact was,
the further he went and the more he saw, the greater his curiosity was becoming about these earth-studies academics who had devised such an intricate system of categorization
and
been fit and agile enough to use it. The search continued until, with a whoop of delight, Quint announced to the echoing air that he had found what he was looking for.

‘
Legendary
,’ he read off, ‘and
celestial
.’ He looked up and saw – just as the professor had said – that where the two of them crossed, a single barkscroll was hanging. Quint grinned. ‘There you are!’

All those hours of searching, and finally he'd found what he was looking for. He tugged at the pulley-rope to manoeuvre himself forwards. The basket lurched, but stayed where it was. Quint pulled on the rope again, harder this time and, when that did nothing, once again. Still nothing.

‘Cursed thing!’ he muttered, and looked across at the barkscroll, so
temptingly near. ‘Maybe if I could just lean across…’

He climbed onto the edge of the basket and, supporting himself on the attached rope, reached out. The gap was still too wide. Below him, the cavernous drop yawned. With his shaking hands shifting little by little along the rope, Quint stretched out still further. Closer and closer his fingertips came. They grazed the edge of the barkscroll, setting it turning.

‘Just a little further,’ he muttered.

The barkscroll continued to turn, infuriatingly slowly. Quint strained forwards, and waited for it to come right round. His eyes bulged, his arms shook, the tendons in his neck flexed. As the scroll came closer, he jerked forwards. His fingers closed around the leathery tube. He'd got it. The barkscroll was in his grasp.

‘Phew!’ he whistled with relief, as he eased himself carefully back along the rope and dropped down into the basket. ‘This place is lethal. It's…’

At that moment, there was a sharp tearing sound behind him. Quint spun round to see a knot of rope wedged into the pulley fraying, fibre by breaking fibre.
Within seconds the whole lot had taken on the appearance of a woodthistle's fluffy seedhead. Quint's elation turned to despair.

‘Oh, no,’ he muttered, his heart thumping in his ears. ‘Oh, no.’ He thrust the barkscroll down inside his shirt and clung on to the rope and the side of the basket. The last strands snapped. ‘Oh …
Help!
’ he screamed as the basket abruptly plummeted.

Down, down, down, boy and basket crashed through the branches, tearing the barkscroll holders from their moorings and sending the barkscrolls they contained fluttering off every which way. Then, twisting and turning, Quint lost his grip and tumbled out of the basket.

Falling! He was falling towards certain death…

… when all of a sudden and out of nowhere, a hand seized him round his wrist.

‘Hold on!’ a voice hissed close to his ear.

Quint tried in vain to crane his neck round to see who had rescued him. It was all happening too quickly. Yet he was aware of a dry, crackling sound
and a ripe, juicy odour like the smell of rotting leaves. The next moment, he found himself being swung hard to one side.

Terrified, Quint screwed his eyes shut. For an instant he imagined himself to be back on board the
Galerider
, tossed about in a great storm. Then, with a jarring
thud
, he felt something solid beneath his feet and looked down to find he was on an aerial platform, high up in one of the trees.

But who had got him there?

Scrambling to his feet, Quint scoured the forest of tree-pillars for the character who had caught him as he fell. There was no-one there.

Quint frowned. ‘You saved my life,’ he murmured. He patted the rolled-up barkscroll, still safely tucked into his shirt, and grinned. ‘In more ways than one.’

Although Quint knew he hadn't been quick, he had no idea just how long his task had taken him. By the time he reached the entrance to the Palace of Shadows, the new day had already broken and the far horizon was blushing pink and red.

He turned the great brass handle and pushed the heavy front door open. A mournful creak echoed round the hall. He stepped inside.

‘Where have you been?’ came a voice. He turned to see Maris standing in the centre of the entrance hall, hands on her hips.

‘I … I was on an errand,’ said Quint, ‘for your father.’ He reached down inside the shirt and pulled out the
barkscroll. ‘He asked me to fetch this for him.’ He stepped forwards. ‘I need to get it to him at once.’

‘Oh, no you don't,’ said Maris. ‘You know how tired he's been looking.’

‘But…’

‘He was up working all night again,’ she insisted firmly. ‘He's absolutely not to be disturbed.’

‘But, Maris!’ Quint protested. He really couldn't make her out at all. Did she like him, or didn't she? Sometimes it seemed as though he couldn't do a single thing right.

‘Just give it to me,’ she said impatiently, her hand outstretched. ‘I'll give it to him the moment he wakes.‘

Reluctantly, Quint did as he was told.

‘Thank you,’ said Maris primly. ‘Now go and get washed and changed. You can't possibly come to class looking like that. Wordspool would throw a purple fit – and anyway, it reflects badly on my father and myself.’

‘Class? Wordspool?’ said Quint, confused. ‘What time
is
it?’

At that moment, the bell at the top of the Great Hall chimed the three-quarters. ‘A quarter to six,’ said Maris. ‘We've got fifteen minutes before school starts!’

· CHAPTER FOUR ·

WELMA THORNWOOD

T
he kitchen was stiflingly hot. The air above the glowing cooking-range shimmered like water while the high vaulted ceiling was thick with swirling clouds of steam. Yet still Welma was not satisfied.

‘More heat,’ she wheezed as she pumped up and down on the stove-bellows, first with one foot, then with the other. Up down, up down. The compressed air hissed through the pipes. The fire roared.

Maris flicked away the hair which clung to her glistening brow and looked up. Having spent the whole morning cold and shivering in Wordspool's draughty classroom, she was now dizzy with the intense heat coming from the glowing stove. ‘Does it have to be
so
hot?’ she asked.

‘If we … don't want our spiced scones to … end up like spiced stones,’ Welma replied breathlessly. ‘
The hotter the fire
…’

‘
The lighter the dough
,’ Maris finished for her, and laughed. She'd heard the words on a thousand other baking days. It was one of the many woodtroll sayings that
Welma had brought with her from the Deepwoods, passed on – word of mouth – down countless generations. She'd been told it by her mother, who'd been told it by
her
mother, who'd been told it by
her
mother … and Welma – who had no young'uns of her own – had passed it on to her, Maris.

Welma looked round to see the young mistress perched on her step-stool at the round table, smirking from ear to ear. She tugged at her apron. ‘Forgive me,’ she said, ‘but I thought you liked your scones crunchy on the outside and fluffy on the inside.’

‘I do,’ said Maris.

‘And for that, we must do two things,’ said Welma. ‘One, ensure the oven is furnace-hot. And two …’ Her gaze fell on the whisk idling in Maris's fingers. ‘We must beat the mixture until it is frothy light.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘
Is
it frothy light?’ she enquired.

Maris looked down into the bowl. The mixture slopped about in the bottom. ‘Not quite,’ she said, a little shame-faced.

‘Then beat, child! Beat!’ said Welma. ‘While I see to the woodapples.’

Maris nodded, tucked the huge bowl into the crook of her arm and began whisking the creamy mixture furiously. Ever since she was little, of all the cakes, pastries and other assorted dough-bakes that Welma and she had made together, it was spiced scones that she liked most. Delicious on their own, with the traditional Wodgiss Night filling of woodapples steeped in honey and topped off with cream, they were sublime. It was
Maris who had suggested they make some for Quint. Now, with her right arm aching and her left arm stiff, she was beginning to regret her generosity.

‘So, how are you and the young sky pirate captain's son getting on, anyway?’ asked Welma as she stirred the stewing woodapples.