The Underground City, page 14
Neil and Clara recognized the goblins immediately. So did Lewis, who remembered them from his trip to Ardray. Sir James, too, sat looking totally appalled for he had been responsible for them being in the mirror in the first place. He’d whopped them over the head and chucked them into the mirror the previous year when he’d been trying to get the Sultan’s crown back from Prince Kalman and had certainly never expected to see them again.
The goblins got rather shakily to their feet and peered around, blinded by the stage lights. They were bigger than the average man, a horrid, sickly, green colour with skin that looped in dry, knobbly folds over their bodies. Their eyes were red and savage and their hands and feet ended in huge, sharp claws that were even now opening and closing as they eyed the people round about as though wondering which of them they were going to attack first. The stench was indescribable and yet nobody ran off the stage. Everyone stared, held in a terrible thrall of horror as they watched the creatures grunt and slobber dreadfully from mouths that showed fearsome sets of wickedly curved teeth.
Neil and Clara looked at one another and, with sinking hearts, realized that they were the only ones in a position to do anything. Neil knew, too, that they’d have to try and kill the goblins for there was no way they could let them attack the cast. Their fearsome claws would tear people apart and they wouldn’t stop. They’d attack everyone and everything on stage.
Like the Grand Vizier, Neil turned the staff he was carrying into a spear and gestured to Clara to do the same. The ornamental point was, he knew, made from steel and they’d both had to be careful whilst carrying them for fear of doing someone an injury. “We’ve got to kill them,” he hissed at her.
“Kill them?” Matt Lafferty heard him quite plainly and was horrified. “Are you nuts, or something!” he whispered, totally shaken. “You can’t kill people in the middle of a pantomime! The place is loaded with kids!”
Neil, his face set and determined, looked him in the eye. “We have to,” he replied. “These things aren’t people wearing costumes, they’re goblins! And … and actually, I think you’ll have to do the killing, Mr Lafferty,” he said. “Clara and I don’t have the strength but if we keep one of the goblins occupied, you could spear the other one!”
Matt Lafferty looked over at the two goblins who, recovering from the shock of being so suddenly ejected from the mirror, were making horrible noises and baring their claws and teeth at the crowd. It was the slavering mouths and the gut-wrenching stink of them that finally convinced him that the goblins were for real and, as he nodded to Neil, the jovial comedian of the pantomime, despite his turban, changed into a warrior straight from the film of Braveheart.
The goblins, meanwhile, had spotted the long table at the side of the stage that had been laid out for the village feast. The roast pig, turkeys, haunches of venison and great hams that the Ranger had made with such care, were actually all made of papier-mâché but they looked real and inviting and, as the goblins lumbered gruntingly towards them, arms outstretched hungrily, Neil and Clara ran in front of the table and held them off with their spears while the Grand Vizier made his approach from the rear.
Totally horrified at what was going on, Sir James made to rise from his seat and head backstage when there was a sudden flash, a puff of smoke and a crack of sound that sent the goblins jumping warily backwards. They knew immediately what it meant. It meant that a wizard of some sort had arrived and they stared around to see who, what and where, he was.
Sir James also knew what the crack of sound portended and, scanning the stage swiftly, felt a sense of disappointment creep over him as he saw that no one had appeared and nothing seemed to have changed. Then he noticed Matt Lafferty staring at the Sultan and as he, too, looked at the stately figure on the throne, noticed a subtle difference in him. The Sultan of the pantomime was a tall, thin man and although the clothes were the same, this was by no means the same person. He was heavier and bulkier and as he turned to look into the audience, Sir James sat back in his seat with a sigh of relief as he recognized the stern, dark face beneath the turban. He relaxed thankfully; the Ranger had obviously got to the hill in time and told his story. The Sultan was indeed a Sultan. Their Sultan; Sulaiman the Red.
From then on, the Sultan took charge. As the goblins rushed towards Neil and Clara, he stood up, stretched out his arm and, as an astounded cast watched in amazement, a beam of light crackled towards the goblins. The goblins gave frightful shrieks as the hexes struck home and disappeared in two puffs of vile, green smoke. Neil and Clara, still holding their spears at the ready, looked at the Sultan blankly but as he beckoned them back to the dais they met his eyes and almost laughed with relief. The Sultan had arrived! Everything would be all right now!
The audience had been quick to react to the uncertainty on stage and Sir James could feel the rustle of unease that permeated the theatre. He started to clap loudly and as people half-heartedly joined in, the Sultan bowed low and sent another spell sweeping over the audience. It was a warm, comfortable, reassuring spell that took everyone back to the days of their childhood and the magical thrill of the theatre. As the spell took hold, the clapping became a positive storm of applause and when the pantomime reverted to its original script, everyone settled back happily to enjoy it.
Sulaiman the Red, however, still sat on the throne, overseeing the proceedings with a wary eye. Given the fact that the magic mirror was still on, he was ready for surprises but even he had no idea that Prince Casimir was curled, worried and uncomfortable, inside the magic lamp. Casimir had watched the Sultan hex the goblins and was both disappointed and fearful. Fearful because the Sultan was there at all and disappointed beyond belief because the mirror had not, after all, held his son.
Lewis sat in his seat, absolutely stunned. What on earth was going on? He tried to remember what Casimir had told him about the MacArthurs and the Sultan’s crown but it was all rather mixed up in his mind. He knew, though, that what he had just observed was no stage trick. The Sultan had used magic to make the goblins disappear and surely, he thought, the Sultan in the first act had been thinner?
From then on he sat quivering in his seat knowing that although Casimir had left him, the world of magic still had a few tricks up its sleeve and that perhaps some of them had yet to be played. In this he was quite correct for, as the pantomime progressed, it suddenly dawned on Lewis that the magic lamp, into which he’d so casually deposited Casimir, was actually going to be used and, indeed, seemed to have an important part to play in the plot. And his heart sank as he realized what it would be …
On stage, a relaxed Clara had recovered from the shock of the goblins and was now following the action with amusement. The scene that was coming next, where Ali Baba rubs the lamp and the genie appears, was her favourite part of the show. She was well aware that Alec Johnston was already in place behind a huge pottery jar that stood near her. He was busy hooking the ends of his blue, silk cloak over his fingers so that it would flare out as he made his fabulous leap in front of Ali Baba, when he rubbed the lamp. Eyes sparkling with anticipation, she watched as Ali Baba wandered over to one of the stalls and looked casually at the lamp.
Lewis cringed in his seat and Casimir almost had a heart attack. Surely not, he thought. It couldn’t be. Someone was picking up the lamp!
“Only five piastres, effendi!” the stall-keeper urged brightly, holding out the lamp for Ali Baba to see.
“Five piastres!” Ali Baba repeated in mock horror. “It’s not new! In fact it’s just a battered, old bit of scrap. I’ll give you two piastres for it!”
“Three, effendi,” the stall-keeper pleaded. “Three and it’s yours!”
Ali Baba fished in his pockets and threw three coins down on the stall. “It’s a deal,” he said, taking the lamp and holding it up, “but you might have given it a bit of a polish before you tried to sell it,” he grumbled, breathing on it and rubbing it with his sleeve.
Although the audience had been ready for a bang of some sort they hadn’t reckoned on the roar of sound that resounded throughout the Assembly Hall. They almost leapt from their seats and those on stage jerked backwards, watching in alarmed fascination as a huge puff of smoke spiralled upwards in billowing clouds from the narrow mouth of the lamp. It swirled fantastically and gradually took both shape and form. And there he was, thought Lewis. Old Casimir, himself! The genie of the lamp. And he was absolutely breathtaking!
At much the same time, Alec Johnston had made his less than spectacular entrance; leaping forward, his cloak billowing out nicely behind him, to land at Ali Baba’s feet.
To tell you the truth, nobody much noticed him; for all eyes were fixed on Casimir who, amid billowing clouds of smoke, was now ten feet tall and growing!
24. The Plague People
Underneath the theatre, in the lanes and alleys of the Underground City, the Plague People had steadily picked their way free and were now roaming the streets at will. The walls that had held them prisoner had crumbled under the pressure of their desperate attempts for freedom and as they sallied triumphantly forth, their wailing cries struck fear into the hearts of those who heard them.
The police were still in the Underground City at the time, some in the vaults of the bank, while others searched methodically through the streets and houses for traces of Murdo, Wullie and Tammy Souter.
The ghosts guided them here and there and it hadn’t take the policemen long to appreciate their help; for without them, they’d soon have been lost in the labyrinth of alleys and streets that seemed to stretch all the way down the High Street to Holyrood. Surprisingly enough, they worked quite well together. The ghosts were all right, thought the policemen, as long as you didn’t look too closely at their awful eyes.
Then they heard it in the distance, a strange moaning, bubbling noise that echoed weirdly among the houses. They stopped instinctively, flashing their torches back down the alleys and seeing nothing, looked sharply at the ghosts.
“What’s that awful racket?” a constable asked apprehensively and took no comfort from the sudden expressions of fear that appeared on the ghosts’ faces. They, themselves, it seemed, were suddenly scared to death and were looking down the narrow streets in terror. “The Plague People!” they whispered.
Moments later, they came into view.
Ghosts and policemen alike gasped in horror for the ghosts of the plague were, indeed, the stuff of nightmares. Dressed in long, white, hooded robes that drifted into mist, their pale faces were mottled black with boils and their long skinny arms stretched out hungrily as they swung swiftly and silently between the houses searching for their prey.
“Run,” the ghosts snapped. “Follow us. We know all the short cuts. Quickly! Run for your lives!”
The policemen, who had paled at the mention of the plague, did exactly that. Following the ghosts, they dived in and out of houses and alleys, knowing that had Mary King not made her offer of help, they wouldn’t have stood a chance and would soon have been caught by the nameless horrors that chased them. As it was, they reached the stair up to the Assembly Hall with the terrifying apparitions not far behind and it was only when the last policeman scrambled white-faced to safety that the cellar door was slammed shut and firmly locked.
The same thing happened in the bank. The bank security staff took one look at the drifting horrors that were sloping down the alley towards them and raced for the safety of the bank’s interior. It was a close run thing, for even as the ghosts sailed towards them over the scattered piles of banknotes, they were still hefting the door of the vault shut, with no thought for the money left abandoned and unguarded in its shattered ruins.
“MacArthur! Lord Rothlan!” Jaikie said, springing to his feet in alarm for the second time that evening. The first scare, when the goblins had shot out of the magic mirror, had been bad enough but this was worse. Much worse! “Will you come and look at this!” he said, gesturing towards the crystal ball. “The Plague People are loose!”
Kitor gave a squawk of alarm and Arthur heaved himself to his feet so that he, too, could see what was going on. Lord Rothlan and the MacArthur hastily rose to their feet and strode towards the glowing crystal on its ornate stand. It showed a ghastly, horrible scene as its eye followed the ghosts of the Plague People as they glided with swift, hungry eagerness along the alleys of the Underground City.
Lady Ellan, too, peered into the crystal, her nose wrinkling in disgust. A nameless fear made her shiver. “They really look awful, don’t they!” she whispered. “But how on earth did they get out? I thought their cellars had been sealed up?”
“It must have been yon bank robbers that Neil was telling me about,” muttered the MacArthur. “He said they were trying to break into the vaults of the Bank of Scotland.”
“Do you think they broke into their cellars instead?” Jaikie whispered.
“Whatever they did, they certainly got more than they bargained for.” Lord Rothlan looked and sounded worried as he eyed the hooded white shapes with their bloated, mottled faces.
“You … you don’t think Neil and Clara might be down there, do you?” Jaikie interrupted fearfully.
Lady Ellan shook her head. “I shouldn’t think so,” she said. “They’re in the pantomime.”
“Let’s see if we can get hold of Sir Archie …” Lord Rothlan said. “Can you find him for me, Jaikie?”
The crystal dimmed and then brightened to show the interior of the bank where white-faced security staff clutched at one another, shivering at the memory of the ghastly drifting shapes that had so nearly caught them.
“Well, it certainly looks as though something’s been happening there,” the MacArthur commented as the crystal scanned the bank’s marble foyer.
“Look, there’s Sir Archie,” Jaikie pointed to the door of the bank where the Chief Constable was talking busily to Jock MacPherson.
“Thank goodness he’s all right,” the MacArthur muttered and, as the crystal reverted once more to the ghost-ridden streets of the Underground City, he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Mind you, it’ll be interesting to see what he plans to do about that little lot,” he mused.
“Do? With the Plague People?” Lord Rothlan said, looking up with a frown. “There isn’t much he can do, is there?”
“There’s not a lot we can do either, come to that,” Lady Ellan remarked, slipping her hand through her husband’s arm.
“Well, it looks as though he might be coming here in a minute,” Jaikie interrupted as the crystal dimmed and brightened once more. “He’s just left the bank and called his carpet!”
Instinctively, they all turned to look at the side of the cave where a magic carpet had unrolled itself gently and was already whisking its way towards one of the tunnels that led to the surface of Arthur’s Seat.
The MacArthur eyed it sourly. “Aye,” he said as it disappeared into the gloom, “and when he arrives, I’ll bet you a pound for a penny that he thinks I can get rid of the Plague People with a hex! Just like that!”
“You can’t really blame him,” Lord Rothlan smiled wryly. “He won’t understand that we’re powerless to help.”
A few minutes later, they looked up as a carpet carrying the Chief Constable sailed into the huge cavern from one of the tunnels.
“Here he is now,” Lady Ellan said as the carpet flew towards them.
The Chief Constable greeted the MacArthur and then seeing Lord Rothlan, strode over to congratulate him on his marriage. “Lord Rothlan!” Sir Archie shook hands with him warmly, “and Lady Ellan,” he said delightedly. “My warmest congratulations to you both!” He cleared his throat. “MacArthur,” he said, “can I ask you about the ghosts in Mary King’s Close?”
The MacArthur looked at Lord Rothlan and sighed. “I know you’d like me to help, but …”
“It’s serious, MacArthur,” Sir Archie interrupted urgently. “The ghosts of the plague victims have escaped. Mary King told me just five minutes ago. She managed to get all of my men out safely, but according to her the Plague People have taken over the whole Underground City!”
The MacArthur sighed. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said, “but I can’t do it! I can’t hex them away!”
The Chief Constable looked horrified as his eyes flew from one serious face to another.
“Ghosts aren’t magic people, you see,” Rothlan explained. “They are spirits of the dead and our magic doesn’t affect them.”
“I’m afraid it’s something that the ghosts have to sort out for themselves,” the MacArthur said.
“But the plague!” The Chief Constable was astounded. “You’ve got to help! Once they get into the streets there’ll be panic! To say nothing of an epidemic of the Black Death in Edinburgh!”
“Aye, you’ll have to keep them confined to the Underground City,” agreed the MacArthur. “No doubt about it! All the exits and entrances will have to be sealed up so the plague ghosts can’t get out into the streets! You do realize that they need actual openings to get through, don’t you?”
The Chief Constable looked at him in relief. “You mean they can’t drift through walls and doors like Mary King’s lot?”
“That power was taken away from them by the Council of Elders,” the MacArthur explained, “otherwise how would the closed cellars have held them prisoner for all these years?”
“I see.” the Chief Constable said grimly. “Well, then, it’s not as bad as I thought, but it’s bad enough! It’ll only take one of them to get out and the whole of Edinburgh will be in a panic! Murdo Fraser’s got to be found! And found quickly!”
25. The Genie of the Lamp
Matt Lafferty, the magnificently-clad Grand Vizier, got such a shock at Casimir’s sudden, dramatic appearance that he almost leapt the height of himself. He gawped in wonder and backed somewhat nervously away — for the towering genie was a frightening sight, his face grim amid the swirling clouds of multi-coloured smoke that billowed round him. He grabbed Neil and Clara and, pulling them towards the Sultan’s throne, let out a muttered stream of broad Scots that fortunately, given the circumstances, few people understood.
