The Underground City, page 20
Wullie looked at it, too, and frowned. “I must have done,” he said, shaking his head. “When I emptied my pockets there … there just always seemed more to come. I wondered at the time …”
“It must have been magic,” laughed Tammy Souter, not realizing how close he was to the truth. “Relax, Wullie, they’re all genuine and they’re all ours! What a Christmas this is!!”
“Wullie,” Murdo said, sincerity ringing in his voice, “Wullie, you’re a genius!”
“What are we going to do with it?” Tammy said. “What about a holiday in the south of France — or even Spain? Come on, lads, the three of us together!”
“That’s a great idea,” Murdo agreed, his eyes shining in his thin face.
Wullie, however, didn’t seem so keen. “Well, you see,” he said, “I’ve spent a lot of mine already on this furniture and stuff and I was thinking that with the rest of it I might buy Mrs Ramsay’s wee shop.”
“And sell sweeties?” Tammy said sharply. “Don’t be a fool! She’s been there for years and hasn’t made a decent living out of it yet!”
“I wasn’t thinking of selling sweeties,” Wullie said, shaking his head. “I was thinking of starting one of these tourist shops that sell postcards and souvenirs and the like. They do a roaring trade all the year round and I’ve been making a bit selling them things, too.”
“You’ve been selling them things? Nicked things, you mean?”
“No, Murdo, not nicked things. Things I made.” He looked a bit embarrassed as he went over to the windowsill and picked up an ornament. “These,” he said. “The tourists snap them up. Honest they do!”
Murdo held the pottery ornament in his hand. It was the Loch Ness monster and it was beautifully made. “When on earth did you start making these?” Murdo asked in surprise, turning it over in his hands.
“A while ago,” Wullie confessed. “You know that I always carry a big lump of plasticine in my pocket in case I have to make impressions of keys in a hurry, don’t you? Well, if I was ever bored I used to take it out and make models out of it. A chap in one of the shops told me I had a real knack for it and should go to Night School so that I could make things properly, out of clay. I didn’t say anything to you, Murdo, ’cos I thought you’d laugh at the idea of me going to Night School but, well, I went and I had a great time and learned how to make things for the shops.”
Murdo and Tammy looked at Wullie with real respect. It was only Murdo, however, who appreciated the effort it must have cost Wullie to approach the Night School on his own.
“You know, I think Wullie’s right,” Tammy Souter said slowly. “Running a shop’s not a bad idea. We could all put in a share. It’ll take a bit of cash to buy it and do it up — and then there’d be stock to buy, but I reckon it would be a going concern in no time.”
“Wullie,” they said, turning to a delighted Wullie, “you’re a genius!”
35. Star Suspects
And, as it turned out, Wullie was a genius. From his original reproductions of the Loch Ness monster he swiftly progressed to bigger and better things. His spectacularly tall, fantastic castles are now collectors’ pieces and his work is well-known throughout the length and breadth of Scotland.
Tammy and Murdo, it should be said, have settled to being respectable members of the community and although the shop’s profits are split evenly three ways, they nevertheless make a good living out of it for it’s always full of tourists who are enchanted at the wonderful selection of Scottish mementoes that fill the shelves.
If they are ever at the top of the High Street, Neil and Clara pop in to chat with Wullie who remembers them from the time they got lost in the Underground City. Being a good sort, he has never said a word to them about the ghosts because he thinks it might frighten them. It was on one of those occasions, when Neil and Clara were in his shop browsing for a present for their parents’ anniversary, that they heard a familiar voice.
“Mr Lafferty,” Clara said, looking up in delight. “How are you?”
“I hear that you’ve been a massive success in America,” Neil said, shaking his hand. “A star!”
Matt Lafferty nodded. “It was really because of the pantomime,” he said, “just one of those amazing things. Someone in the audience liked my style and I havena looked back since. Contracts just keep pouring in!” Neil and Clara looked at one another and smiled; the MacArthur, or more likely, the Sultan, had probably had a hand in it.
Lafferty’s eyes sharpened and he lifted his eyebrows enquiringly as he caught sight of the ornament Clara had chosen for her parents — for there, on the counter, sat a beautifully crafted Loch Ness Monster.
“Oh, aye,” he said, “what have we here, then?”
There was a silence as they looked at one another.
“It’s a present for our parents,” Neil explained uncomfortably.
“It’s their anniversary,” Clara added.
“It brings back memories, doesn’t it? I’ll maybe buy one for myself,” Lafferty mused, picking it up and turning it over in his hand. “Mind you,” he said, looking at them blandly, “it’s missing something, isn’t it?”
“Is it?” Clara asked nervously, her cheeks red.
“Well, it doesn’t have a wee bit scarf hanging from its mouth, does it?”
Clara’s face was a dead giveaway. She blushed again.
“You know, I’d fine like to meet that chap again — the … er, you know, the fellow who played the … other Sultan,” Lafferty said, looking at them shrewdly. “He and I got on real well thegither. You’ll be seeing him from time to time, will you?”
“Not that often, Mr Lafferty,” Neil said, “but we’ll … we’ll mention it to him when we do.”
Wullie’s face beamed as he wrapped Clara’s parcel. Fancy Matt Lafferty being in his shop!! Just wait till he told Murdo and Tammy. They’d be gutted at missing him!
As Lafferty glanced speculatively round the shop, he found himself relaxing. It had a pleasant, comforting feel to it and idly scanning the multitude of souvenirs that crammed the shelves, his discerning eye quickly told him that it wasn’t all tat. There were some quite artistic pieces among the tartan bits and bobs. He stiffened abruptly as he saw a dragon on one of the shelves, wings spread, horned head rearing fearsomely and just knew that he had to have it.
“I’ll have this dragon as well,” he said.
He placed it carefully on the counter as Clara took her parcel from Wullie. “It’s a nice dragon,” she said as Wullie lifted it and placed it carefully on another sheet of wrapping paper, “not at all fearsome really.”
“And it’s called Arthur,” Neil added mischievously.
“Funny you should say that,” Wullie said, staring at them in blank surprise. “I’ve always thought of it as Arthur. In my mind, it lives in Arthur’s Seat and guards a heap of treasure.”
Neil and Clara looked at one another.
“Perhaps it does,” Neil said, his eyes sparkling as Matt Lafferty’s eyebrows snapped together suspiciously.
“And we won’t forget to mention your name to the Sultan when we next see him,” Clara added seriously as they shook hands with him and waved goodbye.
“That was close,” Neil muttered as the shop door closed behind them. “He suspects an awful lot!”
“What he said was true, though,” Clara observed. “He and the Sultan did hit it off.”
“Maybe we’ll see him in the hill one day, then,” mused Neil, “you never know.”
“I’m glad for Wullie,” Clara remarked as they wended their way down the length of the High Street. “His wee shop is lovely and he always seems to have lots of customers.”
“I’m happy for him too,” answered Neil, “but seeing him and Matt Lafferty together reminds me of Ali Baba and the Underground City. Life’s a bit dull these days now that the pantomime’s over.”
“I shouldn’t worry,” Clara grinned as she waved to Mr MacGregor who was standing at the gates of their school. “Don’t forget that Prince Casimir has invited us to spend half term at Ardray and we’ll be staying with Lewis in Aberdeen at Easter.”
“That’s true!” Neil’s eyes brightened considerable as he mentally totted up the weeks until half-term.
“I’m really looking forward to it,” Clara mused dreamily. “With the MacArthurs around, life is never dull for long, is it? There always seems to be something happening in the world of magic.”
As they walked down the Canongate, their eyes lifted involuntarily to the green slopes of Arthur’s Seat that loomed behind the turreted grandeur of Holyrood Palace.
Clara smiled as she thought of Kabad — for the little goblin now lived in a very comfortable little home on Arthur’s Seat. His eyes had shone with delight at his first view of Dunsapie Loch. High, quiet and secluded, with wonderful views over Edinburgh, it was an ideal spot.
“Think you’ll like living here, then?” Neil had asked him.
Kabad’s long fingers had gripped Clara’s hand so tightly that she’d almost yelped. “Oh, yes!” came the delighted answer.
Archie, Jaikie and Hamish, who had taken an immediate liking to the little water goblin, explored the fringes of the loch with him, looking for a suitable cave or hole in the bank to give him shelter. It was a problem at first as the shoreline was quite open, but with their help, a rickety, disused jetty on the far side of the loch was cunningly converted to incorporate a concealed waterfront residence. Spacious, warm and comfortable, Kabad assures them that, by goblin standards, it is quite definitely palatial.
“We ought to visit Kabad tomorrow and see how he’s getting on,” Clara mused, stepping aside to avoid some tourists, clustered around the Scottish Parliament building. “It’s a while since we’ve been up there.”
“Kabad?” said Neil. “Oh, he’s doing all right. Kitor and Cassia visit the loch almost every day and according to them, he’s still as happy as Larry! Spends his time fishing and playing with the ducks, apparently. He says he wouldn’t go back to Loch Ness if you paid him.”
Only a few people have spotted Kabad on the slopes of Arthur’s Seat and then just for seconds. He’s happy and contented in his snug little home at the edge of the water, uses his beautiful, new spear to catch fish and finds the ducks, geese and seagulls much nicer company than the spiteful goblins of Nessie’s caves.
In fact, if you are ever up there on a moonlit night, you might be lucky enough to spot him for he always dresses in his best clothes when visiting the MacArthurs — so if by any chance you’re there and see a tiny figure walking by the loch, dressed in an ornate turban and a tunic and trousers of dark purple, shot with gleaming stripes of shiny, glittering gold … well, you’ll know who he is, won’t you? And you’ll know where he’s going …
Read on for a sneak preview of Neil and Clara’s next adventure in Firestar…
Prologue
It wasn’t actually a very impressive satellite, as satellites go. Silver, shiny, vaguely round and cov-ered with a variety of antennae that did absolutely nothing to improve its appearance, it circled the earth emitting a regular, high-pitched bleep that would have driven you crazy had you been close enough to hear it.
The bleep, however, was music to the ears of the NASA engineers at Cape Canaveral who had just launched the satellite into orbit. Crowded round the flickering banks of monitors, they breathed sighs of relief as they heard it and when the init-ial outburst of cheering had died down, relaxed thankfully as they tracked its path across the black reaches of space. Powerprobe, for so they had christened it, was behaving just as it should.
“Well done, Mr Easterman,” the magician said seriously, his eyes taking in the smiling, trium-phant face of the young man who stood by his side. Nevertheless, he frowned slightly, for given his hip appearance, he still found it hard to believe that Chuck Easterman was a scientist at all. Young, fit and tall, with hair that stood up in gelled spikes, he looked more like a pop star than anything else. Powerprobe, however, had been his idea and his reputation as the latest whiz-kid on the block was well deserved.
Chuck, for his part, looked at the professor standing at his elbow with deep respect. So much so, that had you told him, there and then, that the man was actually a magician, he’d quite frankly have thought you as nutty as a fruit cake. The word called up visions of richly robed, elderly men who wore pointed hats and wielded magic wands and, to be fair, there was little sign of anything remotely magical about the dull, soberly suited gentleman beside him. Besides which, NASA might “do” rockets, space stations, moon landings and the like but it most certainly didn’t “do” magic in any shape or form. Nevertheless, fantastic as it might sound, magic was very much in the air — and powerful magic at that.
As it happened, many months were to pass before Chuck, totally flabbergasted, learned that he’d had a magician on his team. And not any old magician either, but the mighty Lord Jezail of Ashgar: a magician of great power; a magician who was quite determined that Powerprobe shouldn’t fail; a magician who, all along, had had his own dangerous agenda …
At the time, however, as Powerprobe was bleep-ing its way happily across the heavens, Chuck only felt a deep sense of gratitude towards the man who’d done so much to help him. “Thank you, Professor Jezail,” he answered, revelling in the knowledge that despite the problems they’d had, Powerprobe was actually in orbit. “If it hadn’t been for your input,” he admitted candidly, “I doubt if Powerprobe would have got off the ground at all.”
“A pleasure, dear boy,” the magician smiled. “It’s been a project well worth working on and, if Powerprobe’s lasers behave as they ought, then we should be making some dramatic discoveries quite soon.”
“Well done, Professor,” one of the engineers interrupted, shaking his hand, “and congratu-lations, Chuck! You’ve both done a great job!”
“Thanks, Jim.” Chuck grinned and, as the engi-neer gave the thumbs up sign, he turned to bend over a computer to check the stream of data that was coming in. “Lasers still responding, Pat?” he asked the technician who was monitoring the sat-ellite’s progress. Pat Venner looked up from the screen and grinned reassuringly. Chuck was his flatmate and he knew only too well how worried he’d been.
“Fine! Fully operational!” he replied.
Chuck’s heart lifted at the certainty in Pat’s voice. Despite everything, the lasers were working! “I can’t believe it’s all going so smoothly,” he said, his voice mirroring his relief. “I’ve just been telling Professor Jezail, here, that at one stage, I thought Powerprobe would never make it!”
Pat looked round at the two men, his eyes glint-ing with amusement. “It’s been some project,” he allowed, “and sorting out the lasers the way you did, Professor! Well … everybody reckons you must have waved a magic wand or something!”
Lord Jezail’s eyebrows lifted as he smiled in gen-uine amusement. “Perhaps I did,” he answered.
“It must have been something like that,” Chuck nodded, not knowing just how close he was to the truth, “for, quite frankly, I could only follow your reasoning so far before I got totally bogged down.” He frowned, shaking his head. “You know, I really haven’t a clue how you managed to sort that com-puter program out at all. At one stage I was quite convinced that the software had a virus in it.”
The professor looked at him shrewdly, a slight frown in his eyes. Chuck was obviously a lot brighter than he’d reckoned and the fact that he’d even suspected a virus was a tribute to his intelli-gence; for there was, indeed, a virus in Powerprobe. He knew, because he’d put it there himself!
A computer scientist would probably have said that the virus lodged so carefully in Powerprobe’s software was possessed of artificial intelligence. Nothing so complicated, however, had crossed the magician’s mind. To him, it was a hex, pure and simple — a hex with a mind of its own that would do his bidding. Sly, nasty and malevolent, it was a mirror image of the magician himself. He called it Malfior and it knew its master.
Like all viruses, Malfior hid itself, unnoticed and unseen, in its new home and, content to follow the magician’s instructions, waited patiently until it was time to go into action — which was probably why it wasn’t immediately apparent that there was anything at all wrong with Powerprobe.
So, at the beginning of its mission everything went well. His task completed, Lord Jezail departed and as Chuck and the team of NASA experts set-tled to the complex task of satellite monitoring and data gathering, it wasn’t long before the work became almost routine. Indeed, Powerprobe had been bleeping its way blamelessly round the world for about six weeks with quite satisfactory results when its lasers picked up on a mind-boggling source of power.
This was what Malfior had been waiting for. It could only be Firestar. This was it! It obeyed its instructions to the letter and, even as the laser locked on, Malfior slid down its beam to lodge itself, unnoticed and unseen, in its new home.
Powerprobe’s reaction was immediate. As the laser hit the strange power source, its computers went berserk as things went monumentally pear-shaped. Everyone knew it the moment an ear-splitting shriek shattered the silence of the busy control room.
It wasn’t the noise, however, that caused Pat Venner to push his chair back violently from the bank of monitors. With a cry of terror, he scram-bled to his feet and, backing away, pointed a quiv-ering finger at his screen, his voice incoherent and his face, chalk-white with shock.
“What’s that?” he croaked wildly. “What the devil’s that?”
Copyright
Kelpies is an imprint of Floris Books
First published in 2008 by Floris Books
First published as an eBook in 2013 by Floris Books
© 2008 Anne Forbes
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without the prior permission of Floris Books, 15 Harrison Gardens, Edinburgh
