Читать книгу The Longest Halloween, Book Three: Gabbie Del Toro and the Mystery of the Warlock's Urn - Frank Wood - Страница 18

Gabbie's news would just have to wait. The first days back to school were generally jam-packed with tons of activity, students jockeying to get their clubs filled, and most important of all, appointments for the Ghoulsball team and the Screamleaders.

Of course Grawl, with his natural power and wide frame, would be great for ghoulsball, which was sort of like football with a touch of basketball from the Other Side; but given his troll status, he was not a natural choice for someone like ghoulsball captain Oliver McTavish. Oliver was pro-warlock above anything else and wouldn’t deign to talk to a troll.

Now Bertha Bumpkins, on the other hand, was another story. She led the grunt part of ghoulsball, had gotten her witch’s stripe when she was eight, and could care less about Grawl’s troll status. She wasted no time putting in a recruitment plea for Grawl to join her team.

“You need to be present at tryouts, Grawl. This is not a request,” she told him before striding off with her teammates.

“I’d listen if I were you, mate,” Neville said with a smile. “You don’t want to get on Bertha Bumpkins’ bad side.”

“Does that mean she has a good side?” Grawl asked in return.

Neville was strongly recruited by Oliver to try out for the ghoulsball team. Gabbie had just noticed how much Neville had filled out over the summer. True to who he was, he didn’t like being told what to do and politely declined the offer, saying he had other things going on that year. Though what they could be, Gabbie had no idea. She noted an interesting exchange between Oscar Adamson-Horwitz and Neville after Oliver posed the question, as if Oscar was testing what Neville would say. Neville’s answer was clearly satisfactory to Oscar, as he sniffed in contentment and walked away.

Weird, Gabbie thought. The Goon brothers apprenticing at the LeGrands' or not, Neville was strangely preoccupied with something this new school year, and for whatever reason, both Oscar and Grace seemed to be in on it. Come to think of it, Grace had made that strange comment about things not being as they seemed, after Oscar the bat had pooped on Neville. How could that not be anything more than a rude gesture? It hadn’t seemed to bother Neville much, which was odd…more than any other boy she knew, Neville was crazy about his looks and his hair.

Passing time between classes was also extra busy today. Gabbie took note of several faculty members turning over their official robes to be inspected for missing buttons by members of the Warlock Sentry. This was carried out quietly and without fanfare, which Gabbie supposed was a good thing. She tried to stuff down the thought that any one of these teachers whom she had known forever could be responsible for possibly framing her father.

Next class was Professor Renard’s Spells and Witchcraft History, a favorite for all students due to Professor Renard’s ability to make things fun and entertaining. The subject matter was a particular favorite for Gabbie, who always loved to hear stories of magic, witches and warlocks from the past. Renard was the one bright spot for school recently, with all that had happened at the start of the school year. A bit of levity might indeed be a good thing.

Today’s magical offering was about transmogrification, a really old spell in which a person’s appearance could be transformed in order to avoid detection or discovery. It wasn’t used much any more except by witches and warlocks well versed in the old magic, which had fallen by the wayside in the last centuries. The last known case had been the strange tale of a physician on the Other Side who had stumbled onto the necessary spell items and transmogrified himself into a horrible rogue who committed many crimes. Sad to say, things did not end well for him or for his alter ego. Gabbie had to admit that it was a bit diverting to learn these great old stories from the past. She almost forgot about what she overheard in the teacher’s lounge. Almost.

“Well, ladies and gentleman, I had something prepared to start off the quarter this year, but in light of the recent events, I thought it perhaps more to the point that we talk about what’s been happening of late here in Ghoulsville.”

And that was why Professor Renard was so revered among the students. He talked with them and not down at them, and he talked about things that would be considered off limits or inappropriate by their parents and many other adults.

“And with all due respect to you both, Miss Del Toro and Mr. Grawl, I won’t make this about your father, a colleague and friend of mine who is a superb educator. No, but what I will do is talk about what he and his mentees have become involved in, the Pumpkin Hill Plunder, and what it could mean for all of us in Ghoulsville. All right, Oliver,” he responded to Oliver McTavish, his acting teaching assistant this period. Gabbie had been wondering why an upperclassman like Oliver was in Professor Renard’s classroom.

Renard waved his hand and the picture of the pumpkin house atop the hill in smoldering ruins faded. In its place was the picture of an unpleasant-looking man with long, dark, stringy hair and a long, broken and crooked nose over downturned thin lips and a pointed jaw.

“Who here can tell the class about this man…Jack Spratt, also known as Jack of the Lantern?”

“He’s the centuries-old pilgrim who made a deal with Satan. He can’t be killed or destroyed and he’s destined to live forever. They erect homages to him and his story on the Other Side. Jack-o'-lanterns, I believe they’re called.”

“Thank you, Florinda,” Renard said, “that’s a good summation. Jack Spratt was indeed given a Wick, some say by old Beelzebub himself, that conferred upon him the longevity you speak of. But that’s not all that’s true about this Wick, which is quite powerful and imbued with the darkest of magic. It also has been known to have the power to break any magic bond.”

“So whoever attacked Jack Spratt’s home was after the Wick!”

“And for good reason, if it’s as powerful as has been foretold,” Oliver volunteered.

Renard waved his hand again. Jack Spratt’s picture faded and in its place was a picture of several tall and elegant-appearing individuals, each dressed to the nines in dark clothes, in marked contrast to their pale, alabaster skin. Even the one who was African American had a faded look to his skin that was striking. “Yes. Who can tell me who these creatures are?”

“That’s easy. They’re the Dread Ones.”

A chill passed through the classroom.

“The Dread Ones, with their leader, Lord Jinn Dread, whose reign of terror here in Ghoulsville was not so long ago.” Professor Renard’s voice took on a melancholy quality.

“Yet they look so urbane,” Oscar remarked.

“Looks aren’t eveything,” Gabbie answered. “They enslaved and killed many innocents, everybody knows that.”

“Maybe not everybody,” Oliver said.

“Oliver, what are you saying?” Grace asked.

“Only that all we truly know is what’s been passed down. None of us was there at the height of their terror, as you call it,” he explained, “How do we really know that they were as dreadful as people say? We all know history is biased and that whoever is ruling the day tends to write the story.”

“An interesting point, TA McTavish,” Professor Renard said, “though I’m not sure it’s the majority view.”

“It’s not, Professor!” Gabbie exclaimed, a little incensed. “And I’m not sure how you can defend them, Oliver. Any organization that kills creatures just because they’re different can’t be misunderstood or unfairly portrayed.”

“So can anyone tell me what Miss Del Toro is referring to?”

“The trolls,” Neville said, after no one would say anything, “she’s talking about how the Dread Ones, in their quest to subjugate Ghoulsville and then the Outer World, destroyed the Troll Nation.” Both he and Gabbie looked at Grawl who sat with his head down, clearly wanting the moment to pass.

“That slaughter was never proven, though,” Oliver said, “not really.”

“Come on, Oliver, if it looks like a toad and smells like a toad…”

“Now who’s judging?” Oliver quipped.

“Not much for hard evidence these days, are we, Beast? Can’t blame you, though, given your family situation,” Florinda said cruelly.

“That’s enough, Florinda!” Renard said sharply. He was all for encouraging an informal tone in his classroom, but he didn’t cotton to out-and-out rudeness. “You’ve got a demerit for unusual cruelty. Let’s move on,” Renard continued. “Can anyone tell me who this is?” A new slide appeared of a stately looking Black woman with a green stripe in her bushy hair.

“Everyone knows who that is. She’s Florabelle Caster, one of the founders of Ghoul School.”

“That’s correct. You see her likeness above the seventh grade tower. She also was believed to be responsible for driving the Dread Ones out of Ghoulsville all those many years ago. Her magic wand was made from material that has never been seen since for its power. She wielded it so ably against the Dread Ones, and in the end, she sacrificed herself. That all-powerful wand of hers was lost in that horrible battle and never found again.”

“She’s always seemed so powerful,” Grace said. “How did she die?”

“She was murdered by a criminal and witch named Isabelle LeFort, who unfortunately has never been apprehended. It was suspected that Miss LeFort was also in league with the Dread Ones. All right, Oliver, you can turn the carousel down.” Renard faced the classroom.

“How come they never caught her?” Grace Johnson asked.

“Difficult to say. As rumor has it, she may have been a changeling…an actual one, too, not just a pretender.”

True changelings were quite rare in Ghoulsville these days, and even over the last century. Their ability to transform themselves at will into another form often made them valuable assets to local law enforcement—and for more nefarious individuals.

“Now I must tell you children something in all seriousness,” Renard went on, “not meant to scare you but to ready you. As you all obviously can surmise, based on our conversation, there are those factions of individuals who think that the Dread Ones were indeed valiant and true to Ghoul Kingdom; that in the end, they were misjudged. There are rumors that they have taken up their cause, albeit in secret, and hope to one day restore Ghoulsville to what it once was under Dread rule. No matter on which side you fall, you need to examine just exactly what is unfolding in front of you. Challenge the beliefs that you may have been raised with and decide for yourself what is true and just. If, for example, Jack Spratt’s Wick—possibly the most powerful artifact outside of Caster’s wand—was indeed to fall into the hands of the current Dread-inspired organizations that are believed by many to have cropped up here in Ghoulsville, you need to decide if this is a good thing, or if it is perhaps something more dire.”

The banshee finally screeched that the end of class was near. Lunch was next. The children, a bit drained by today’s offering from Professor Renard, eagerly made their way to the dining pavilions.

Oliver came over to Gabbie. “No hard feelings there, Gabbie,” he offered. “I sometimes like to stir things up a bit—just to see where people’s mettle truly lies. I hope you don’t mind.”

“You had me worried there for a moment, Oliver,” Gabbie said.

“Well, you’re a good debater. I’d hate to come up on your wrong side.”

“Let’s go, Gabbie,” Neville said, pulling her away.

“Neville, that was rude. What’s the rush?”

“No rush,” he said, “just wanted to get away from him.”

“Oliver?”

“I don’t trust him, I guess. Nigel never liked him; he thought he was a bigot.”

“Neville, that’s a hard word.”

“Maybe, but didn’t you notice? He had no problem clearing the air with you but didn’t say a word to Grawl, whom he probably offended more with all that talk about the Troll Nation massacre essentially not happening.”

“That was a good class, Professor,” Oliver said to Renard as the last of the children filed out.

“Thank you, Mister McTavish,” Renard replied, “though it’d be advisable that you modulate your passion a bit from here on out.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“No, boy, don’t be sorry; be careful.” Renard pulled his robe from the small closet in the back of the room. “Now, if you don’t mind, apparently I have an inspection to attend.”