Soul Stealer (14 page)

“So where does his book fit in?” asked Tim.

Sebastian went on, “In Cordoba, Gerbert studied under a famous Muslim magician whose considerable magical power was based
upon spells recorded in a volume locked in an iron strongbox. Realizing this, Gerbert seduced the magician’s daughter, promising
to take her away and marry her if she helped him acquire the book. She drugged her father, removed the key from his person
and, unlocking the chest, gave the book of spells to Gerbert.”

“And they lived happily every after?” Pip suggested.

“Indeed not,” Sebastian continued. “Gerbert fled, leaving the girl behind. When her father regained his consciousness, he
was enraged and set off in pursuit, but Gerbert succeeded in escaping him.”

“Sounds like a real jerk,” said Tim vehemently.

“There is, I fear, more,” Sebastian added. “It is said Gerbert prayed to Satan to save him from the magician, and that he
bartered his soul to the Devil and that Satan promised him even greater powers than were in the book of spells. For the remainder
of his life, Gerbert was said to keep a human head, presented to him by Satan, with which he conversed, learning many more
evil secrets which he added to the book.”

“And Scrotton’s got the book,” Tim said.

“In the year of Our Lord 983,” Sebastian said finally, “Pope Otto the Second appointed Gerbert as abbot of a famous monastery
and in the year 999, he was elected Pope Sylvester the Second.”

“Cosmic!” Tim remarked. “A pope who sold himself to Satan and owned a book of the Devil’s personal spells.”

“More to the point,” Pip half whispered, “if Scrotton’s got it now, Yoland’s got it, too.”

For some minutes, Sebastian was silent. Finally, he stood up and declared, “I feel assured now that Yoland is not concerned
with the creation of a homunculus, the transmutation of iron into gold or the perfection of
aurum potabile.
For these, he would have no use of the book.”

“Then what?” ventured Tim.

“I know not yet,” Sebastian admitted, “but you may be assured it is more evil and ambitious than anything of which Malodor
could have dreamed.”

Tim’s first attempt at a sick note was superb. Modelling his writing on his mother’s, it read,
Please excuse Sebastian from school today. He has a badly upset stomach. Yours, Anna Gillette.
Then, after practicing the signature, he incorrectly signed it
Annette
and had to start again. Eventually, with it finished, he folded it into an envelope and wrote,
B. Yoland Esq.
on the front.

“If Yoland asks, I’ll tell him your mother asked me to deliver it.”

“Are you sure this will be sufficient?” Sebastian asked as they waited in Tim’s room for Pip to finish putting on her uniform.

“Course,” Tim replied. “They don’t check if it’s true. At least, not unless you keep on falling ill. Then they give your parents
a ring. But for a one-off? No problemo! Now,” he went on, “don’t forget. Our dad’s out on business and Mum’s going to get
her hair done after she drops us off. If the telephone rings in the
house three times, then stops, then rings once, it means Scrotton’s in school.”

“And if it rings twice, pauses, then rings twice again, he is
in absentia,”
Sebastian said.

“You’ve got it!” Tim retorted, checking that his mobile phone was fully charged.

Half an hour later, Pip and Tim walked through the school gates ten paces behind Scrotton, who looked as scruffy as ever and
carried his tattered sports bag with the handles slung over his shoulder. At the bicycle racks, Tim paused and made the pre-arranged
call. Once in the classroom, he put the sick note upon the register where it lay on the demonstration bench.

Back at Rawne Barton, Sebastian shape-shifted into a crow and flew off in the direction of the woods, arriving at the oak
tree within ten minutes. Once perched on a stout bough, he cawed three times. It was not inconceivable that Scrotton had stationed
a sentry, especially if he had sensed his burrow had been recently visited. Yet nothing seemed out of the ordinary, so Sebastian
glided to the woodland floor and started to strut about in the jaunty way of crows. A squirrel seemed momentarily interested
in his presence but, listening to its intermittent squeaking and churring noises, and watching as it collected twigs, dead
leaves and lengths of shredded bark, Sebastian realized it was intent on constructing a nest in a nearby ash tree and protecting
it from another squirrel which was busy burying nuts.

Satisfied that Scrotton had stationed no guards, Sebastian stepped behind the oak, transformed himself back into human form
and approached the burrow entrance.
Placing a piece of the blue gum in his mouth, he lowered himself into the cavity. To avoid the worms, he pulled himself quickly
forward on his elbows until he reached Scrotton’s chamber, where he felt under the bed of bracken, lifted out the box, sprang
the padlock and opened it. Very carefully, he removed the book of spells and began to read, his eyes moving quickly over the
archaic text. Every now and then, he looked up and scanned the burrow to ensure he was still alone.

The spells, mostly written in Latin or Middle French, dealt with a wide variety of subjects, from simple curses against individuals
to complex ceremonials that could purportedly destroy a nation or bring down a kingdom. However, one in particular drew Sebastian’s
attention. It involved a complicated four-part process but this, however, was not what initially caught his eye. The page
was bookmarked with a dead oak leaf.

Sebastian memorized the spell then, returning the book to the box, locked it, slid it back into its hiding place and set about
a thorough fingertip search of the burrow.

Meanwhile, at Bourne End Comprehensive, Tim and Pip — and Scrotton — were in a double period of geography, commencing a project
on Africa. The first forty-five minutes of the class involved watching a video. Halfway through, Pip nudged Tim. Scrotton
was clearly very agitated. He wriggled in his seat, fumbled with his books and ballpoint pen and tapped his feet on the rung
of his chair.

He knows,
Pip wrote for Tim in her notebook.

Tim nodded.

At the end of the lesson, the bell for the midmorning break rang. In a second, Scrotton was out of his seat as if it were
red hot and heading for the door.

“Excuse me!” the geography teacher called after him. “We wait until…”

Scrotton was already out of the door and heading down the corridor.

“He’s going to the woods!” Tim muttered. “We’ve got to stop him. Get my books.”

Tim followed hard on Scrotton’s heels but, as Scrotton made for the science department and his locker, Tim headed for the
playground and the main school entrance. It was, he knew, the only way into or out of the school grounds during lessons: all
the other gates were kept locked.

A minute later, Scrotton appeared halfway across the playground, carrying his bag. Tim ran hard at him, deliberately slamming
into him, knocking him off his feet to sprawl across the concrete.

“I don’t like you,” he said loudly as Scrotton got to his feet. “You’re ugly, you smell like a dung heap, you’re a bully and,”
he added in case these insults were insufficient to raise Scrotton’s anger, “you’re a big-headed, poisonous little dwarf.”

Scrotton dropped his bag and launched himself into midair, clenching his fists. He swung a punch at Tim’s head. Tim weaved
aside but still took a painful hit on his shoulder. Scrotton spun around and came at him again, hurling himself on to Tim’s
back with the ferocity of a leopard leaping onto an antelope. Tim felt Scrotton’s hot stinking breath on his neck. His short
legs quickly wrapped about his waist, and his arms
locked around his chest. For a moment, Tim thought that, had Scrotton not been wearing shoes, his toes would have linked together
like a monkey’s, to tighten their grip.

“Think you’re clever, don’t you?” Scrotton muttered into Tim’s ear, flecks of spit spraying on to Tim’s cheek and into his
ear. “You don’t know nothing, you don’t! Nothing!” Scrotton spat, a gob of warm, glutinous saliva slithering down Tim’s neck
and under his collar. “You’re’n ignoramus!”

“And you’re a moron,” Tim rejoined as he reached over his head, grabbed Scrotton’s collar and, leaning forward, tried to tug
him over his head as a television wrestler might, to slam him on the ground. Yet Scrotton’s legs prevented the ploy and Tim
realized that he was in a losing position. His only hope was to fall and try and get on top of Scrotton, but when he attempted
this maneuver, Scrotton leaned the other way to maintain their balance.

By now, a jostling crowd of both boys and girls had gathered around the fight. Most were egging Tim on. Some shouted insults
at Scrotton from the safety of the mass. Pip came up, trying to push her way through to help Tim, but the throng was too tightly
packed.

Suddenly, Tim felt Scrotton’s teeth nibbling on the side of his neck and he knew, if Scrotton succeeded, he would bite through
his jugular and he would bleed to death before any ambulance could arrive.

“Right!” shouted a voice. “You two stop this this very instant!”

Scrotton still clung onto Tim’s back, but his teeth halted their searching.

Standing in front of them was one of the teachers on playground duty, a cup of coffee in his hand. He had clearly spilled
much of it in his hurry to arrive on the scene.

“Break it up! Now! Separate yourselves!” He nudged Scrotton’s bag with his foot. “Whose is this?”

“Mine,” said Scrotton.

“Mine, sir!” snapped the teacher. “Pick it up. You two follow me.”

A few minutes later, Tim and Scrotton stood side by side in front of the headmaster’s desk. The teacher on duty recounted
what had happened. Dr. Singall leaned back in his chair and surveyed them both.

“This kind of behavior is not tolerated at Bourne End Comprehensive,” he announced sternly. “I will not condone fighting.
Scrotton, you will spend the remainder of the day sitting on a chair outside my office where I can keep an eye on you and
where you will do work set by your teachers. At lunch break, you will accompany Mr. Taylor here wherever he goes on duty.
That will keep the two of you apart and give you a chance to cool down.” He looked at Tim. “And you, Ledger, will attend your
classes and, tomorrow morning, will present me with a 300-word essay on why you think I will not condone fighting.”

The bell rang for the start of classes.

“And bear in mind,” Dr. Singall said finally, “if there is a repetition of this, I shall call your parents in. Now, both of
you get out.”

“Well?” Pip asked as she met Tim in the corridor outside their next lesson.

“Scrotton’s doomed,” he replied. “Tied by a leash to the teacher or a chair outside the headmaster’s office.”

“And you?”

“Only got an essay to write. The head clearly doesn’t like Burrow Boy.”

That evening, after completing their homework and Tim’s punishment essay, Tim and Pip tapped on the panel and, accompanied
by Sebastian, descended to his chamber.

When Tim told Sebastian what had occurred at school, Sebastian smiled and said, “You did well, Tim, and at considerable risk
to yourself. Scrotton is not to be meddled with, for he would assuredly have bitten deep into your neck had he had the opportunity.”

“If he had,” Tim replied, “I would’ve bled to death.”

“Yes,” Sebastian concurred. “Thus have you earned my eternal gratitude. Had he apprehended me in the woods, I could have shared
a similar fate.”

“But surely he wouldn’t…” Pip began.

“Be assured he would,” Sebastian interrupted. “Remember, he is a wodwo and, as such, is not guided by common morality. To
him there is no distinction between right or wrong, good or evil. As with any animal, there is only survival.”

“What about your visit to Scrotton’s hole?” Tim inquired.

Sebastian unfolded a square of heavy paper.

“This is the spell upon which I am certain Yoland is concentrating his efforts,” he declared. “I memorized it from the book.
Translated into modern English, it is entitled: To Captivate the Minds of Many.”

“You mean,” Tim said, “it’s a spell Yoland can use to control minds?”

“Indeed,” Sebastian concurred. “At present, he may have the power to see into a person’s soul but he has yet to fully develop
the ability to take complete control over it. This spell will give him that.” Sebastian folded the sheet of paper and slipped
it into one of his father’s volumes for safekeeping.

“How can you be certain this is the one?” Pip asked.

“First,” Sebastian replied, “Scrotton had marked the page. Second, it is a four-part spell requiring four keys, one of which
you found in the dilapidated house, Tim. Third, in closely searching the burrow, I have discovered the other three thrust
into the soil of the roof.”

From his pocket, Sebastian produced several other squares of paper, spreading them on the table. Upon each of them he had
drawn an esoteric symbol.

“These are engraved on the keys,” he began.

The first was the symbol: