Category: The Illiterate Magician

The busy editor neglects her posts, so here is the third chapter of the Illiterate Magician.

Chapter 3

Benjamin’s fingers tingled and his mouth dried. At north-eastern corner of College House, smiling at him with gleeful malice, like a fox waiting to pounce on a rabbit, stood Mullinsgud. One of the school prefects—the bad ones, one of them—Mullinsgud made use of his power at every opportunity by thrusting it upon other students. Half the size of the History Master, though with a full head of blond hair, and still twice as big as Benjamin for all that, Mullinsgud took pleasure from obtaining the respect he deserved. A cut above the run of the mill thugs like the stretched Blenkinsop, rat-faced Aarons and stubby Weavil that stood at his shoulders laughing like hyenas, Mullinsgud had a cunningness that ensured he walked away without any repercussions from his actions, and seldom needed to use his status as the nephew of Kerkammel’s squire.

The gardener made a noise like an angry cat. “Quick, lad. Come a time when you’ll need to stand up to the likes of that bottle of lard, but not now. Best you make yourself scarce.”

Benjamin didn’t need a second warning. Mullinsgud pointed a chubby finger at him and roared. The pack rushed forward. Benjamin darted away, through the turns in the garden he’d learnt from long walks over the last year.

“You lot! What you be doin’, running in my garden?”

Benjamin glanced over his shoulder, and almost sprawled over a tree-root. Dan had yelled to his pursuers, but they ignored the old gardener and ran along the grass closer to the building. He sprinted to safety. In the grounds, Mullinsgud would find him. Inside the college he stood a better chance. He could remain concealed in all the hidden corners he’d discovered until they gave up. They’d better give up—the pounding they’d given him the last time they caught him twice in one day landed Benjamin in the infirmary for almost a week, and with a limp for two. His legs pumped; he had the greater distance to travel, starting from the wall as he did.

The steps to the south entrance of College House he took two at a time. Benjamin seized the door handle but it refused to turn. He yanked again, then sprinted towards the west with a curse. Locked doors would be his undoing. The sun threw his shadow onto the clear-glass windows spaced every three feet, letting anyone inside the schoolrooms realise his predicament. Almost thirty windows he would pass in the way, wishing he could climb the vines that rose around each sill to the third floor, but he had discovered the hard way that the trellises wouldn’t bear his weight.

The next entrance lay at the south-west corner, between the square-doughnut of College House and the Repository. Indeed, it alone remained to him unless he ran clear round the labyrinth and back to the statue. The stained glass windows that surrounded the labyrinth came into view above him; in the window-pane a crowned man inspected a portrait of stars. A jeer from behind let him know Mullinsgud had rounded the corner.

He skidded into the rock garden between the square-doughnut of College House and the Repository, a no-man’s land twenty yards wide and half again as long that seldom saw sunlight. The grass gave way to gravel. Bordered by the unbroken ground-floor outer walls of Lymnans Gwithti, as the staff called the Repository, the garden had no exits other than into the college itself. Benjamin could see through the row of fixed windows at the end, but he knew the view to the garden of the other side of the Bell Tower was no more than a tease.

With the Bell Tower joined at the hip to College House, an odd structure connected the tower to the labyrinth. Mell Tremen, which Dan had explained meant ‘connecting passage’ served no purpose that Benjamin could ascertain, other than link the three main buildings of Kerkammel together, east to west. The passage, built at the same time as the college and the labyrinth, made up for the unbroken stone sides of the tower’s lower floors; windows spaced every three yards let the sparse sunlight permeate to the garden on the north side. But now, for Benjamin, Mell Tremen only completed the blind alley. Fumes from the laundry and bathroom assaulted his nose. With the tower and labyrinth accessible only from the main building, and the door to the laundry no doubt barred from within, Benjamin’s sole hope was that the college entrance remained unblocked.

Above his head, the stained-glass windows of the Repository cemented his feelings that safety lay out of reach. The hours he’d spent inspecting the motifs now left a rotten taste in his mouth. He tore his gaze away and spotted the open doorway, murmured thanks for the blessing, and dashed into the wood-panelled hallway of the school proper.

The corridor branched left at the south-west staircase. He decided against the kitchen or the laundry to the left—the staff might not side with Mullinsgud, but they wouldn’t stand against him either—the bathroom was a dead end and he shied away from the entrance to the Bell Tower which on this floor led only to the labyrinth. Further down that corridor returned outside once more, to the tunnel allowing carriages into the central courtyard. Could he escape there? He had no idea whether the doorways facing the courtyard would be free. Blenkinsop and Aarons weren’t the only cronies of Mullinsgud, not to mention the Masters. That left only straight ahead to the gym, theatre and classrooms—which might be empty, or might not—or up to the second floor.

He took the stairs. The sounds of bustle floated down from the boarder’s accommodation. He made it to the landing just as he heard Mullinsgud thunder through the doorway. Then he realised his mistake. A wall of students picked this time to head outside. He couldn’t push through them, could only hang onto the balustrade and not be turned by the tide. Mullinsgud arrived at the foot of the stairs and spotted Benjamin. He smirked. He might not be able to stem the tide either, but he had only to wait.

Benjamin hung there helpless, hoping none of those exiting would grab him on Mullinsgud’s behalf. The end of the tide approached, but he’d lost his lead. Mullinsgud drew a finger across his throat.

As soon as the tide lost its mass, Benjamin pushed through the final students and gained the second floor. He knocked into Perkins, a small boy in his own year—small being a relative term as everyone was bigger than Benjamin—but didn’t have time to apologise. While nooks abounded in student’s accommodation on the outer walls, he couldn’t be sure to reach any of those without being noticed; Mullinsgud was too close. The plan of the main building was simple: windows on outside walls and to the courtyard allowed light to filter in to the many rooms. Four staircases presided at each corner abutting the main corridors that separated the inner and outer rooms, but not all rooms were only entered from the corridor. He shot to the left, away from the bathrooms and the entrance to the Bell Tower, along the blank wall of the inner side which hid the ceiling void for the ground floor rooms abutting the inner-courtyard.

After Benjamin had taken twenty steps a triumphant cackle meant Mullinsgud had climbed the stairs. A doorway opened and a man preoccupied by a sheaf of important papers stepped out. Benjamin brushed past, avoiding the papers, and a yell followed his back.

“No running in the corridors!” Mr. Franklyn must not have seen his face. If Benjamin was lucky and the usual double standards didn’t apply, the acerbic School Manager would give Mullinsgud the same treatment.

“Mr. Mullinsgud, don’t let me detain you.”

An icicle of unfairness stabbed Benjamin in the stomach, but he pushed it aside, navigated the two students emerging from the south-east staircase, and slid around the corner. He didn’t know what other schools were like, but he’d learned the hard way about the ladder of power and authority in Kerkammel College, and Benjamin was three rungs below-ground.

“Get him!”

He bounced off someone’s bedroom on the far wall, brushed past a couple of fourth years not much older than him, and ran smack into an unyielding mass. Sprawled on his behind, Benjamin gazed up at the wall of the History Master’s stomach and gulped. The two fourth years snickered. He was in for it now.

But the History Master didn’t even notice. “My poor aching head.” He wore a hairnet over hair that smelled burnt. “And now more pain in stomach.” He wiped his mouth and removed a trace of paint. “I not feel well.”

The Master closed his eyes and swayed. Benjamin scrambled on the floor around the legs imitating tree-trunks and stumbled on. Mullinsgud thundered round the corner as the History Master moaned and toppled with an urgent type of lurch.

“Out of way! Out of way!”

“Look out!” one of the fourth years yelled. “He’s going to be sick!”

Unpleasant noises followed Benjamin. He hoped that Mullinsgud had copped a share of that payload but noises of pursuit clamoured even louder in his direction, gaining on him.

“Block the stairs!”

The corridor narrowed as it circumvented the stairwell. With the footsteps on his tail louder he hazarded a glance behind. Mullinsgud powered along like a locomotive, blocking the corridor and jamming the rest of the gang behind him. Except for—

Benjamin had just rounded the corner, avoided the shocked face of Mr. Stebbins, a recent graduate who taken on as Mr. Franklyn’s assistant and who always seemed sad, when Weavil shouted with glee in front of him. In fright, Benjamin skipped out of the way as the stumpy boy crashed to the ground where he’d vacated. A burst of speed brought on by the shock took him a few steps further, as Mullisgud, Blenkinsop and Aarons tripped over Weavil and tangled on the floor. That would give Benjamin breathing space, but only make Mullinsgud angrier. He needed to hide.

Weavil must have taken a shortcut via the west stairs. With Mullinsgud too close, Benjamin took a chance and darted into the next open door, praying it led somewhere.

He slammed the door, slid the latch and put his back to it. The sight which presented itself gave him an impression that this was one of the first year’s bedrooms. The room apparently empty, two rows of unmade beds met his eyes, some reeking, others in the process of being changed. Beside each a small, cheap cabinet, some overflowing, others tidy to an obsessive degree. A curtained area beside him gave some privacy to those who could stomach the taunts of such a need.

In the centre of the aisle not far from him, a large four-wheeled trolley stood lonesome. The top shelf emptied, the bottom still held some linen, curtains opened towards Benjamin in invitation. At the far end of the long, narrow room two unclosed doors led elsewhere, one back to the corridor.

“Get off me!”

Benjamin’s pulse thumped. Mullinsgud had extricated himself. Benjamin had to move. He could run through to the adjoining room, or—

He’d taken a chance to come in here. Time to take another. While Mullinsgud’s weighty footsteps sounded in the corridor outside, Benjamin tip-toed to the trolley, snaked into the bottom compartment and pulled the curtains closed around him.

No sooner had he done this than solid footsteps sounded on the polished floorboards inside the room, coming this way, and a fist struck the door behind him, but the latch held.

“He’s in here! We can get in through the other door!”

Thuds in the corridor showed Mullinsgud running to the doorway to cut him off, while the softer footsteps inside closed to the trolley. Benjamin held his breath, and his palms became sweaty. He didn’t know who was in the room, nor what they would do if they did find him. The patter of footsteps reached the trolley, and dumped something on it. Benjamin released a silent prayer. Whoever it was must be one of the staff, and it didn’t look like they knew he was hidden here.

He heard the trolley’s handles gripped, and the trolley nudged forward, but then stopped. Benjamin held his breath again. He was sure to be found now. Then, with a grunt of effort from without, the trolley moved with him in it.

Benjamin heard the far door smash open. The trolley stopped.

Mullinsgud snarled. “You, Mrs Blatherwick! Have you seen Coney?”

The husky voice next to the trolley replied in a meek tone. “No, Mr. Mullinsgud. Can’t say I saw anyone.”

“If I find out you’re lying, I’ll tell Mr. Franklyn.”

Mrs Blatherwick’s meek tone gave an impression of a sigh. “As you see best, Mr. Mullinsgud.”

Mullinsgud grunted, then spoke as if the woman by the trolley didn’t exist. “We’ll check the next room. Close the door so he can’t get out.”

Benjamin heard the heavy steps retreat and a door slam. He sighed without sound. He knew the grey-haired matron, but didn’t know how she would react to his presence. He didn’t think she would give him up to Mullinsgud, but the staff lived in fear of Mr. Franklyn.

Above his head, Mrs Blatherwick spoke in a quiet voice. “And I’ll thank you, Mr. Mullinsgud, to keep your over-large nose out of my work.” The trolley swayed as though she had pressed against the handles, but the wheels refused to budge. “My, but this trolley is heavy. How could that be since I’ve emptied all the bed-linen?”

Benjamin remained still. Then Mrs Blatherwick’s voice, no longer resigned but commanding though with an edge of comfort, sounded next to his ear.

“That was a hint for you to jump out and surprise me, Mr. Coney. In any case, you can get out now. The coast is clear.”

Benjamin didn’t move for a second, then realised that if the matron had wanted to give him away, she would have already done so. He scrambled out and whispered, “How did you know I was there?”

The squat, bulky woman not more than a head taller than him, rolled her eyes. “Bless you, Mr. Coney, I’ve been pushing that there trolley for ten years. I know how heavy it is. Doesn’t take a genius to realise that Mr. Mullinsgud’s prey is hiding inside.”

“Why…” His words trailed to an uncomfortable close.

Her eyes narrowed. “Why did I shield you from him?” She continued when he gave a guilty nod. “Not all of us would, that’s the sad truth. But I’ve seen you with old Dan. Warms my heart to see a student respecting the common folk.”

Benjamin blushed. He’d never known how to respond to compliments, especially when he didn’t think he done anything to warrant the praise. He mumbled in an effort to overcome his embarrassment. “How can I thank you?”

Her pudgy finger prodded his chest, emphasising each word. “Don’t get caught.”

Benjamin’s lips quirked and he almost smiled. Her eyes twinkled once more and she made shooting motions towards the locked door. His lips dropped as he remembered his predicament, but his shoulders set.

He tip-toed to the door, removed the latch and checked the coast was clear in the main corridor. With a final wave of thanks, he darted across the hall and retraced his steps back around the other side of the rectangular building.

With face scrunched, he avoided his room. Though the lockable door gave the impression of security, Mullinsgud had long since taught him the folly of a single exit, when left no route for escape. Besides, with Benjamin the only student not sharing a living space his room remained a constant source of contention, the reminder of which would only inflame matters.

Benjamin picked his way balancing speed with caution, and journeyed as far as the southern corridor when his rotten luck reasserted itself.

Another sneak preview. For the next several months, I’ll be publishing chapters of the Illiterate Magician on Wattpad. You can follow them here.

Chapter 2

Saturday afternoon
Hatless, bruised and dishevelled, Benjamin kept well clear of the school’s manor-like front entrance and stumbled around the far side of the fountain. The sun had ducked behind the chimney-stacks and crenellations on the roof more than an hour ago, and now gloom covered the statue like an oppressing hand, turning the chiselled knight into a formless cluster of granite.

Only the sword raised to the heavens broke through to the sunlight, a battle soon to be lost against overwhelming odds. With the finer details lost to shadow, the coat of arms on surcoat and shield which Benjamin had spent hours inspecting—an ancient tome crossed by flowers of Heather, all encircled by a script which declaimed in Latin ‘With wisdom, beauty and action, bravery’—may as well have never existed.

In his first class he’d asked Mr Scumblebottom, the English Master, to translate the inscription. That had been a mistake, attracting the ire of the Master at the interruption and the attention of them. Benjamin knew better now. There was no beauty in this place. He glanced below the splashing droplets to where the knight’s knees would otherwise have been, at the engraved lettering which christened the statue ‘The Protector’.

His lips grew taught and he glared at the eyes behind the conical helm. “There are no protectors.”

Though he wanted to hunker down and hide from the world, he ran on all a kilter towards the outer wall and temporary safety, only too aware of the trouble any Master would lay on his bare head if they caught him outside in such a state of disarray.

Out of breath and wishing he was far from the castle, Benjamin made a beeline for the gardener, pushing himself to keep going through the last handful of yards. At his destination, at the foot of the Cornish Oak, his foot slipped on grass still damp from melted frost. He grabbed old Dan’s coveralls to steady himself, and fell in beside the gardener, able to keep step despite legs half the size. Though his thighs became jelly as always after he’d run too far and too fast, for the old man’s sake Benjamin stepped with care so as not to damage any of the spring daisies lining the path that wended through the garden beds.

Dan readjusted his clothing in silence and nodded a greeting. The keen eyes under bushy eyebrows wended their way over Benjamin as they did the ground, lingering for a moment on his bare head. “What’s with your shirt?”

Benjamin examined his ripped sleeve. The cuff, still buttoned around a wrist even he called tiny, remained attached but soon wouldn’t. He blinked back tears, straightened his shirt collar and forced a look of unconcern. Though the executor of his trust funds—a man to whom he seldom spoke—would foot the bill, he’d be in trouble later. He could polish the scuff marks from his leather shoes, and he hoped the brown pants would return to a presentable state after a wash, but the shirt could not be saved by any craft he possessed. And they had his hat. He gulped down the unfairness of it all. “I… I ran into the stable door.”

Dan pursed his mouth and frowned. “Ar. That’d be same door as gave you a black eye yester week.”

“No. Well, not exactly the same.”

The old man grunted and scratched the tiny hairs on his chin the blade missed because his wrist no longer turned like it used to. “Mullinsgud and his cronies still on the lookout for you?”

Benjamin shot a glance over his shoulder and scanned the garden kept immaculate through Dan’s labours, from the rough stone of Gwardya Fos, the guard wall that circled the buildings known as Kerkammel Castle, to the row of windows on the east side of College House which separated the classrooms from the early afternoon chill, but saw nothing untoward. The wall loomed, the pruned hedges stood straight and, of most importance to Benjamin at the moment, the gravelled pathways remained empty, as they would until tomorrow when the sun deigned to banish the shadows now spreading from the College House’s four storey roof which made this side of the castle less appealing. “I don’t think they’re after me anymore. Not at the moment anyway.”

An indistinct growl emerged from Dan’s throat came as the old man pursed his lips again. Benjamin knew Dan wasn’t unhappy with him; the old man had said as much before. The staff at Kerkammel College suffered a different type of persecution from the students, unable to speak out or take any action against members of the family that owned the castle for fear of dismissal without a reference, no matter how distant that familial relationship.

“Well, you be here now. Best to put the past behind us.” Dan smoothed his face and inserted a cheerful note into his tone. “Happy Lady Day for last Monday! Best of a New Year to you.”

Benjamin scrunched his face in confusion. “But the New Year started in January.”

“That be so. One of them newfangled ideas.” The gardener nodded with a distant expression, and resumed his methodical inspection of the path. “But ‘newness not always goodness’, as Ma Penrose used to say.”

Always eager to hear the old man’s stories, Benjamin couldn’t stop himself taking the bait. “Ma Penrose?”

“Me ma’s grandma, and a more Cornish name you won’t find.” Dan’s keen eyes ceased roaming the ground at their feet, alighting on a young creeper a few yards away that wended its way up the inside of the stout outer wall. “Old she was when I was just a lad. Lived more than a century, and sprightly till the end. Died afore I turned ten. Taught me the old ways, she did.” He jerked his chin at the stone edifice, which Benjamin knew to be older than the buildings it surrounded, save for the bell-tower. “Ways that have lasted as long as Gwardya Fos here.” The old man crouched next to the creeper in the awkward fashion his hip permitted, face scrunched in concentration. Then his expression cleared with the brightness of one who has plucked a notion from the deepest corners of recollection. “Medieval, that’s what Principal Fume calls them days, when for time out of mind Lady Day rang in the New Year.”

“Really? I didn’t know that.” Words tumbled from Benjamin’s mouth in an effort to remedy this admission of ignorance. “I mean, I know about the Quarter Days. Who doesn’t know about Midsummer, Michaelmas at the end of September, or Christmas? I prefer the cross-quarter days, especially May Day and All Saints Day at the start of November. Back in London…” Benjamin’s eyes misted and he fell silent.

Dan didn’t let on whether he noticed but he snorted. “All Saints Day! You youngsters know nothing ’bout that. All Hallows’ Day be its true name. A day to remember the dead, after a night when the dead remember the living.”

Benjamin chuckled, his momentary mood washed away.

“Laugh if you will, boy. Ma Penrose always said the dead stirred in their graves on All Hallows’ Eve.” Dan shot a look beyond Benjamin past College House and the soaring Bell Tower to the huge stained glass windows of the building known by some as the Art Museum just visible in the distance. Benjamin followed the gardener’s gaze to the building housing the labyrinth, which Headmaster Fume called The Repository, as the old man’s voice darkened. “All Hallows’ Eve. That’s when the veil ‘tween us and the netherworld thins. You mark my words, boy! Many an odd happenstance will come to light in the weeks afore midwinter.” Dan shook his head at the Art Museum, as if to dispel untoward visions, and returned to the creeper he gripped with gnarled hands, encouraging it to grow in another direction.

Benjamin’s gaze remained captured by the doorless facade of The Repository. Did the gardener mean the structure held more than paintings? A prickle of fear trickled down his spine. Everything he heard about the labyrinth make him on edge.

He shivered then forced his attention back to the gardener’s ministrations. Old Dan may have been an unusual companion for a boy of thirteen, but Benjamin had never been able to ease into the company of others, and the decision of his father’s executor to dump him in a boarding-school far from anything he knew had only increased his isolation. Besides, the gardener told the best stories about days long since passed—if they ever were.

“Eh?” Dan replied, after Benjamin asked a question. “Always kept the Guard Wall clear of plants. A thousand years or more these stones been ‘ere, guarding the castle. And it’s important they remain that way—so Ma Penrose used to say.”

Benjamin repressed a snicker so as not to upset the old man. “Guarding the castle from what? The moor?”

“As may be.” Dan put the final touches on his arrangement of the vine. “Or maybe t’other way round.”

But Benjamin’s concentration wandered and he repeated sentiments he had often expressed in their walks around the grounds. “Not as if it’s even a real castle. Yes, it is surrounded by a high wall, but that doesn’t make it a castle—it’s nothing more than a group of large interconnected buildings, and more odd for all that.” His lips pursed in a moue as he considered the Guard Wall. Fifteen feet in height, the solid structure showed no sign of wear despite its age.

From the castle’s solitary tower he could gaze over that wall west to Tintagel on the rocky coast and south to Cardinham Forest. To the north and east, beyond the many buildings that made up the town of Kammelton, a gloomy weather-beaten bunch of structures that ranged all around, lay the granite plains of the moor—as far as the eye could see in either direction. Bodwin Moor, or Fowey Moor as Dan was want to say, filled with mysterious stone circles older than Stonehenge and cairns from past centuries, boasted the highest peak in Cornwall. The gardener’s stories held that the fierce winds and spear-like storms clouds that swept from The Hill of Swallows, or Bronn Wennili as the locals named the peak, were the anger of the King buried at the summit, reminding the Cornish of the powers that remained in the land, ready to be unleashed at any moment. The sturdy houses of Kammelton outside the walls often bore the brunt of that weather. “And there doesn’t seem to be any purpose to the town—it’s there because the castle is here. And what’s the point of a castle in the middle of a moor?”

“Perhaps there used to be a reason.” The gardener used Benjamin as a prop to rise with many creaks and groans to his feet. “Kerkammel be old, boy. And ain’t no one knows how old—the stories been handed down from mother to daughter so many times they lost count.”

“And that makes even less sense.” Benjamin’s gaze snapped to the chiselled stones of the College House’s south-east corner. “I mean it really isn’t a castle, at least not like Tintagle or any medieval castle I’ve read about. It’s big enough, I grant you—but there’s only four floors—except for the huge Bell Tower that sticks out like a sore thumb.” Benjamin craned his neck to study the tower’s ninety-nine yards. Higher structures built at the dawn of the middle ages still stood, but none which were surrounded by an outer wall of the same radius, as Headmaster Fume had drilled into him, a design feature which Benjamin could only categorise as weird. With a jolt he realised that Dan had moved on without him toward the sunlight banks of yellow Primrose and purple Dog Violet’s under the Davey Elm’s to the south, and he ran a few steps to catch up. “Where are the spires or the drawbridge? There’s not even a moat. And the wall—it’s so narrow you can hardly even walk on it!”

Dan chuckled as Benjamin fell in beside. “An’ if the School Manager catches you doing that again, you’ll be for it.”

“Oh, all right.” Benjamin sighed. “I won’t let Mr Franklin catch me again—but really, I think he’s only happy when I give him an excuse to spend more of my money.”

“Ar. Some truth in that, to be sure.” Step by step the gardener plodded south along the Guard Wall to emerge from the shadows.

“Besides,” Benjamin said, “I was only looking for where the archers were supposed to hide.” No, as a castle it was poor. Instead of armaments, portraits lined the interior walls of the labyrinth. Instead of great halls, a plethora of tiny rooms made up the second floor accommodation, and the dungeon was at best large enough to be fit for a wine cellar, which use it had been put since time out of mind. “It’s called a castle, but the windows of the maze remind me of a cathedral, and the school rooms are more like a rabbit warren.”

A hollow laugh erupted from somewhere inside Benjamin. “That’s it—a rabbit warren! And all the boarders are the rabbits.” He noticed Dan’s raised eyebrow at this, but nothing could stop him. “Hundreds and hundreds of rabbits, all shuffling from one classroom to another—following the orders of the out-of-tune school bell.” Rabbits that sometimes poked their heads outside the castle, but raced back to evade predators. Predators which, instead of foxes, wore the robes of the Masters—often keen to hand out punishments for little provocation—and them, who punished without provocation.

“Just you be sure them foxes don’t prey any more on the likes of you.” The gardener placed a callused hand on his shoulder to emphasise the warning often made, taking pains not to mention the state of Benjamin’s clothing. “That prefect, Hartley—he’s a good sort, but he canna stop the bullying of Mullinsgud and the like. Best you stay out of the way—for yer own good. Hiding in them nooks and crannies like you been don’t hurt none either.” He paused, then asked the question he’d no doubt been wanting to since Benjamin had first arrived. “Weren’t you supposed to be studying this morning?”

“I suppose so.” Benjamin avoided Dan’s eyes and replied in a tired tone. Saturday morning was the allotted time for that, and if he’d remained inside he might not have been caught… but he’d done too much homework. Not wanting to dwell on what had befallen him, he gazed passed the gardener to the top of the wall and changed the subject with a common lament. “Why does this place have to be so dreary? Wish there was interesting stuff, like the stories you tell. Of ghosts, and kings—and Fummelin!”

Dan didn’t take the bait, but at least the gardener didn’t go on about the need to stay away from foxes; the old man could be stubborn at times.

“My governess was always terrified of ghosts. So was my…” To stop himself choking on his own words, Benjamin forced himself onwards. “I don’t know what I’d do if I actually came across one, but I think I’d like to meet a ghost—”

Dan’s grip tightened on his shoulder, and his words fell away. He followed the old man’s gaze back up the path he’d travelled and his breath froze in his chest.

A sneak preview for you.

Chapter 1

Kerkammel College, Cornwall, 1895

The two teachers ambled along the painting-lined hall, the pace of the bear-like Master of History limited by the tapping of the Master of Mathematics’ walking stick. This was not the first such walk into the labyrinth, but neither had there been many, and the Master of Mathematics decided that this would be the last; that he had been wrong to think the other could ever be the ally he sought.

“Do you know, Bernhard,” the Mathematics Master said, gesturing at one of the many out-of-focus portraits in a last ditch attempt to avoid the conclusion that the other was indeed all bear, “that legends surround these paintings?”

The wind rattled unseen windows as Bernhard squinted at the nearest portrait. He tapped on the unadorned frame inscribed ‘Malcomptent the Incompetent’ which ringed the face of the portrait rendered in jarring hues. Cold burning eyes returned his stare. “Why are writings in father-tongue?” He spoke with words filled with strong consonants, imperious syllables and fadur-tongues.

The Mathematics Master twiddled his bow-tie. “Oh, a trick of the mind, I’m sure. No doubt brought on by the half-light of the candles.” The top of the walls, though unreachable even by the hulking History Master, opened into the void below the second level of the labyrinth. The moon’s dim glow pervaded the ceiling-space above the half-walls and gave the serpentine passages an otherworldly impression. “If you look closer, I’m sure you’ll realise the words are written in English but, in your longing for your homeland, you see your native tongue.”

The head of the bear contemplated the inscription once more and grunted assent.

“An interesting case in point.” The Mathematics Master raised the head of his cane to the painting in question. “That is said to be the last of the Illiterate Magicians, a tradition that can be traced for centuries.”

Bernhard snickered at the notion of magic wielded by those unable to spell. A physical blow against the windows preceded the sudden extinction of the moonlight, but the darkness, broken only by the flickering candles, eased a moment later.

The Mathematics Master continued unperturbed. Unaccountable spring storms came often from Bronn Wennili, with battering gales and thunder that shot across the moor as a spear from that peak, but the castle had survived worse. He swung his cane to the intersection at the end of the hallway, where facing them underneath a lit candelabra hung a painting with a lavish carved frame that lacked an inscription. The bald egg-headed man featured therein, an ear-horn hanging from his right hand, appeared to watch them with interest. “And around the corner from Ludwig over there, lies the painting of Malcontentus, known as The Evil—amongst the most vile ever to stand on these shores—and let us pray that such as he never comes again.”

Bernhard paid no attention as the cane tapped the floor twice, and then three times in quick succession. The windows rattled in sympathy.

His composure regained, the Mathematics Master continued in a placid and conversational tone. “The legends hold that the faces you see are prisoners, each trapped within their own painting.”

“Nein, nein, nein—no. I do not belief such foolishness.” Bernhard stooped to prevent his head banging on the ornaments projecting from the walls, a feat made difficult by the excessive amount of alcohol he had imbibed at dinner. “The stories you tell, Jon!”

“I prefer Jonathon, if you don’t mind.”

Bernhard waved away the matter. He narrowed his eyes at the portrait of Ludwig, as though out of the corner of his eye he had noticed something change, or the figure in the portrait move, but after a few moments inspecting the ear-horn held to Ludwig’s left-ear he turned away. “Nein. There is no such thing as magic, and as for Illiterate Magicians.” He gave a growl of a laugh. “You English have such foony notions.”

The extended vowels made understanding difficult, but Jonathon guessed the meaning of ‘foony’.

The History Master swung his ponderous head up and down the hallway. The candlelight obscured and disoriented, the paintings’ occupants seeming to move with every flicker. “Cold make reason small. Yes, paintings are spooky.” He waved a hand pretending to be a leg of ham at the portrait of the Illiterate Magician. “And eyes seem to follow us in candlelight, but they just paintings.”

If the portraits did follow them as they passed, Jonathon paid no attention. He buttoned his jacket against the chill as he moved further from the outside walls and the scant warmth that had crept in during the early daylight hours. Already frost would be covering the ground outside. The tapping of the cane sounded again as he stepped towards the portrait of Ludwig.

Left behind, Bernhard stumbled against Malcontent’s portrait, jerked backwards from the face rendered in fury, then straightened his shoulders and snickered again as though covering a momentary fright. “Prisoners! You English and your strange superstitions.”

“Oh, they are not all English legends,” replied the normal-sized, but almost diminutive in comparison, Jonathan, more and more convinced of the futility of his hope. “I’m sure such an eminent historian as yourself knows of the Fummelin.”

“Fummelin?” The big man’s eyebrows grew together and he mouthed the word, then his visage cleared and his oversized lips split into a grin. “Hah! You mean Fummeln. Little invisible flying creatures that play pranks?” Bernhard laughed so hard his enormous belly shook sending his coat askew. His thick jowls wobbled with the rest of him, bar for his greased-hair which moved not one iota. “Fummeln—creatures weak-willed children use to give their lives meaning. Who broke the window? The Fummeln did. Why did he go crazy? The Fummeln scared him. Hah! They are excuses to explain oddities. Like this castle, and a poor excuse for castle it is too. Not like real ones in the father-land. Whoever heard of such a crazy thing? This laba… labi…”

“Labyrinth?”

“Labyrinth, ya.” The History Master’s agreement resembled an animal-like grunt. “A labyrinth filled with all these crazy paintings inside a castle, and castle built next to moor! Nein—no wonder there are legends, but truth is simple.” Bernhard waved a huge hand in an all-encompassing gesture, to take in the labyrinth and the castle as a whole. “A thousand years ago, your crazy Cornish king went really bonkers. He built this eyesore in a moor and filled it with very bad paintings. The superstitious peasants came up with many explanations. Prisons, Fummeln, and ghosts no doubt, but there are no ghosts.”

Jonathon murmured in an undertone, “That, indeed, is what Mrs Stamper thought.”

“Who this Mrs Stamper?”

The Mathematics Master gave an impression of a sigh as though he should have kept his thoughts to himself, but then his eye caught a wood plaque carved into a coat of arms, the same that adorned the statue of ‘The Protector’ in the fountain outside the castle’s main entrance. Heather that bloomed everywhere on the moor crossed an ancient tome bound in leather, all surrounded by a Latin inscription. Anno sapientia et decorem, fortium bonorum. He mouthed the words and then straightened his back. The tapping continued with greater vigour. “Mrs Stamper was one of the King’s servants many hundreds of years ago, reminiscent of our own Mrs Blatherwick. A solid, down to earth matron who didn’t believe in ghosts.” Jonathon paused at the corner of the hallway, next to the painting that lacked an inscription, and gestured with the head of the cane. “Until she met Ludwig here.”

Like a bear, Bernhard swung his head and bent over so that the end of his snub nose brushed the painting. Once more he examined the figure holding the ear-horn with both hands, as though daring Ludwig to reveal himself; but if the figure in the portrait had ever moved, Ludwig now remained stationary.

“Ludwig supposed to be ghost, ya?” said the History Master in a sceptical tone. “What happened when Mrs Stamper met the ghost?”

Jonathon leant on his cane. “Apparently, Ludwig asked for her ear.”

“Hah! You are pulling my foot, as you English say. Next you will be telling me that Santa Claus delivers all presents.”

“Not at all.” The Mathematics Master didn’t blink. “I quite agree with you there—Santa does not deliver all the presents.”

“Well, that something,” said Bernhard. “But, as I say, I not surprised there are stories about this crazy castle. There no use for it—and because castle no use, they turn it into school.” The barking laugh exploded again but turned bitter. He waved his arms in expansive gestures. “And now here I stuck, with the English and their spooky paintings and crazy legends, but there are no ghosts or Fummeln.”

The oversized man must have swayed too close to the wall and knocked the lit candelabra above Ludwig. The bronze ornament fell to the ground with a resounding clang, extinguishing the candles. The reverberations faded without further effect, until a noxious odour appeared and the History Master’s greased-hair ignited.

The legs of ham pretending to be Bernhard’s hands slapped the back of his bear-like head in an attempt to put out the flame, but the hot, sizzling sound indicated this had no effect.

Jonathon leant on his cane with both hands. “I say, old man, you seem to be on fire. An occupational hazard of candles. May I be of any assistance?”

Bernhard growled in negation. His meaty paws slapped twice more then ripped the wig from his head and he stomped on it several times. “Mein gott.” The big man straightened out the headpiece, pulled out the burnt fibres and pressed the now misshapen wig back onto his balding head. “As you English say, I have drunk too many wine. Why must be candles here when gas-light in school-rooms?”

“Who is to say? Perhaps one of those budget restrictions we’re forever hearing about.” Jonathon shrugged. “Lucky it wasn’t an oil lamp. In any case, the candelabra dislodging is not your fault, I’m sure.” The Mathematics Master scrutinised the candelabra. “Perhaps the true culprits are the Fummelin.”

A low, angry noise emanated from Bernhard’s throat. “If I not know better, I say you insulting me. I am drunk, not dummkoph—how you say—idiot. Doonderhead.” Satisfied with the wig, he gestured that the incident was not to be discussed further and returned his attention to Ludwig. Eyes narrowed, nose facing the floor, he returned to his conversation as though nothing had happened. “Fummeln! How can you—a man of logic—place any store in such old wives tales?”

Jonathon replied in an undertone. “Because the origin of history lies with old wives tales.”

The hunched-over History Master either didn’t hear, or didn’t care. “Fummeln my foot. If Fummeln then I donkey—”

The windows banged and Bernhard’s voice metamorphosed, replaced by braying. At the same time his nose and chin seemed to elongate, merging into a seamless whole as his think neck became indistinguishable from the side of his head. His ears lost their chubbiness, becoming flat and extensive, only to flop over and dangle without use past his snout.

The Mathematics Master appeared not to notice. “Pardon me, old chap, but I’m not sure I caught that last.”

“Oh, my aching head,” said the donkey, now returned to his normal bearish state. His back remaining parallel to the floor, Bernhard clamped both pudgy hands to his head. “I say if Fummeln then I billy-goat—”

His words drowned in bleating. The snout returned, though this time the wig’s black curls seemed to spread over his entire body, his ears stuck out while pointed horns adorned his head.

“I’m afraid I am having difficulty understanding you,” Jonathon said, once more not noticing, or not affecting to notice, the startling transformations.

“Mein gott!” Bernhard stood upright and massaged his temples. “Is wine, no doubt. My speech not good, and my head playing havoc with coorrd… cord… movement. And I hungry. I want carrots.” The History Master frowned. “I not like carrots.” Bernhard shook his head with vigour. “Nein. There is no Fummeln and no ghosts and here I am stuck in this crazy castle.”

“Kerkammel is unusual.” The Mathematics Master began the slow mournful tune of the tapping to the next corner.

“Ya.” Bernhard seized on the subject and forgot his aching head. “How can you up with it put? I here six days, but feels like six months. And the students—how is it they such doonderheads? When I compare them to youth of father-land.” The History Master shook his ponderous head in dismay. He waved a paw at Jonathon in conciliation. “You seem intelligent, but students here not understand single word of my wonderful subject.”

“Really? Why, I would have thought any teacher with such excellent references would have little difficulty communicating with students.”

“You right, I excellent teacher. I convinced difference is due to general superiority of father-land. No offence, as you English say.”

The two figures turned the corner, and the tapping faded with a final growled lament. “Now here I stuck. If only I didn’t…”

The remaining candles flickered and a momentary gleam lightened the empty hall. With a scrape the candelabra picked itself up from the floor. The unnamed painting bulged outwards and the ear-horn emerged into the passageway, followed by Ludwig’s ear and the side of his bald head.

“What a doonderhead,” Ludwig said. “De general sooperiority ov de fadur-land? I am ashamed to share ancestry with that schmuck. I doubt he could explain that he was on fire—no wonder the students can’t understand a word. What’s that?”

Ludwig put his ear-horn back in as the candelabra chittered once more.

“I quite agree.” Ludwig’s head squished as his forehead and the ridge of his eyebrows nodded but his chin and nose did not. After a moment, his eyes re-appeared, popping back into place. “Jonathon generally has good intuition about people, but not this time. Of course ghosts and Fummeln don’t exist for that bear! He wouldn’t understand magic if was thrust into his face.” The ghost giggled at the candelabra. “Or set fire to the back of his head.”

The chittering noise hiccupped a few times and the candelabra almost fell to the floor again.

Ludwig gazed once more in the direction the two men had walked and shook his head, a movement his ears forgot to imitate. “What a schmuck. Was foony but.”

The still shaking head sunk back into the painting, and the candelabra reattached itself to the wall—albeit in an uncoordinated fashion. The hall became quiet as the ear-horn changed from three dimensions to two, leaving nothing but the silent portraits to relate the existence of Fummelin or ghosts. Or magic.