Kindle Edition
RA Jones author
RAjonesauthor
Category:
Fantasy
ISBN-13: 9781452407920
Revenge stalks the streets of Edinburgh and Sam and his Gran are walking right into it's hungry trap in…The Curse of Borage Doone.
The trouble begins when Sam's Gran wins a competition set by her favourite TV chef, and she's over the moon. But things aren't at all what they seem when it comes to prize-giving. There are things wandering Edinburgh's dark alleys that would love to turn Sam into their dish of the day. Old grudges surface and Sam's growing knowledge of the cunning ways is about to be severely tested. But what he doesn't realise is that there's a much bigger prize at stake…The Curse of Borage-Doone.
Excerpt
The Curse of Borage Doone
RA Jones
CHAPTER 1
A POSTCARD FROM SWITZERLAND
Sam Jones lay on his bed studying the picture on the postcard his parents had sent him from Switzerland. He stared at grassy green hills and lush alpine meadows set against a backdrop of snow-crested mountains. At the very bottom of the scene was a village dotted with wooden chalets. Sam’s dad had drawn a snaky arrow in Biro pointing to a window in one of the bigger buildings. At the end of the arrow in the clear blue sky was a word balloon. In it he’d written “Our room!”
Outside, a fresh gust of wind hurled a spattering of rain against Sam’s bedroom window. Now, you might be excused in thinking that a ten-year-old boy would be slightly miffed at receiving a postcard from holidaying parents while he was trapped inside by the horrible British weather. Perfectly natural to feel a twinge of jealousy, you might suppose. But the glance that Sam gave the smeared glass a few feet from his head was not a miserable one. Instead, it bore a smile that mingled relief and anticipation in equal measure.
Sam’s parents thought that the best holidays were those spent tramping up and down the craggy trails of mountains like Mont Blanc or Ben Nevis. Sam, on the other hand, did not. He was a Doctor Who-loving, video game ace-ing, Voldemort-hating, normal ten-and-a-bit-year-old.
Well, almost normal.
You see, though he was a Jones mostly, he had—on his mother’s side—a grandmother called Gwladys Merryweather, who was definitely not your average eighty-year-old granny. And what Sam had inherited from Mother Merryweather (as she was known in certain circles) was not at all normal, not by a very long piece of calcium carbonate.
A purring noise on the bed next to him dragged Sam’s attention back from the window. The purr came from the throat of a black cat called Ginger, who had snuggled up to Sam as soon as he’d jumped on the bed. Not to be outdone by a cat, a chocolate Labrador called Troop sat attentively on the floor, whining gently and thrusting his head forward for an ear fondling.
“Okay, okay, don’t be so impatient. I will read it to you, honestly,” Sam said.
He flipped the card over to study the note in his mother’s handwriting, with absolutely no doubt in his mind that Troop and Ginger really did want to know. That was one of the other things that made Sam Jones different, and holidays at his gran’s so unusual.
Hi Sammy Samwise,
Weather here is brill. Your dad has drawn an arrow to our bedroom in Schloss Verschneit (SNOW COVERED). Broke a walking stick in a ravine yesterday because the grade 5 walks are pretty tough (LOL). Hope you and Gran are having lots of laughs too. Will bring you back some stinky cheese from the French side of the tunnel. Wish you were here and miss you loads,
SWALK
Mum and Dad
P.S. Text us what you’re up to. No Wi-Fi at hotel.
Sam finished reading, shook his head, and looked at Troop. “Only my mum could put grade 5 walks, breaking a stick in a ravine, and fun in the same sentence and mean it.”
Troop whined in agreement and licked the back of Sam’s hand as Sam retrieved the phone from his pocket.
“So, what should I text? How about…On Monday, me and Gran went to Mrs. Walpole’s meadow to find some purple-spotted celandine to make wart ointment.”
Troop tilted his head dubiously.
“It’s okay; I won’t tell her the ointment was for giving people warts instead of getting rid of them.”
Troop tilted his head even further. Sam sighed.
“No, you’re right. It’ll only make Mum even more suspicious. Okay, how about…Yesterday, Gran made me go toad lassoing.”
This time it was Ginger’s turn to miaow warningly.
“Only kidding. Okay, I know…” Sam’s fingers flew over the phone’s keyboard. Yesterday, we went to the rock museum—the kind with bits of meteorite in it, not photos of Rigid Spike (Rigid Spike was his dad’s favourite rock band). Then me and Gran read a book about sharks.
Both animals made approving noises. It was exactly what Sam’s mum expected would be going on at Gran’s. And it was about as far from the truth as the moon was from Schloss Verschneit.
Yet even as he pressed the Send button, Sam couldn’t help but wonder yet again what his mother really thought went on at Gran’s while she and his dad were away walking up strange mountains. After all, she had grown up with Gran and it was pretty difficult for anyone spending more than a few hours in her company not to realise that she was, well…different. You only had to open the cupboard in her pantry to see just how different. For a start it was full of little jars marked with Gran’s copperplate handwriting. Little jars with things floating in them, which were usually bits of fungus or vegetables, but which were easily mistaken for other things, especially when they were labeled Judas’s ear (a mushroom) or angel’s wing (another mushroom). There were bits of dried flowers and bark, half-ground nuts and seeds wrapped in muslin, and stoppered jars full of green or blue or murky brown liquids. What it hinted at was that this was more the cupboard of an apothecary than a cook. So how could his mother have grown up with all of this and not suspected?
But Gran, being Gran, had the answer when he’d asked her exactly that. She’d wiped her hands free of flour and peered at him.
“People see only what they want to see, Sam. How many times did you look in that cupboard before you knew about the cunning, and just see a collection of dusty old jars and not think twice about them?”
Sam had shrugged a response.
“Exactly. It’s only since you knew you were one of us that you’ve taken any notice. Your mother had no interest whatsoever because she doesn’t have the roas, so she was never an initiate.”
Ever since their run-in with the Dreables—a horrible bunch of underground creatures that had infested Gran’s old village—Sam had realised that there was a lot more to Gran than he’d ever thought. For a start, she used words like roas, one of her special words meaning “gift” or “talent,” all the time now.
“But didn’t Mum ever ask?”
“No, never. And I never told her. It’s usually obvious by about eight or nine if someone has the roas, so there was no point flogging a dead horse. Your mum is perfectly happy thinking that I’m a bit eccentric. Which, of course, I am.” Gran’s eyes had twinkled mischievously and she’d turned back to her cooking. “Now fetch me some ground Agrimony and stop asking questions or I’ll never finish these tesens.”
~~~
The sound of the front door slamming brought Sam back from his recollections. Troop’s ears shot up and he trotted out of the bedroom, tail wagging.
“She’s back,” he said to Ginger and jumped off the bed. “Hi, Gran,” Sam called out as he followed Troop into the kitchen.
Gwladys Merryweather was midway between fat and thin. She had light blue curly hair, thanks to a perm from Kerry, the hairdresser, who called once every six weeks. Under the beige mac she wore whenever she went out was a dress patterned with big pink flowers. She put a basket on the kitchen table, adjusted her gull-wing glasses, and said, “I see the postman’s been here,” noting the small pile of letters Sam had put on the table.
“Yeah, I got a postcard from Mum and Dad.” He held out the card, which Gran studied.
“Very nice, too. And did you tixt them back?”
“It’s text, Gran, and yes, I did. Told them we’d been to the museum and stuff.”
“Your mum will like that.” Gran hung her coat behind her door and then turned to consider Sam with one of her “down to business” looks. “So, are you all set for the morning? We’ve got a lot to get through before lunch, what with your test, the baking, and my computer lesson.”
“I’m ready, Gran.”
“Good. But before we start I’ll just empty the basket, make sure we’ve got everything.” Gran started emptying her shopping, which included eggs, flour, milk, and an assortment of wildflowers and herbs that looked as though they’d just been plucked from the hedgerows. “Had a deuce of a job finding spleenwort and I had to chase a squirrel off the bistort. Said it was his and I wasn’t to have any of it. Cheek.”
Sam didn’t say anything, but he was thinking how glad he was not to have been that squirrel. He watched as Gran used her finger to point out everything on the table and saw her mouth working silently. “Yes, that will do,” she said, finally turning to pierce him with her twinkling blue eyes. “Right, Samuel?” Only Gran ever called him Samuel. “Let’s see if you remember the Cunning Creed.”
Gran had introduced him to this several days ago and Sam had spent most of the morning, while Gran had been out shopping and foraging, going over it. He swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and said,
“Parcivol, the Cunning Creed—” He was about to launch into it when Gran put her hand up to stop him.
“And who is Parcivol named for?”
“Percival, one of King Arthur’s knights.”
Gran nodded approvingly. “The ignorant one made warrior and scholar.”
Sam took his chance to ask a question. “Was Merlin a cunning man, Gran?”
“Well, he wasn’t daft, let’s put it that way. Right, come on, concentrate. Parcivol, the Creed.”
Sam nodded and proceeded. “P is for Pride. A big tree attracts the wild wind.”
“Too true. So keep your head down. No place for pride in cunning folk.”
“A is for Action. Indecision leads to hunger.”
“No namby-pamby dithering for us, eh, Sam?” Gran grinned.
“R is for revenge. Vengeance, though, can be a bitter fruit.”
“Even if it sometimes needs to be eaten.” Gran nodded sagely.
“C is for cheating…umm…” Sam concentrated hard. “Falsehood cultivates failure.”
“Liars are always found out, Sam.”
Gran sat forward. C for cheating was as far as Sam had ever got before.
“I is for…insult,” Sam said triumphantly. “Cunning folk have long memories.”
Gran didn't say anything; she just looked at him attentively, as if she was trying to will him to finish. So Sam plunged on.
“V is for vow. Promise little, do much. O is for Opportunity. Out of adversity, prospects abound. L is for luck…”
“Go on Sam, you can do it,” urged Gran.
“Luck follows ummm…decisiveness.”
“In other words, we make our own.” Gran clapped her hands together. “Well done, Sam, well done. Learn and remember. The Creed serves as a warning and a path.” She stood up and gave Sam a peck on the top of his head. “Ten out of ten. Right, let’s have a quick reviver with a cup of tea and some cake and then we’ll get on with your practical lesson.”
While Gran made the tea, Sam pondered the Creed. It explained a lot; well, it explained Gran anyway. She was never boastful, pretty quick to make her mind up, hated cheats, and was always telling him to make the best of any situation. But there was no S in the Creed for Stubborn—so stubborn, in fact, that mules came to her for lessons—nor was there an E for Eccentric, which was the word Sam’s dad used to explain her slightly mad, slightly superstitious, occasionally forgetful, ways. But Sam didn’t mind any of that because it was part of the whole package that made Gran, Gran, and he wouldn’t change it for the world.
~~~
Ten minutes later, after sweet tea and a slice of Libby Brown’s vanilla custard tart, Sam was feeling on top of the world as he studied the recipe for his morning’s task: marzipan memory biscuits, guaranteed to make whoever ate one forget how awful the rest of the meal was. Best served after a school dinner, or with coffee if you wanted to make a quick getaway from a “rendezvous gone wrong,” or so Gran explained.
“Recipe is under the vase in the middle of the table,” Gran said, seeing how itchy Sam was to get started. “See if you can make them as good as Aaron Kid's.”
Sam shook his head, but not so obviously as to let Gran see. Aaron Kid was a TV chef to whose program Gran had become addicted.
“Is Aaron Kid a cunning man, too, Gran?” Sam asked.
“I doubt it, but he can cook like an angel. Oh, he’s good.” Gran lost focus for a moment before coming back to herself. “Now come on, chop-chop. We haven’t got all day.”
CHAPTER 2
THE COMPETITION
Of course, when Gran made things, she made it look easy. Sam, however, took his time to weigh everything out, measure the milk accurately, and add the herbs with all the necessary incantations pronounced correctly in exactly the right order. When he sprinkled in the powdered thistle and folded in the spleenwort four times over left, three times over right, and murmured Atgovene bene, like Gran had told him to, he heard her clear her throat from behind him.
“Just try that last bit again,” she said patiently. “Just work on that pronunciation.”
The strange thing was that Gran was always a very patient teacher when it came to this sort of thing. But when it came to the non-cunning stuff, she was about as patient as a hungry lion following a limping wildebeest. Sam forced his mind back to the baking and made another mix, added the herbs, and voiced the incantation once more. Finally, though it had taken him much longer than expected, he had a tray full of golden biscuits flecked with herbs ready for the oven.
“Right, tomorrow we can give Truthy Fruities a go.”
“Truthy Fruities?”
“Currant crunchers that are the antidote to lying. One bite and you’ll be spilling all sorts of beans. But for now, we’ll give your marzipan memories twenty minutes on gas mark five. Time enough to get out my lapbook.”
“Laptop, Gran. It’s laptop,” Sam said, feeling his insides squirm. Sometimes he thought that Gran mispronounced words deliberately just to wind him up. She was very good at that.
He watched her bustle out of the kitchen and come back holding a shiny, garishly purple-coloured laptop that had been a Christmas present from the Joneses. For several months it had sat unopened in its packaging, but since the beginning of summer, Gran had suddenly developed an interest in the “wild wild Web.” Sam had taught her all about Google and search engines, and now he was trying to teach her how to email. Gwladys@merryweather.co.uk was her new address.
He watched as she sat at the table, opened the laptop, and talked herself through switching it on. The machine chimed and beeped, much to Gran’s delight, until finally the home screen appeared and Sam watched Gran’s fingers carefully move the cursor using the tracker pad.
“Email, email…it’s that little envelope, isn’t it?”
“That’s right, Gran. The one that has email written on it.”
“Oh, yes. Silly me.” Gran giggled.
Gran put the cursor on the icon, double-clicked, and watched the screen change.
“Oooh, look. I’ve had a letter,” she squealed.
“Yeah,” Sam said, looking at the list of emails that had come through since the day before.
“This one here says I’ve won a lottery in Nigeria!” She turned an excited face up to Sam.
“No, Gran. You haven’t. That’s spam. They have programs that generate millions of email addresses and send them out randomly. The rule is if you don’t recognise who sent it, don’t open it. Just bin it, okay?”
“But…”
“No buts. Some of these emails carry viruses that will infect your…lapbook. Just do this.” Sam carefully selected all the spam and sent it to the trash. “But this one from Libby Brown is okay, because you sent her one yesterday, remember?”
“Yes, I did. And to open it it’s just clickety-click.”
“Yes, Gran, clickety-click.”
Sam waited as Gran opened the email, read it, and then started typing a reply with one finger. He turned to get up, opened the fridge, poured himself a glass, drank it, put the milk back in the fridge, rinsed the glass out, dried it, put it back onto the shelf in the pantry where it was kept, opened the oven, took out the cooked biscuits, rested them on the draining board to cool, and finally came back to where Gran was typing and looked over her shoulder at the four words she had completed in that time.
“That’s great, Gran, uh, I think I’ll take Troop out for a walk,” Sam said.
Gran, tongue protruding from the corner of her mouth in concentration, nodded absently.
Gran lived in a sleepy little village on the very edge of rolling countryside surrounded by hills that were not too tall to climb, and woods that were full of squirrels. Troop led Sam and Ginger out through the back gate in the stone walls that guarded Gran’s herb and vegetable garden. Though it was October, it wasn’t yet too cold to be outside and mercifully the squally rain of earlier had blown over. A stiff wind caused the tall oaks in the nearby copse to creak as Sam walked beneath them. The russet leaves in the trees hissed and soughed as if to say, “Nice to see you again, Sam.” He loved being out on these blustery autumn days with the promise of winter just around the corner. Snow and Christmas seemed to beckon and with it dark nights and warm fires. Sam didn’t know why he liked the seasons, but he did. His mum and dad were always looking for ways to escape the awful British weather, but Sam sensed that it was all part of the nature of things. Now that he was one of the cunning folk, he felt sometimes as if he was almost at one with the wind and the rain and the warm sun when it dared show its face. He didn’t really mind any of them. Seasons were right and proper and he felt that running away from them was cheating somehow.
He walked to the top of the nearby tor with Troop sniffing out rabbits and squirrels and Ginger stepping gingerly over the craggy boulders that jutted out of the earth like carbuncles. When he got to the top, Sam took in a deep lungful of air and looked around him. It was raining in the next valley. He could see the sheets of water teeming down from the slate-grey clouds. To the west, though, sun glinted on a vast lake. The air smelled of earth and moisture and he thought of his mother’s postcard and was even more certain of how pleased he was to be right where he was now and nowhere else.
He watched the shower approach across the valley and after ten minutes took Troop and Ginger back to the cottage, his mind emptied of cobwebs by the east wind.
“Gran, I’m back,” he sang as he opened the back door. She was not in the kitchen when he stuck his head in. He checked on the biscuits. They’d cooled nicely so he put them all in a blue biscuit tin to keep them fresh before heading for the living room and singing out,
“Gran? We’re back, Gran.”
“Shoosh!” came the urgent order as Sam pushed open the door. She was sitting bolt upright in an armchair four feet away from a twenty-four-inch TV screen. This had also been a present from his mum and dad to replace the black-and-white model that had finally given up the ghost, with an accompanying and disturbing whiff of burnt plastic, a couple of months before.
“Just wanted to tell you that we’re back,” he explained in a hushed voice.
“Well, you’ve done that. And from the noise you’re making, the rest of the village knows, too. Now sit down and be quiet and watch In Kid's Kitchen with me.”
Sam made a face at Troop, making sure that Gran couldn’t see. He hated In Kid's Kitchen. But then he noticed the computer open on Gran’s knees and the two-paragraph email she’d composed. “Hey, Gran, I’m impressed.”
Gran shot him a slitty-eyed glance. “I don’t need you to hold my hand for everything to do with this lapbook, you know. I am capable of doing some things on my own.” She dithered over the keyboard. “Where is that blasted Post button?”
“It’s Send button, Gran.”
“I know that,” Gran said a little irritably.
“It’s that little winged envelope thingy,” Sam said, pointing it out.
He thought about reminding her to check her typing before sending anything off. Yesterday, she’d written to Libby Brown and said that the weather was changeable. But what she’d typed was “the whither is chuggable.” Sam was beginning to suspect that cataracts were starting to dull her vision, though he would never dare suggest that to her.
However, he stopped himself from mentioning her spelling, left her to her email and Aaron Kid, and went back to his bedroom to reread the recipe for marzipan memory biscuits. Gran had given him a small leather-bound notebook in which to write everything down, insisting he do it straight after baking so that any little tweaks that he could give the recipe would be recorded. He got to the bit about alternate folding-in of the herbs when a strangled cry erupted from the living room. Sam threw the notebook on the pillow and bounded off the bed. Gran was leaning forward, staring at the laptop screen as the credits for In Kid's Kitchen rolled across the TV screen.
“Gran, what is it?”
“I won,” Gran said in a voice that was a foot taller than the Eiffel Tower.
“Won what?”
“The competition.” Gran looked across at Sam, her eyes huge with wonder.
“What competition?” Sam said.
Gran’s finger came up and pointed at the TV screen. “That… his…” she stammered.
“You’re not making any sense, Gran.”
‘“Look… Aaron emailed me.”
Sam frowned. He stood behind Gran and looked at the laptop screen over her shoulder.
Dear Mrs Merryweather,
Congratulations! Well done for entering and winning my competition. You were the only contestant to get all the right answers and I would be happy to meet you and present you with your prize at my live cookery demonstration in Edinburgh on Friday, October 29. As you know, I am touring the country and having you here would be great.
All the best,
Aaron Kid
“Wow, that was quick,” Sam said, unable to hide the surprise in his voice.
“Yessss.” Gran punched the air. “Told you I could use this thing without your help.”
“So what did you have to do to win?” asked Sam.
Gran gave him an owly blink. Her cheeks were glowing with pleasure. “Three parts. What is the main ingredient of red velvet cake? Which is beetroot, of course. What fish is in an Arnold Bennett omelette? That’s haddock, easy-peasy. And finally, who lived at number 5 Baker’s Row, Wihtlea on the Barrows, in 1941?” Gran said and laughed uproariously, implying that everyone should know the answer to that one.
Sam frowned.
Gran sent him an expression that had “Duh” written all over it. “Mrs Price who took in washing, of course. I should know since I lived next door at number 4.”
Sam’s frown deepened. “Yeah, but Gran, how would anybody else know that?”
“Well, that’s the point.” Gran’s eyebrows arched knowingly. “That’s why it was a really tricky quiz. And I got it right, that’s all that matters, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, but,” Sam said in a dubious voice, “seems like you’re the only one in the world that could have won it anyway.”
“Yes.” Gran beamed, her eyes suddenly far away. “Like it was made for me.”
“Yeah, but isn’t that a bit suspicious?”
“Suspicious? It took skill to answer all those questions,” Gran said, sounding a little peeved.
“Yeah, but…”
“Will you please stop saying ‘yeah but.’ I won fair and square.”
Sam was staring at the address on the email: A.Kid@dynamite.com.
“Funny email address,” Sam commented.
“Funny nothing. I won. And the prize is meeting Aaron Kid and getting a copy of every book he’s written. So come on, get on the Interweb and find out where exactly he’s appearing in Edinburgh. Hoots, mon, we’re off to Scotland.” Gran stood up and started doing a slightly arthritic jig whilst singing a weird song about someone called Donald and his “trwsers.” in a very bad Scottish accent. Sam didn’t quite know whether to laugh or cry.
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