Amethyst Read online

  For CLEMENCY Beaham-Powell

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Version 1.0

  Epub ISBN 9781448187355

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  First published in 2006 by

  Andersen Press Limited,

  20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London SW1V 2SA

  www.andersenpress.co.uk

  Reprinted 2006, 2007

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

  Text copyright © Rebecca Lisle, 2006

  Illustrations copyright © Paul Hess, 2006

  The rights of Rebecca Lisle and Paul Hess to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work have been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available

  ISBN 978 184 270 541 4

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Copyright

  1 In the Basement

  2 The Gargoyles

  3 The Strange Visitor

  4 Leaving

  5 Granite

  6 Inside Malachite Mountain

  7 Princess Amethyst

  8 Amongst the Woods

  9 Ralick

  10 Amy’s First Meal at Spindle House

  11 On the Frozen Lake

  12 The Unexpected Visitor

  13 Can She, Can’t She?

  14 Questrid the Hunter

  15 Missing

  16 On the Other Side of the Mountain

  17 How Questrid came to be on the Other Side

  18 Reunited

  19 The Eye-Cycles

  20 Wolfgang

  21 Return to Malachite Mountain

  22 The Rescue Party

  23 Saving Ralick

  24 What Copper Had to Do

  25 Escape

  26 On Ice

  27 Amy Spoils Things for Shane Annigan

  28 An Emerald Green Rat

  1

  In the Basement

  Amy pushed open the front door and paused for a moment on the mat, which did not say WELCOME.

  She could hear the thin ticking of a clock. The soft background hum of the freezer and the fridge as they worked overtime.

  ‘Uncle John? Aunt Agnes?’

  She didn’t call too loudly; she knew where they were, what they’d be doing.

  In the narrow kitchen at the back of the house, the freezer door hung open, pouring out cool misty air. A dish containing a grey, gristly-looking stew sat patiently on the thin black cooker beside a pan of grey rice.

  Amy piled her books on the table and sat down. She unwound her dark plait, detangling and combing out the thick rope with her fingers.

  She sighed.

  All day at school she’d had this exciting, niggling feeling, as if she was about to see someone she hadn’t seen for a long time. Or be spiked by a pin. Or someone was going to jump out at her. This certain feeling that something was going to happen.

  But so far, nothing had.

  In Geography she’d had the feeling very strongly, but maybe that was because they were learning about the icy blue Antarctic. She’d so vividly imagined walking over the crisp snow, she’d heard it scrunch and squeak under her boots.

  She shivered. There it was again. The feeling! What was it? She spun round. Her elbow caught her pile of books and they slammed to the floor.

  CRASH!

  She sat very still, listening.

  Thump. Thump. Thump. A dull thudding from below made the floor reverberate. Aunt Agnes’s high-pitched voice spiked up through the gaps in the floorboards:

  ‘Amy? Amy! Come downstairs and give us a hand, you naughty girl.’

  Amy scowled. She’d lost her chance for a few moments peace now.

  There was a door, painted to look like part of the wall, below the main staircase. It even had a white radiator stuck on it, so anyone glancing in that direction wouldn’t notice it. Amy pushed open the hidden door and plodded down the narrow wooden stairs. She avoided the red brick walls, crusty with creamy patches of mould and free-flowing cobwebs. A bare bulb gleamed dully overhead.

  ‘Here she comes!’ Uncle John said.

  ‘About time too, we’ve not had a moment’s break all day and does she care? No.’ Her aunt’s voice whined like a dying cat. ‘She goes galivanting off to her fancy school with her hot friends and leaves us here to do everything …’

  Amy turned the bend in the stairs. Her aunt and uncle’s faces pivoted round to her. Their pale flesh gleamed with cold sweat. Their skin shone like worm skin. Their pink-rimmed eyes goggled behind thick lenses. Amy couldn’t help grinning. Her aunt and uncle looked like giant lobsters beside a rock pool. Their hands held poised above the stone slab table were like massive claws. Everything gleamed in the cold, damp atmosphere, as if a wave had recently rolled over them and left them stranded.

  Amy picked up a sharp knife from the table.

  ‘Well, I’m here to help now,’ she said.

  2

  The Gargoyles

  It was freezing in the basement. Amy slipped her feet out of her shoes so she could soak up the damp cold that seeped up through the vast stone slabs on the floor.

  ‘I have to go to school, you know,’ said Amy. ‘It’s the law.’

  ‘Huh, law!’ Uncle John sniffed. ‘Laws to say where you park your car. Laws to watch your own TV. Laws for everything.’

  ‘Hurry up and get your overalls on,’ said Aunt Agnes. ‘We need you. We’ve got to get this lot fired tonight.’ She waved a hand over the grey lumps on the table.

  ‘Here’s a pretty fellow,’ said Uncle John, winking at Amy. He passed her one of the grey clay lumps from the table. ‘I think I’ve surpassed myself with this one.’ He chuckled.

  At first sight the shapes looked like a set of distorted giant chess pieces, or grey cats, sitting hunched in rows. If you looked closer, you saw folded wings, clawed feet and hands. Pointed ears, protruding eyes. Knowing smiles showing sharp and crooked teeth. Gargoyles. They were all gargoyles. The sort of horrifying monsters that leer down from the gutters and half-hidden angles of certain churches.

  ‘Do get a move on spoiling, Amy. There’s a whole batch there ready for your final touch,’ whined Aunt Agnes. ‘Amy, go on. I want to be upstairs by five when the light’s gone.’

  Amy examined a lump of grey clay. It was a goblin gargoyle with a pointed nose and a humped back. His legs were folded beneath him, so his knees were alongside his ears. His eyes were blank, round and staring. He didn’t have much expression yet. That was Amy’s job. She made them horrible.

  ‘How about I make him nice for a change?’ said Amy.

  ‘Don’t be silly, girl. Get on with it. I’d do it myself, only I can’t make them nasty the way you can. You’ve got the knack, you know you do. Spoiler. You can spoil anything!’

  Amy gulped. Yes, she thought, such a talent for spoiling. For spoiling my friendships, my work, my life. Thanks, Aunt Agnes.

  Amy studied the gargoyle’s face through half-shut eyes, then quickly reached for a sharp silvery instrument. She began to dig and gouge at his features.
She made his eyebrows glower, his eyes gleam with malevolence and his nose grow hooked and mean. She made his shoulders hunch over. His scrawny fingers began to grip his knees as if he was waiting, about to leap. Even his wings grew soft and leathery, as if ready to unfurl and take flight.

  ‘Lovely, lovely!’ said Aunt Agnes, taking the finished gargoyle from her. ‘Oh, look at him, John! Very unpleasant. You’re really got the gift, our Amy.’

  Amy did the same to all the gargoyles her aunt and uncle had made. She twisted smiles so they were full of malice. She made eyes glint as if evil ideas lurked behind them. She could change the mildest-looking goblin face into a ferocious frightening monster.

  At last they had finished. They carried the gargoyles to the kiln to bake them hard. The kiln was in another part of the basement, protected by a brick wall to keep the heat from seeping out into the rest of the house.

  ‘Just gone five o’clock! Up we go!’ said Uncle John. He turned out the cellar lights.

  Amy hurried ahead, drawing the snowflake-patterned curtains against the last of the daylight. Soon the house was as bleak and dimly lit as a cave. This was how Aunt Agnes and Uncle John liked it.

  The entire house was specially modified for them. The walls were cleverly painted to look like marble with streaks of blood-red, purple and blue over a grey background. The sitting room was painted ice white. A white that gleamed as if it were wet. The room was so cold, that even in summer you could see your breath. A fire seemed to flicker there on the damp winter nights, but it was only pretend: it was red and orange lights and a fan that blew out subzero temperatures.

  They ate the gritty, tasteless stew at the kitchen table. No one talked.

  No wonder I don’t have friends, thought Amy, forcing down the stew. Who’d ever want to come to this place? She remembered her friend Jill whom she’d once invited back for tea. Aunt Agnes had sat her in front of the open freezer and given her iced tripe to eat. She never came again. Surprise, surprise!

  After supper Amy went up to her room.

  She lay on her narrow bed and stared at the icy blue ceiling.

  What had happened to her promising day?

  Why did I have that prickling, tingling, any-minute-now sensation, if nothing’s going to happen? she thought. Why? Why? Why?

  But then something did happen.

  3

  The Strange Visitor

  It began with a noise. A peculiar, scratching, gnawing noise.

  Amy sat bolt upright and stared round.

  Nothing to see. But, scritch, scratch, scuffle.

  Amy pulled her knees up under her chin. She fixed her eyes on the wall where she thought the sound came from. Mice? No, this sounded bigger than mice. A bird? She glanced at the chimney. No, it had been bricked up long ago.

  Suddenly, with a ripping, splintering sound, a small section of the skirting board burst out in a shower of wooden shards. An instant later, a large white rat flew from the hole and skidded across the smooth lino towards her.

  Amy bit back a scream.

  This is it! This is it! she thought. My something!

  Little pin-pricking tingles ran up and down her skin. Her throat tightened. Her heart pumped overtime.

  The white rat slid over the floor. It crashed into the table leg with a thud. It cleared its head with a quick shake and looked around the bedroom. As soon as its little pink eyes lit on Amy, it smiled. It had neat white teeth. It began to peer around the room; Amy realised it was planning to come up onto her bed.

  The rat scrambled onto her abandoned school bag. It sniffed at a bit of toffee stuck to the top of it, then jumped onto the chair. It climbed up the back of the chair and leaped onto the table. It scooted across the table, feet slipping sideways as if it were on a skating rink. Then it jumped onto the linen basket and from there to the bedside table. With a final leap it plopped onto the pillow beside her.

  Amy shrank back nervously.

  The rat stared at her. ‘Pss pss, squeak,’ it said meaningfully.

  ‘What? What is it?’

  ‘Pss pss, squeak.’

  When Amy shrugged, the rat looked rather annoyed. It began to leap about in a most peculiar way. It twisted and jumped. It did a somersault. It did a backward flip. Finally, with no response from Amy, it lay down flat on its back. It had a very fat tummy. Amy now saw that tied round the rat’s waist was something like a small single cigar tube. It was white, just as white as its fur, and therefore almost invisible.

  The rat smiled and lay still. Amy reached out and gingerly took the cannister from the belt. The moment she had it, the rat jumped up onto all fours. ‘Pss, squeak.’

  It flew off the bed, missed the linen basket and landed heavily on the chair. It turned back to wink at Amy, as if to let her know it wasn’t hurt, then jumped down to the floor. It skidded across the floor, nails scraping over the lino and bumped against her school bag. It pumped its feet against the smooth surface to regain position, aimed for the hole in the skirting board, shot through it, and was gone.

  Amy let out her breath, which she didn’t even know she’d been holding in. She listened, head on one side, for any signs of life in the corridor outside. Nothing. Good.

  She examined the tube.

  It was made of thin white metal, so thin, it felt as if it would easily shatter, but when she squeezed it, it was hard like steel. Etched into the metal were these words:

  FOR THE ATTENTION OF AMETHYST

  FROM: GRANITE

  Amethyst? thought Amy. A mistake. But she knew it was for her. The rat had known it was for her and Amethyst was such a nice name. Not that different from Amy. It had to be for her. But why should Granite write to her? He was, as far as she knew, just some guy who bought the ugliest gargoyles from her aunt and uncle.

  She unscrewed the top and shook out a letter written on thin, almost see-through paper.

  Dear Amethyst,

  Greetings from the Lord of the Rock People.

  Yes, your Lord, as you are stone and grit and rock as ever there were such things.

  It has long been my intention to get you back to the land of your birth, but your aunt and uncle have needed you in their work. I know this. But now I need you and a Rocker does not ignore a call from her Lord.

  Come to me at Malachite Mountain. Without delay. There is work to be done. Work which will make you rich.

  No school.

  No gargoyles.

  Rich.

  G

  Amy read the letter several times then lay back on her bed and stared hard at the ceiling. This is what she’d been waiting for! Malachite Mountain and Granite.

  And he hadn’t got her name wrong.

  She suddenly knew, without a doubt, that her real name was Amethyst.

  Uncle John and Aunt Agnes sat opposite each other at the narrow kitchen table, clutching their mugs of iced water and staring deep into each other’s eyes. It was breakfast time and they had just heard Amy’s news.

  ‘Well, Agnes!’ Uncle John rubbed his eyes behind his spectacles. ‘Fancy Granite writing to our Amy like that!’

  ‘It’s not fair,’ wailed Agnes, softly. ‘It’s not fair. It’s not as if we don’t provide him with as many gargoyles as he wants for Malachite Mountain. He’s jealous. Oh, John, what’ll we do?’

  Amy gripped the table, hard. All night she’d been imagining this moment, rehearsing what to say. They had to let her go. They had to!

  ‘You’ll manage without me,’ she said.

  ‘No, but we won’t,’ said Aunt Agnes. ‘There’s only you that can put that touch of horribleness onto everything. Only you that’s got the fingers for foulness and unpleasantness. We’ll never be able to sell our gargoyles if they look friendly.’

  ‘You could learn to spoil.’

  ‘No, but we won’t,’ said Aunt Agnes. ‘I don’t think you should leave us. I think you should stay and do your duty.’

  I’ve done it. For years, thought Amy. Let me go!

  ‘Granite is the Lord of
the Rock People, which is us all,’ said Uncle John. ‘We have to obey.’

  ‘Oh, phooey!’ said Aunt Agnes. ‘What’s he to us, now we’re safe in the South? He’s only Lord of Malachite Mountain because he says he is – he used to be Lord of some little place in the Marble Mountains. I liked that Lord Lazulite, personally. Shame he upped and died so sudden.’

  Uncle John took off his spectacles and polished them on his dressing gown. ‘It’s just a bit of a shock. But we’ll have to get used to it, Agnes, dear. Maybe we should all go,’ he added. ‘I mean, after all, we belong up there, not down here in this infernal heat.’

  Amy bit her lip. She didn’t want them to come. They’d spoil everything.

  ‘No, but no,’ whined Aunt Agnes. ‘I couldn’t leave this house! My lovely brown lino and my new net curtains. Anyway, it’s boring up there and you get bossed around.’

  ‘I know, but—’

  ‘And I’m settled here, John, I like my TV and up there is so, so … well, so old fashioned. That’s why we left, if you remember.’

  ‘I know—’ He paused. He rubbed at his head as he tried to puzzle out what was to be done. ‘Then Amy will have to go on her own. And Amy, when you get this fortune Granite’s on about, you’ll have to send us our share. For lodgings and such, all these years we’ve had you. It’s the law you know.’

  Amy tried to hide her smile. Good. She could go.

  ‘Tell me about Malachite Mountain. What’s it like?’ she asked.

  ‘Lots of snow,’ said Uncle John.

  ‘And ice,’ said Aunt Agnes. ‘Lovely. But no supermarkets. Or schools. No cars. No electrics. No TV. No lino.’

  Amy’s spirits began to soar. ‘No school?’

  ‘No. There isn’t time for school. Rockers are so busy digging out metals and precious stones. It is more lively down here, I must admit.’

  ‘And it’s so far from everything,’ said Aunt Agnes. ‘And you can’t get good white tripe or quality pigs’ trotters.’

  ‘Can’t you?’ Amy almost squealed with delight.

  ‘And it snows all the time,’ said Uncle John. ‘All the time.’

  ‘Well, it sounds horrible,’ Amy lied. ‘But I think I’d better go. I mean, I can’t disobey Granite, can I? I wonder why he wants me? What can I do?’