“Be careful,” Vincent said. “It’s not as easy as it looks.”
“And hurry, David,” Jill added. “The school’s powers are failing. If the Grail gets too close to Canterbury, the broomstick won’t fly. You’ll fall. You’ll be killed.”
Feeling slightly ridiculous, David pushed the broomstick between his legs with the twigs poking out behind. How had Mrs. Windergast done it? He concentrated and almost at once felt the stick pushing upward. His feet left the floor and then he wasn’t exactly flying but wobbling above the carpet, trying to keep his balance.
“Good luck,” Vincent said.
David turned around in midair. “Thanks,” he said. Then he and the broomstick lurched out of the window and into the storm.
The first few minutes were the worst. The wind seemed to be coming at him from all directions, invisible fists that punched at him again and again. The rain blinded him. He knew he was climbing higher but in what direction, north or south, he couldn’t say. The broomstick worked through some sort of telepathy. He only had to think “right” to go that way. But if he thought too hard, the broomstick would spin around like an amusement-park ride and it was as much as he could do to hang on. He glimpsed Groosham Grange, rising at a crazy angle from the corner of his eye. Then it was upside down! He had to get his bearings. He felt sick and exhausted and the journey hadn’t even begun. He forced the broomstick up the right way. With his body tensed, he resisted the force of the storm. He was about three hundred feet up. And at last he had control.
And so he flew. The broomstick had no speed limit and seemed to have left the island behind in only seconds. The Norfolk coastline was already visible ahead. He relaxed, then yelled out as he collided with a flock of seagulls. Again he was blinded, aware only of gray feathers and indignant cries all around him. The control was broken and the broomstick plunged down, pulling David after it, his stomach lurching. The sea rushed up to swallow him.
“Up!” David shouted, and thought it too, clamping his mind on it. Despite everything, he didn’t panic. Already he understood that panic would freeze his mind and without a clear mind he couldn’t fly. He relaxed everything, even his hands. And at once the broomstick responded. It had swooped down but now it curved gently up. The sea had gone. As the broomstick rose higher, David saw dry land below, the sandy beaches of the Norfolk coast. He had left the storm behind him. The sun was shining.
Swallowing hard, he turned the broomstick south and set off in pursuit of the Unholy Grail.
After David had gone, Vincent and Jill left Mrs. Windergast’s room and made their way downstairs, heading for the network of underground caves beneath the school. The wind was still howling outside and as they reached the main staircase a huge stained-glass window suddenly exploded inward, showering them with multicolored fragments of glass. They ran into the library, intending to pass through the mirror that concealed the passage down—but the windows in the room had been shattered by the storm and the mirror had broken too. A single crack ran down its face, effectively sealing it. Jill knew that if they tried to pass through a cracked mirror, they would be cut in half.
“Outside!” Vincent shouted. Jill nodded and followed him.
It was even worse outside than they had imagined. The entire island was in the grip of something like a volcanic eruption. Whole trees had been torn up, the gravestones in the cemetery blown apart, the larger tombs thrown open. The sky was midnight black, crossed and recrossed by streaks of lightning that were like razor blades slashing at the air. The whole of the East Tower had collapsed in on itself. The rest of the school looked as if it was about to do the same.
“Look!” Jill pointed and Vincent followed her finger to the gargoyles that surrounded Groosham Grange. Their eyes were shining, bright red in the darkness, like warning lights before a nuclear explosion. At the same time, something huge and terrifying was rising up in the far distance behind the school. Jill had only just seen what it was before Vincent had grabbed her, throwing her into the safety of one of the tombs.
It was a tidal wave. The whole world disappeared in a silver-gray nightmare as the wave pounded down on the school, completely engulfing the cemetery, the woods, everything. A second later, the ground was shaken by some awful convulsion below and Jill found herself thrown into Vincent’s arms.
“How much longer?” she cried. “How much more can the school take?”
Vincent had gone quite pale. He was cold and soaking wet, drenched by the water that had found its way into the tomb. “I don’t know,” he said. “The Grail must be getting closer to Canterbury.” He looked up into the pitch-black sky. “Come on, David,” he whispered. “We’re running out of time.”
The power of the Unholy Grail was growing steadily. And it was becoming more unpredictable and more out of control the farther it was taken from Groosham Grange.
“I feel very peculiar,” Mildred was saying. “It must be something I ate. I’m blowing up all over.”
Eileen Eliot turned around and looked into the back of the car. The small, shriveled woman was expanding as if someone had connected her to an air hose. Her handbag lay next to her, humming and glowing brilliantly. Mildred’s shoulders and chest had torn through her clothes and she had lost a great deal of her hair. There was also something rather odd about her eyes. “It’s true, Edward,” Eileen squeaked. “I think we’d better take her to a doctor.”
But Edward Eliot ignored her. He himself had changed during the last few minutes. His skin had become thicker, pinker. His hands and face were covered unevenly with bristles and his ears and nose had changed shape.
“Edward . . . ?” Eileen quavered.
Mr. Eliot snorted and stamped his foot down on the accelerator. Except he no longer had a foot. His shoe had come off to reveal what looked remarkably like a pig’s trotter.
Eileen Eliot slumped in her seat and began to cry. All around her, the entire world was bending and twisting out of shape as the familiar turned into the insane.
One moment they were approaching a zebra crossing. Then the air seemed to shimmer and a moment later a whole herd of zebras had emerged in a stampede from a post office. Cat’s eyes set in the tarmac disappeared as the cats—panthers, jaguars and tigers—leaped out to terrorize the unfortunate people of Margate. Traffic lights sprouted wings and flew off. A humpback bridge spouted a great spray of water before being harpooned by a party of Icelandic tourists.
Inside the handbag, the Unholy Grail hummed and glimmered.
Mildred’s dress tore in half. She was enormous now, and when she spoke again, it was not English that came out of her lips. It was Japanese. Her cheeks bulged and her great, fat legs stuck out like tree stumps.
Eileen Eliot realized what had happened. Aunt Mildred had always loved the Japanese. Now she had become one. A sumo wrestler.
“Edward . . .” she wept.
Mr. Eliot snorted again. He was no longer able to speak. His mouth and nose had molded themselves together and jutted forward over what was left of his chin. His teeth had also doubled in size. The sleeves of his jacket and shirt had torn open to reveal two pink knotted arms, covered in the same spiky hair that bristled out of his neck and face.
Edward Eliot had always been a road hog. And so the Unholy Grail had turned him into one.
Eileen Eliot took one look at him and screamed. “This can’t be happening!” she whimpered. “It’s horrible. Horrible! I wish I was ten thousand miles from here.”
The Unholy Grail heard her. There was a sudden whoosh! and she felt herself being sucked out of the car in a tunnel of green light, her clothes being torn off as she went. For a few seconds the whole world disappeared. Then she was falling, screaming all the way. The ground rushed up at her and the next thing she knew she was standing in a pool of cold and muddy water that reached up to her waist.
Mrs. Eliot had traveled thousands of miles. She was standing in a nice paddy in China, surrounded by some very surprised Chinese rice farmers. Mrs. Eliot smiled and fainte
d.
Mr. Eliot had seen his wife disappear. He turned and stared at the empty seat . . . not a good idea at seventy miles an hour. The next thing he knew, the car had left the road and crashed into a lamppost. Of course, he hadn’t bothered with a seat belt and he was hurled, snorting and squealing, through the very expensive smoked-glass front window, out onto the pavement. Wedged in the back, her huge stomach trapped by the front seat, Aunt Mildred was unable to move. But at least her flesh had cushioned her from the impact.
The back door of the Rolls-Royce had been torn open in the collision and Mildred’s handbag had rolled out. It lay on the pavement, glowing more powerfully than ever. Awkwardly, Mildred poked an arm out and tried to reach it. But before her podgy fingers could close on the bag, someone appeared, leaning down to snatch it away.
Mildred gazed at the figure in astonishment. “You!” she said.
But then the person had gone. And the handbag had gone too.
Far below him, David could see the chaos that was the center of Margate and knew with a surge of excitement that he was getting closer. He was flying at six hundred feet—high enough, he hoped, not to be seen from the ground but low enough to avoid any passing planes. He had had one nasty fright as he had crossed the Thames Estuary at Sheerness and a DC-10 taking off from City Airport had cut right in front of him. There had also been some unpleasant air currents to negotiate over the flat Suffolk countryside. But he was almost there. He had done it.
But the worst surprise was still to come.
David had flown inland, leaving Margate behind him. He was actually beginning to enjoy the journey, the rush of the wind in his hair, the complete silence, the sense of freedom as he soared through the late-afternoon sunlight. The broomstick was responding instantly to the slightest suggestion. Up, down, left, right—he only had to think it and he was away.
Then suddenly it stopped.
David’s stomach lurched as the broomstick plummeted down and it was only by forcing his thoughts through his clenched hands and into the wooden shaft that he was able to regain control. The broomstick continued forward but more hesitantly. Then it shuddered and dipped again. David knew his worst fear had been realized. Just as Jill had warned, the Grail was approaching Canterbury. And the closer it got, the less powerful he became. Groosham Grange with all its magic was falling apart—and that included the broomstick. It was like a car running out of gas. He could actually feel it coughing and stammering beneath him. How much farther could he go?
And then he saw the cathedral. It stood at the far end of a sprawling modern town, separated from it by a cluster of houses and a swath of perfectly mown grass. The cathedral stretched from east to west, a glinting pile of soaring towers, arched windows and silver-white roofs that looked, from this height, like some absurdly expensive miniaturized model. It was there, only a few miles away. David urged the broomstick on. It surged obediently forward but then dropped another hundred feet. David could feel its power running out.
The broomstick reached the main street of Canterbury and followed it up and over the elegant Christ Church Gate and past the cathedral itself. David found himself high above the central tower. Looking down, he could see right into the cloisters. He could hear organ music drifting through the stone walls. Leaning to one side, he tilted around, looking for somewhere to land.
And that was when the broom’s power failed. There was nothing he could do. Like a wounded bird he fell out of the sky, spinning around and around, still clinging to the useless broomstick that was now above his head. The cathedral had disappeared, whipped out of his field of vision. He could see the grass rushing up at him, a solid green wall.
David turned once in the air, cried out, then hit the ground and lay still.
Canterbury Cathedral
He was still alive. He knew because of the pain. David wasn’t sure how many bones there were in the human body, but it felt as if he had broken every one of them. He was surprised he could even move.
He was lying on the grass like one of those chalk drawings the police make after a murder. His arms and legs were sticking out at strange angles. His head was pounding and he could taste blood where he had bitten his tongue. But he was still breathing. He guessed that at the last minute the broomstick must have slowed his fall. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been on the grass—he would have been underneath it.
He opened his eyes and looked around him. He had landed in the very middle of the cathedral close. On one side of him there was a wooden building—the Cathedral Welcome Center—and a couple of trees. Behind there was a row of houses that included the Cathedral Shop. The cathedral itself was in front of him, above him, looming over him.
It began with two towers that at some time had become home to a family of black ragged birds. Ravens or crows perhaps. They were swooping in and out of the pointed windows, launching themselves into the sky. Then there were two lines of smaller towers, so intricately carved that they looked like something that might have grown at the bottom of the sea. At the far end there was a taller tower. It stood poised like a medieval rocket about to be launched. The sun was trapped behind it, low in the sky.
The sun . . .
With an effort, David sat up and saw that this third tower was casting a shadow that stretched out across the lawn, stopping only a few yards from where he lay. At the same time he saw somebody moving toward him.
The solitary figure walked steadily forward. David squinted, raising himself on his arm. The pain made him cry out, but he still couldn’t see who it was. He was blinded by the light shafting into his eyes and he was still dizzy and disorientated after his fall.
“Hello, David,” Mr. Helliwell said.
Mr. Helliwell.
He should have known all along.
David had suspected Vincent because Vincent was new. But so was Mr. Helliwell. He had joined the staff at Groosham Grange at about the same time. Again, he had believed it was Vincent who had stolen one of his exam papers because Vincent had collected them. But who had he handed them to? Mr. Helliwell. With his voodoo powers, it would have been easy for the teacher to animate the waxworks and, of course, he had been part of the contest in London from the start. Always Mr. Helliwell. He had befriended David’s parents at the prize-giving and it had been he who had found Aunt Mildred’s lost handbag.
“Are you surprised to see me?” Mr. Helliwell asked, and smiled. In his ragged black suit, top hat and tails, he looked like some sort of crazy scarecrow or perhaps a circus entertainer down on his luck.
“No,” David said.
“I never thought you’d escape from the East Tower,” the voodoo teacher said. He glanced at the fallen broomstick. “I presume that’s Mrs. Windergast’s,” he went on. “You really have been very resourceful, David. Very brave. I’m sorry it’s all been for nothing.”
He brought his hand up and now David saw the Unholy Grail nestling in his huge palm. David tried to move but there was nothing he could do. It was just the two of them and the Unholy Grail. The cathedral had shut down for the evening and the close itself was empty. The sun was creeping down toward the horizon and the whole building was shining with a soft golden light. But the shadows were still sharp. The shadow from the third, single spire was as clear as ever, edging closer toward him as the sun set. All Mr. Helliwell had to do was hold out his arm. The Unholy Grail would pass into the shadow of Canterbury Cathedral. Groosham Grange would fall.
“It’s the end, David,” Mr. Helliwell said, his voice low and almost sad. “In a way, I’m glad you’re here to see it. Of course, once I pass the Grail into the shadow, you’ll crumble into dust. But I always liked you. I want you to know that.”
“Thanks,” David muttered through gritted teeth.
“Well. I suppose we’d better get it over with.” The hand holding the Grail moved slowly. The Grail passed through the last of the sunlight.
“Wait!” David shouted. “There’s one thing I want to know!”
Mr. Helliwell hesitated. The
Grail glittered in his hand only inches from the shadow of the cathedral.
“You’ve got to tell me,” David said. He tried to stand but his legs were still too weak. “Why did you do it?”
Mr. Helliwell considered. He looked up at the sky. “There’s still thirty minutes’ sunlight,” he said. “If you think you can trick me, boy . . .”
“No, no.” David shook his head. Even that hurt him. “You’re far too clever for me, Mr. Helliwell. I admit it. But I’ve got a right to know. Why did you set me up? Why did Vincent have to win the Unholy Grail?”
“All right.” Mr. Helliwell relaxed, lowering the Grail. But the shadow stayed there, hungry, inching ever closer.
“When I started making my plans, I didn’t care who won the Unholy Grail,” Mr. Helliwell began. “But then I happened to see that letter from your father.” David remembered. He had dropped it in the corridor, after the fight with Vincent. Mr. Helliwell had picked it up. “When I saw that your parents were coming to the prize-giving and then going on to Margate, it was too good an opportunity to miss. Somehow I’d slip it into their luggage and they’d carry it off for me. Nobody would suspect.
“But then I realized that I couldn’t let you win it, David. If you had the Grail and then it disappeared, your parents would have been stopped before they got anywhere near the jetty. People would assume you’d given it to them. But Vincent was perfect. He had no parents, no relatives. While everyone was looking for him, nobody would be looking for you or for anyone connected with you.”
“So you sent the waxworks.”
“Yes. I followed you to London. I was always there.”
“But there’s still one thing you haven’t told me.” The pain in David’s shoulder and leg was getting worse. He wondered if he could stop himself from passing out. At the same time, his mind was racing. Was he completely helpless? Did he have any power left? “Why did you do it, Mr. Helliwell?” he asked. “Why?”