Darkness had fallen in earnest by the time Professor Lution had made her decision. Outside the window, red streaks of light were flashing across the inky sky like shooting stars. However, unlike the earlier mistake instigated by the good-natured but somewhat bungling Doctor Ambit, this climatic display was perfectly normal.
The streaks of light were made by birds called Flaming Fandangos, who were simply doing what most birds do at night - going home to roost. Professor Lution watched the display for a moment, her hands resting lightly on her desk. Even though her mind was less troubled than before, she needed to speak to two particular men before committing herself to the unusual, not to say daunting, solution.
She reached across and switched on a desk lamp, illuminating a magnificent crystal bell. About the size of a milk bottle, the bell had symbols and markings etched into the glass, and although inert, the refracted light cast moving splotches of colour on the ceiling. The desk lamp also illuminated a strange dark blue carpet. Patterned with planets, moons, and constellations, every image was either moving, revolving, or twinkling.
She touched a symbol on the bell and a minute later, a gnome wearing an emerald green jacket and red and gold striped trousers, materialised in the room. His nose was the size and shape of a ping-pong ball, and his black, almond-shaped eyes, were deeply set under thick knobbly brows. Due to his tall, hairy pointed ears, his battered ‘pork-pie’ hat, which he rarely took off, even in the bath, sat abnormally high on his oval-shaped head.
“Bryan,” said Professor Lution, a note of impatience in her voice, “how many times have I told you? If you wish to enter a room, use the door.”
“Tell that to all the arrogant ghosts around here,” he grumbled, his mouth almost obscured by his long white beard. Even though it was tied in several knots, the end was still stuffed down the front of his trousers. “That Quaker fellow, Amos what’s-his-name, walked right through my room the other day. Came out of one wall and went straight through the other. Nearly gave me a heart attack,” and to emphasise his point, Bryan adopted a pained expression and pretended to clutch his chest.
Professor Lution paid no attention to his amateur dramatics. She was more concerned with the fact that the height of his hat had noticeably dropped. Anyone who had studied the complicated history of Gnomish society, and the Professor was an expert on the subject, would have recognised this as a ‘danger’ signal.
There were two types of gnomes in Zanterus, domesticated and native, or as the gnomes insultingly referred to each other, Picklebuts and Grimesters. Native gnomes lived in villages with quaint names such as Martins Muckpuss, Strawberry Muckhill, and Hamlin-In-The-Muckhole, and access was gained by walking three times around certain trees. However, as the trees in question were deep inside the vast Zanterus forest, the villages were not easy to find.
For the main part, Native gnomes abided by their own laws and customs. Indeed, they considered the picking of their long curled toenails after dinner, the height of good manners. They also had their own television network, the current favourite programme being ‘Wheel of Misfortune’, hosted by the charming Skimp Implee.
Domesticated gnomes lived outside the forest and abided by the laws of Zanterus. Even so, they never forgot their heritage, and those gnomes who lived and worked at Camals - and there were quite a few of them, had created a vague representation of their home village by adding several tons of soil to their room. As the saying went, ‘You can take the gnome out of the muck, but you can’t take the muck out of the gnome’.
Native gnomes considered Domesticated gnomes, traitors, and so great was the divide, that some families had not exchanged a word in centuries. There was a way for an ‘outcast’ to re-join its native village, but it involved a painful sacrifice. For a male, it was to have two thirds of his beard cut off. This was a recent development, for only a hundred years ago, the beard would have been removed completely. For a female, it was to keep her floor length hair – of which she was inordinately vain, in plats for a year.
Whether Domesticated or Native, all gnomes possessed a common trait…tantrums. According to Gnomish history, The Great Gnome Rebellion of 1666, which allegedly stretched into the mortal world and caused The Great Fire of London, was sparked by an argument over a slice of toast.
Indeed, several months earlier, a contestant on Wheel of Misfortune had insisted that the word ‘dog’ was spelt ‘dawg’. Such was the ferocity of his tantrum, that Skimp Implee had been badly injured and the studio all but destroyed.
The only outward sign that a gnome was building-up to a tantrum was the drooping of its ears. The flatter the ears, the bigger the tantrum, and having seen Bryan’s hat drop significantly, Professor Lution quickly steered his attention in another direction.
“Why, Bryan, what an excellent piece of acting. Have you ever considered joining the ZADS?”
“The ZADS!” Such was his outrage that Bryan almost choked on the words. “What would I want with a bunch of namby-pamby actors?”
“The Zanterus Amateur Dramatic Society is comprised of some of the greatest actors, actresses, and playwrights who ever lived, and judging from the performance you’ve just given, you would fit right in.” Though Bryan mumbled something under his breath, his hat did not drop any lower. Satisfied that she’d averted a major tantrum, Professor Lution went on, “If Amos’s sudden appearances are disturbing you, I’ll have a word with him, but don’t try and hoodwink me by twisting the subject. As you well know, passing through objects is not the same as Arching.”
“But what’s the point of running up and down stairs and opening and closing doors when I can just Arch?”
“Arching is only used under certain circumstances, and receiving a general summons to my office is not one of them. Please don’t do it again.” As Bryan removed his hat and swept her a bow, Professor Lution saw that his ears were back to normal. She quietly breathed a sigh of relief and continued, “Now, please ask Abacus Miller and King Arthur to come to my office.”
“Kingy? I thought he was away.”
“He was, but he returned a short time ago. You’ll probably find Mr Miller in his laboratory in the dungeon, and King Arthur will be somewhere in the Department of Parties. Oh, wait a minute, I keep forgetting that since Doctor Inoot arrived and modernised certain areas, it’s now called The Faculty of Ceremonial Observances. Anyway, the King will be with either Doctor Downer or the ZADS. Apparently, Shakespeare has written his 556th play.”
Bryan let out a groan. “Oh no, not another one. What is it this time?”
“I believe it’s called…Justin and Tracy. Apparently, it’s a modern day adaptation of Troilus and Cressida.” Professor Lution paused then added mischievously, “Perhaps while you’re there, you could ask Miss Shorestump about joining the ZADS. Now off you go, and Bryan…” SLAM “…don’t slam the door on your way out.”
Abacus Miller was the first to arrive. He was the Deputy Head of Alchemy, and even for a full colour ghost, he was ‘creepy’. Short, pasty faced, and running to fat, his greasy thinning hair was styled in a comb-over, and nobody had ever seen him wear anything other than a pale blue Safari suit. A childhood injury had set his top lip in a permanent curl, which made it very difficult to determine whether he was snarling or smiling. He was also very secretive, never mixed socially, and rarely allowed anyone into his private laboratory in the dungeon.
By contrast, King Arthur was affable and jolly, and arrived at the office impeccably dressed as usual. His green velvet tunic sparkled with jewels and pearls, and perched on top of his thick, shoulder length white hair, which was so stiffly groomed that it might have been a wig, was a magnificent gold pointed crown.
“Gentlemen,” Professor Lution began, as both men sat down opposite the desk, “thank you for coming at such short notice.”
King Arthur stood up again and placed a hand over his heart. “My fairest lady, thou only hast to whisper on the wind and with all haste I shall hee
d the call.”
“Oh, sit down, Arthur,” said Miller testily. “Leave that kind of foolishness for the ZADS.”
Professor Lution, who had enjoyed the flowery piece of flattery, smiled appreciatively at the King. She then pointed to the Infospecs report. “This concerns a young girl who, by virtue of birthright, is eligible to attend Camals, though at present she is unaware of our existence. She is articulate, possesses an extremely vivid imagination, and is generally kind and considerate.”
“Sounds like a perfect candidate,” said King Arthur, and then added hopefully, “I don’t suppose she can act as well? We could do with some fresh young talent in the ZADS. Who is it?” Having only just returned after several weeks away, the King was unaware of the turmoil that had gripped the college.
“Please, Arthur, this is not the time to be discussing recreational activities. But, I’m surprised you don’t already know her name…Grace Darling.”
Abacus Miller’s only response was to raise his deformed top lip by a fraction. King Arthur however, roared with laughter, his golden crown wobbling on his head.
“So,” he said between guffaws, “the granddaughter of Digby Darling is coming to Camals. Goodness me, wait until the rest of the college hears about this.”
“I believe,” said Professor Lution, trying not to smile at his naivety, “that rumours are already circulating.” She looked at Abacus Miller inquiringly. “And what is your opinion?” she asked, though she thought she knew the answer.
Although there was no proof that Abacus Miller had leaked the news about Grace, his animosity towards Digby Darling was well known. Over the previous 18 months, they had both been working on the same ancient experiment, and Miller had dropped several none-to-subtle hints about plagiarism. Professor Lution was aware of these facts, which was why she had called Miller to her office before announcing her decision. She had wanted to gage the depth of his hostility, and the answer he now gave showed that it was very deep.
“You need hardly ask,” he drawled. “Even by Camals standards, Digby Darling is an eccentric old fool with deluded and outdated ideas. There are already those who have naively raised him to hero status, and the presence of his granddaughter will only increase this stupidity.”
“I say, that’s a bit harsh,” said Sir Isaac from his painting. He had changed into a purple frock coat and a flowery pink cravat, and was puffing on a long-stemmed clay pipe. “I have always found Digby Darling a most affable fellow. Granted some of his ideas and conceptions do seem rather radical, but then again, so did mine when I was alive.”
“Yes, thank you, Sir Isaac,” said Professor Lution with quiet firmness, even though she was grateful for his support. She would thank him later. She turned back to Miller and King Arthur and pointedly tapped the report. “There is nothing in here to suggest that Grace has the same leanings as her grandfather. So the question is this, is it fair to exclude her from Camals simply on the basis of something she ‘might’ do?”
“I say yes,” said Miller forcefully, and this time there was no mistaking that he was sneering.
“What a surprise,” said a derisive voice in a painting.
Miller seemingly ignored it and went on, “If there’s even the slightest chance she’ll cause disruption, she should not be admitted.”
“It would certainly liven things up though,” said King Arthur. “Quite frankly, if I’m forced to direct or act in one more Shakespearean play, I think I’ll take another holiday. I’ve always had a hankering to seek the Loch Ness Monster.”
“Oh, how nice,” said Miller sarcastically. “And while you’re off chasing mythical creatures, we’ll be the ones coping with the problem.” His eyes were cold and challenging as he looked at Professor Lution. “To admit Grace Darling into the college is just asking for trouble.”
The room fell as silent as the grave. Even the 18th century soldiers who had earlier acquired the eggs, stopped cooking their tea on their campfire. This painting, known to mortals as ‘The Night Watch’, did not ‘smell, which was most fortunate as the omelettes were beginning to burn.
Professor Lution clasped her hands and lay them on her desk. “I agree with Mr Miller, though not as ardently. It is quite possible that Grace may prove disruptive, even untrustworthy. However, there has been at least one member of the Darling family at Camals for generations, and I am not prepared to end that tradition on the grounds of mere speculation. For better or worse, Grace must be given every chance to prove herself, and there is only one infallible method to do this. I have therefore decided to instigate…”
“…A test!” King Arthur clapped his hands and beamed with pleasure. “Why, dear lady, that’s an excellent idea. There hasn’t been a test in decades.” He jumped to his feet and began pacing the carpet, narrowly missing the planet Mars, which promptly shot sideways. “What is the scenario to be? An underwater exploration? A trek through the Andes to find hidden treasure? Better yet, a rescue mission on an island that’s about to blow up. I’m sure Doctor Ambit could produce an erupting volcano or two.”
Professor Lution rather suspected that, had it not been undignified, the King would have tossed his crown into the air. She was also very relieved, perhaps more than she cared to admit, for the King was an extremely popular figure at Camals, and for the time being at least, his enthusiasm for the test would help subdue the quarrelsome atmosphere. The participation of the inconsistent Doctor Ambit however, was another matter.
“If you don’t mind, Arthur, we’ll leave exploding volcanoes for another occasion. Grace will have enough to absorb as it is, so it will be best to keep the scenario relatively simple. In short, she will follow a series of clues to find a book in order to lift a curse.”
“Brilliant! Every ZAD member will want to participate, and we’ll need the full scenario as quickly as possible so that we can develop the script. Then there’s the costumes, the make-up, and the props to design.” The King barely drew breath as he asked in a rush, “When can we start?”
“Just a minute, Arthur,” said Miller. “Before you start rolling out the blunderbusses, I think you should wait until we’ve heard what the setting is to be.”
Professor Lution tapped the report again. “We are rather fortunate there. It seems Grace has a fondness for the natural world. It therefore follows that the setting should be in a natural environment. I don’t think the gnomes will object too much if we used a corner of their forest.”
“Their forest?” cried the King in an outraged tone. “I think the other inhabitants might have something to say about that. Their forest indeed, what balderdash!”
Professor Lution smiled and said dryly, “Would you care to tell the gnomes that?”
King Arthur dropped his head and took a sudden interest in Saturn, which was just spinning past the toe of his right boot. “Um…no.”
“It might interest you to know that while you were away, I had the newly elected King of the Tuckmuck tribe in here, King…erm…I do wish they’d use intelligible names. The closest English pronunciation is ‘currant bun’. He tried to declare the forest the sole realm of his tribe and insisted that everyone vacate it by the end of the week. Utter nonsense of course, but you have to admire his gumption.” In a rare moment of unity, the King and the Alchemist both wore an expression of, ‘not again.
“Why is it,” said King Arthur, “that whenever a new gnomish monarch is elected, he always begins his reign by claiming the forest as his own? I suppose he threatened the usual spate of mischief when you refused?”
“Oh yes,” said Professor Lution, “and threw a first-class tantrum as well.” She waived a hand around the office. “It took three days to repair it, and Jeremy has only just finished decorating it.”
King Arthur slowly shook his head. “I can’t take to that fellow,” he said in a low voice, as though Jeremy might be listening outside the door. “He’s always re-decorating the main lift. One wee
k it’s the inside of a tent, and the next, an igloo.”
“He certainly has a flair for design. I’m sure if you asked him he’d be happy to help with the test.”
King Arthur drew himself up to full height, his tone proud and haughty. “My dear lady, home decorating has nothing to do with theatrical design. Floral curtains and glittering chandeliers hardly belong in a forest.”
“True,” said Professor Lution with an apologetic smile. “Perhaps we shall leave Jeremy in reserve. And now, gentlemen, to work.” She touched the same symbol on the bell as earlier. “I’ll have Bryan bring us tea and cake,” and for the next few hours, the details of the test were discussed, argued, and settled.
Abacus Miller stood up to leave. “If you would excuse me, I have my own work to do.” He walked to the door and then stopped. “By the way, you never said who was to be appointed…The Guardian. You can’t trust the role to just anyone. Though it would interfere with my work, I would be willing to do it should you fail to find someone suitable.”
Professor Lution looked at him steadily. Behind her eyes however, she was a little suspicious. For a man who preferred a solitary existence, his offer to participate in a scenario that would involve hundreds of people, was out of character. Moreover, during the discussion, his earlier strong objection to Grace seemed to have softened. Was he genuinely interested in the test, or was there something else behind the offer, something to do with Digby Darling perhaps?
Professor Lution erred on the side of caution. “I do have someone in mind, but it would be quite unfair, not to say rude, to reveal their identity before they have been informed.”
“Of course,” said Miller with a slight, almost mocking inclination of his head. “Please call on me should you require any assistance,” and as he opened the door and exited the room, someone in a painting blew a very loud raspberry.
*****