Griffin of Darkwood (17 page)

When they got to the old apple barn, the other Storm children had gone to bed. An oil lamp burned in the kitchen and Granny Storm and Star were sitting over cups of tea, heated up on a camp stove.

“Thom?” said Star.

“Safe at home,” said her husband Peter. “But he’s in a bad way. Too much exposure to the storm.” He hesitated. “And something else is wrong too. It’s as if something has paralyzed him. The doctor is with him now.”

Granny’s eyes glittered when she saw Will. “I warned you. I said you would need courage in the days to come. And it’s not over yet. It’s far from over.”

A tremor ran through Will. What did she mean?

“Hannah Linley was found wandering in the forest in a storm.” Granny’s voice rose. “She died two days later.”

“That’s enough, Granny!” said Emma’s father sharply. “Everyone’s upset enough.”

“It’s the griffin’s curse. It’ll –”

“Enough!” roared Peter.

Granny muttered crossly into her tea, but she didn’t say another word.

Star sprang up, arranging a bed and blankets for Will in the spare room. “I’m not tired,” he protested as Star tucked him in. But in less than five minutes he was asleep.

He dreamed he was inside Granny Storm’s crystal ball and this time, he couldn’t get out.

Chapter Thirty-One

Morgan Moonstone’s Story

Someone was shaking Will’s shoulder.
He burrowed deeper into the warm blankets. “Will, wake up,” whispered Star.

Will’s eyes blinked open. “Thom –”

“There’s no improvement yet. But he’s a brave boy. He’ll pull through. Favian Longstaff just phoned. He says you must come to the bookstore immediately.”

“Now? What time is it?”

“It’s ten o’clock. You’ve only been asleep an hour. But Favian said it was urgent.”

“What –”

“No idea. Peter’s going to take you. The storm hasn’t eased at all. And there’s something else. Favian said to bring the piece of tapestry.”

Will struggled back into the clothes he had borrowed from Lukas. His jacket was still wet so Star gave him one of Lukas’s heavy jackets to wear. He slipped the scrap of tapestry into the pocket.

He shivered as they went out into the wild night and down the road to the village square. The
Ex Libris
sign over the bookstore was banging back and forth in the wind. A candle burned in the window. Favian greeted them at the door.

“Any word on Thom?” Peter asked.

Favian shook his head. “Nothing. He’s still unconscious. They’ll take him to the hospital in Chipping as soon as it’s light out.” He put his hand on Will’s shoulder. “I’ll take care of our boy here. You get back to your family, Peter.”

“Favian,” Will said urgently, when Peter had left. “We found a tunnel into the forest. I think that’s how Hannah got in. And we saw a griffin!”

“What a night!” cried Favian.

“It was terrible,” said Will. “Thom got so sick. He said he felt this terrible suffering. It came from the griffin. Hannah must have felt it too. You said she had the same powers as Thom. I think it killed her.”

“We have so much to talk about,” said Favian. “Astounding things have happened since you came to Sparrowhawk. But I must show you this first.”

He picked up a parcel wrapped in brown paper. “This arrived for you in this afternoon’s post. With the scare over Thom, I didn’t have a chance to give it to you. It’s from Mr. Barnaby.”

“Should I open it now?” asked Will, his voice trembling.

“I think you should open it when you’re alone,” said Favian. “But that is not why I sent for you on such a wicked night. I’ve found something. Come with me.”

Favian led Will between the tall tiers of books into the depths of the shadowy shop. A purple candle burned on a round table, casting a tiny pool of light on several sheets of paper, as thin as parchment and yellowed with age.

“I found these papers hidden in one of Ebenezer Moonstone’s ancient books.”

Will picked up the first paper. He read out loud the words written in black ink at the top.

“An account of the events at Sparrowhawk Hall as told by Morgan Moonstone to his wife Elizabeth Moonstone in the year 1604…”

Will stopped reading and stared at Favian.

“Go on,” said Favian. “Read it all and then we’ll talk.”

Will began again.

“My name is Morgan Moonstone, master weaver. I know that I am dying. I am too weak to hold a pen and I have asked my wife Elizabeth to write my story.

On a cold spring morning, just two weeks ago, Lord Linley’s servant knocked at the door of our cottage.

‘Lord Linley of Sparrowhawk Hall is planning a hunt for the griffin of Darkwood,’ he said. ‘He summons you to weave four magic tapestries. A griffin has been sighted and the work must be completed in ten days. You must begin at once.’

My tapestries have caused the success of many hunts. Ten days was not long enough, but I could use my magic. Still I hesitated. Lord Linley had a reputation as a cruel man.

‘My master will pay you well,’ said the man. ‘But you must work without interruption and move into the tower at the castle until you are finished.’

I set up my loom in the tower. I worked day and night with little sleep. By the eighth day, I had completed three tapestries,
The Hunt for the Griffin of Darkwood, The Griffin of Darkwood is Captured
and
The Griffin of Darkwood is Taken to the Castle.
As each tapestry was finished, Lord Linley ordered his servants to carry it to the great hall in the keep. Each was hung on the wall, hidden under cloths in preparation for the grand unveiling.”

Will’s heart jumped. So it was true. The tapestries in the great hall were woven by Morgan Moonstone!

“I began work on the fourth tapestry. My fingers flew over the threads. Lord Linley was impatient. He didn’t want to wait until I was finished to start the hunt. With a blare of bugles and a clatter of horses’ hooves, he and his men set out.

From the tower window I saw the guests for the feast arriving all afternoon, lords and ladies, beautifully dressed. I heard the men in the courtyard talking. The griffin had been captured. The hunt was a success. I admit I was proud at the part my magic tapestries had played.

They brought the griffin back to the castle at nightfall. Torches flickered in the courtyard below me. Although I strained to see, I could make out only shadows.

Lord Linley burst into my tower room. He examined the last tapestry and grunted with satisfaction at the sight of the griffin lying dead in a pool of blood. I had only a few finishing touches to weave and then the golden words at the top.

The Griffin of Darkwood is Killed

‘How much longer?’ he demanded.

‘I will be finished at midnight,’ I promised.

‘We will hang the tapestry one minute after midnight,’ he said. ‘Covered like the others. I will slay the griffin at noon tomorrow and we will feast tomorrow night.’

Lord Linley’s laugh was cruel. ‘It will be a fine show for my guests. We will reveal the tapestries at the feast.’

Lord Linley left.

A sudden low moaning from outside, like that of a creature in great pain, sent me to a window. I could see nothing.

I went back to my tapestry. I had only the final word,
Killed
, to weave. The moaning came again, sending shivers down my spine.

I crept down the tower stairs. No one saw me. I entered the courtyard. I stood for a moment in darkness, and then the clouds parted, and the moon shone down.

It was my first sight of a griffin. I could barely breathe. Its great wings rested on the stones. It was wrapped in chains. It watched me come.

A kind of dizziness buckled my knees and made me gasp out loud. My throat went dry. I was spellbound; filled with both awe and wretchedness.

How could anyone kill such a magnificent creature?

How could I be a part of it?

It was almost midnight when I returned to the tower. I had to change the tapestry before it was too late. It was the only way to save the griffin. The magic was difficult, but not impossible. I remembered the powerful spells that my grandfather had taught me. I stood in front of the tapestry. ‘OCUD RABA ABAR DUCO!’ I cried.”

“OCUD RABA ABAR DUCO!” said Will. “It’s a palindrome!”

“Keep reading,” urged Favian.

“The threads swirled and danced in a kaleidoscope of ruby and emerald and blue. The scene in the tapestry transformed before my eyes. When the colours settled, I studied the new tapestry with joy.

I was lost in my work, ready to weave the final word,
Escapes
. I didn’t hear Lord Linley’s steps on the tower stairs.

‘Traitor!’ he hissed.

In terror, I turned to face him. He raised his sword and
seconds later my chest was on fire, blood spurting like a fountain. The pain was like nothing I have ever felt before. I slumped to the floor.

Time blurred. I dimly heard the tearing of my tapestry as Lord Linley slashed at it again and again. Pieces fell in tatters around me.

His hunting boot crashed into my ribs. His footsteps clattered down the stairs. He had left me to die.

A tremendous wind blew through the opened shutters. I saw pieces of the slashed tapestry spin in a cloud of colour and disappear through the windows into the night. I grabbed at a scrap. Words, woven in golden thread.
The Griffin of Darkwood
. I thrust it inside my bloody shirt and crawled to the stairs.

Step by step, I lowered myself down. At the bottom, I pulled myself up in the doorway and listened. From the courtyard came terrible sounds, Lord Linley’s curses and the roar of the griffin. I knew that Lord Linley was going to kill it.

I stumbled to the stone archway. The great doors were open and I slipped outside. With Lord Linley’s curses ringing in my ears, I staggered down the hill and through the narrow streets to my cottage.

Elizabeth has brought me here, to this shepherd’s hut, to hide. She brings my infant son every day to see me. I have lost all track of time. Elizabeth tells me that three days have passed since Lord Linley stabbed me and destroyed the last tapestry. The talk in the village is all about the griffin. Lord Linley stabbed it a hundred times but it would not die. He ordered his men to take it in chains to a distant part of his estate, deep in the forest.

What have I done? Did my spell save the griffin for a lifetime of suffering?

This morning, the ground shook and Elizabeth says that the entrance to the great hall is in ruins. My tapestries are buried.

Elizabeth has nursed my wounds, but I grow steadily weaker. It is hard to speak.”

At the bottom of the paper in shaky handwriting were the words:

Morgan Moonstone passed away this night, May 13, in the year of our Lord 1604.

“The griffin’s still alive,” said Will. “It’s in the forest.”

“Lord Linley couldn’t kill it,” said Favian. “It must be because the fourth tapestry was never completed.”

“The story wasn’t finished,” said Will. “We found the place where the griffin was chained up. It must have broken loose. But it still couldn’t escape.”

“When Morgan Moonstone cast his spell to change the tapestry it went terribly wrong,” said Favian. “He saved the griffin’s life, but he made it a prisoner.” His face paled. “First Hannah took on the griffin’s suffering. It killed her. And now, Thom.”

Something tugged at Will’s thoughts. He scanned the ancient papers again. Words jumped out at him.
Elizabeth tells me that three days have passed since Lord Linley stabbed me and destroyed the last tapestry…Morgan Moonstone passed away this night, May 13, in the year of our Lord 1604.

“Favian!” he said. “The fourth tapestry was destroyed at midnight on May 10. That’s today. It’s May 10!”

Favian held his head in his hands and groaned, “We must make sense of this!”

Will took the piece of tapestry out of his pocket. “Why do I have it?” he asked desperately. “What does it mean?”

“That scrap of tapestry has been passed down to you through generations of Moonstones,” said Favian. “You have been chosen for a reason. What is it you do best, Will?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Think, Will. Think hard. What is your gift?”

Will thought about Emma saying that everyone had a passion. “I used to write,” he said slowly.

“Then that is what you must do! Remember, a tapestry tells a story. You must write the story of the fourth tapestry and set the griffin free. It’s our only chance to save Thom.”

“But I can’t. I can’t write any more…I CAN’T! I don’t know how…my mother…”

Will’s throat closed and his eyes filled with tears.

“It’s the only way,” insisted Favian. “You must write it in the tower. The magic will be strongest there.”

Just then, the grandfather clock in the corner of the bookstore struck eleven hours.

“One hour until midnight,” said Favian. “Go now. There is still time.”