Archie and the Enchanter E-Book

Alexander Weir

• Herausgeber: tredition
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Archie and the Enchanter Mysteries
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 223

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

This is for 8 - 12 year olds. It takes place on Scotland's wild West Coast where Archie discovers an ancient and supernatural set of bagpipes. The magical bagpipes do impossible things. The music it makes is powerful. Through its music, history begins to change. It's not the bagpipes but the chanter that is supernatural (the chanter is the part of the bagpipe that the piper uses to make music). The chanter is probably more than 1,500 years old and yet looks brand new. The name 'chanter' comes from the word 'enchanter' - and 'enchant' is what it does. The origins of the enchanter are shrouded in mystery. It disappeared before the Jacobite risings of 1715 and 1745. Perhaps the Young Pretender, Bonnie Prince Charlie, would have won through if the Enchanter had been around. Then our hero, a scruffy little boy called Archie, found it, and this book is about what happened next. There are two lessons: music is more important than money (poor people have no money but in music they have a source of joy) and Scotland still some unfinished business as an independent nation.

Leseprobe

No one knows where it came from. It was found in a heathery glen by a shepherd tending his sheep. The shepherd was keeping a wary eye on the horizon for Viking raiders and for a moment looked down. And there it was shining silvery at his feet.

What it could and would do was a constant source of amazement. It didn’t seem to age, and despite the passage of the centuries it always looked as shiny and new as it had been when it was found. It became a treasured possession of one of the Highland clans. Its ownership was kept a closely guarded secret although the Royal Stuarts knew about it and called upon it to be used in their quest for power.

Then it was lost. Everyone in the clan searched, but no one found it. The chanter entirely disappeared during Scotland’s troubled times at the close of the seventeenth century.

Who knows how the conflict at Culloden would have turned out if it had been there.

Tredition GmbH

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Germany

Copyright © Norman Alexander Weir 2019

First published 2019

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any other form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

ARCHIE AND THE ENCHANTER

By Alexander Weir

About the author of

Archie and the Enchanter

Alexander Weir retired from London basedbusiness life to be part of a small communityin a remote part of Scotland’s Argyll Coast.

As part of the community, he teaches art tothe children and, of an evening, they join himin the family room for ‘story time.’

The children’s imagination has been capturedby the tale and they are keen to see it beingenjoyed by others of their age.

A sequel ‘Archie and the Dark Door Mystery’is also available.

CONTENTS

Chapter

1. The BIG mistake

2. Dark discoveries and black disaster

3. Rescued from deep trouble

4. Mutiny on the Number 93

5. The magic ceilidh

6. A horrible chapter

7. The mystery of Accendit Cantu

8. A glimmer of hope

9. The first option – a spectacular failure

10. The stinky second option.

11. Crisis.

12. Putting things right.

13. The Junior Pipe Band Parade.

14. All's well that ends well… perhaps!

Chapter One 

THE BIG MISTAKE

I bet you are glad you don’t have a name like Archibald Alisdair McAllister. Well, that’s my full name and 'cos it's something of an embarrassment, I like to be called Archie.

Before you hear my story, I’d like to tell you about my family and me.

I live with Mum and Dad in a small town on Scotland's west coast. It's a windy, soggy place for most of the time. A poky two bedroomed cottage is the home we share with our two cats. It doesn’t belong to us, and we pay a weekly rent to live there. The landlord comes round every Friday evening for his money. When he's gone, Mum and Dad always argue over how they are going to get through the next week.

It's hard going at times because there’s not got much dosh going around. I can tell you, there are lots of things I want to do but can't 'cos we haven’t got the money.

Okay. Now that you know where I live, it’s time I told you about me.

I don't know why people say I look like a chimney sweep. My spiky ginger hair is probably the reason as it reminds them of a brush. I'm also told I look like Dad, though I don't see it as he's as bald as a coot.

Mum is one of those people who loves all things squeaky clean and ‘just so.’ I'm the opposite, and this makes her cross, I mean CROSS! She says I'm scruffy and shouts at me, though I can never see why she's making a fuss. Sadly, she seems to have an unnatural interest in bathrooms, soap and things like that. To my way of thinking, getting clean is a total waste of time. After all, what is the earth is made but dirt, so why should we insist on being clean, it ain’t natural is it? And, in any case, what's the point of washing in the first place when you're going to get dirty again? Well, that was my view, but I guess I’m beginning to change; even so, Mum and I still fight about it.

Phew! I'm glad I've got all that off my chest. Now, that's enough about me. Let's start my story.

Like all adventures, it starts off boringly quiet and after a sleepy opening, jerks into life with a WHAM, BANG and CRASH. But let me start at the beginning.

The last day of the school year arrived a couple of weeks earlier and with it the year-end report. As usual, it was given to me for Mum and Dad to see. This black cloud always came at the end of the school year. I guessed the report would be as bad as the last one and was right! In fact, it went far beyond my darkest fears.

I trudged home from school in heavy rain and felt as miserable as the weather. Despite the downpour, I decided to take the risk and have a sneaky look at what the report said. I wish I hadn't! What I saw so shocked me that I dropped it into the deep muddy puddle through which I was wading. That made things even worse. The report sank under the surface of the yucky brown water, and when I fished it out, it was a muddy pulpy mess. All the writing was running into blotchy blots and mud was making the pages stick to one another.

The thought of Mum's reading it was terrifying enough, but now the report was an oozy, messy mess. I groaned in despair and stuffed it up my jumper hoping she wouldn't see it. I planned to hide it in my bedroom and forget all about it – you know, ‘Out of sight and out of mind,’ as the old saying goes. However, its plumpy lumpy wetness attracted attention no matter what I did.

Mum met me at the door. Hands on hips and eyes glaring suspiciously at the wet bulge under my jersey. She knew what it was!

‘Well, Archie, let me see it. Ye cannae hide it from me. Give it to me NOW!’

I reluctantly drew the dreaded report from its hiding place, and she snatched the soggy lump away from me. I didn't stand a chance. It was a dirty, dripping lump of bad news.

The inky, muddy water trickled down her sleeves. Her eyes widened and bulged out like golf balls. Mum was angry, and I mean ANGRY!

There was a threatening quietness as she peeled the wet pages apart and began to read. It was like a time bomb; I knew she was going to explode and could hear it ticking away. When finished, she was lost for words and spluttered in hot temper. When Mum finally started talking it was in a quiet voice that became louder and higher with each word. In the end, it was like a high pitched screech that rattled the windows and set the cats wailing in fright.

‘Now Archibald Alisdair McAllister,’ she always uses my full name when I'm in trouble.

‘Now Archibald Alisdair McAllister,’ she repeated, twenty notches higher but with at least a hundred more decibels of volume added.

‘This is terrible! Aren't ye ashamed of yerself? All ye seem to want to do is to fool around with that thing!’

She gave the ‘thing’ a well-aimed kick sending it sailing like a tartan goose through the air. The thing, my bagpipes, hit the wall in the far corner of the room and slid to the floor with a gurgling groan. I was amazed at Mum's new footballing skill and was about to give a cheer when she turned on me. The bagpipes' protest brought her to boiling point. Her face was red, and her eyes bulged more than ever.

‘But Mum!’ I protested, ‘Mr Dawson said, “I was always trying”.’

That was THE BIG mistake which made Mum hopping mad. She bounced about like a crazy kangaroo.

Mr Dawson is my form master at school. He's a big, burly, red-faced man. When he’s upset, which is all the time, he either tells us that we are ‘very trying’ or stamps and storms about the classroom in a rage. In fact to be only called ‘trying’ was quite gentle compared with one of his usual wee paddies. We call him ‘Tyrannosaurus Rex’ because he is enormous, ancient and stamps and grunts like a prehistoric beast. Talk about being trying; old TR is very trying indeed.

It may seem to be a little slip, but it was enough to tip Mum over the edge. I should know I'd get no sympathy from Mum in talking about Old TR. I shouldn't mention him at all. I waited until she finally ran out of breath. Then, to quieten her down, I made my second mistake.This second slip opens the door to my story. I've thought a lot about this and think perhaps it wasn't a mistake after all but was something that was meant to be.

‘Mum, I am very, very sorry and will try my very best to do better.’ I paused, then nervously went on, ‘I've got an idea that will show you how sorry I am.’

‘What is it?’ she snarled.

‘I know its ages since you went to see Grandpa…’

‘Well, so what?’

‘How about me going instead? I could go on my own by bus, couldn't I? ‘

Mum gave me an odd look. Offering to visit Grandpa was – well, out of the ordinary. No one in their right mind ever volunteered to make such a visit. Grandpa lived miles away up the coast. To get there takes ages and visits were never happy. Mum and Dad were too busy to make regular visits and, when they did, it was a waste of time. All that concerned them was that he wasn't overeating and was taking his medication. Grandpa loved eating food and deliberately hid his pills so that he couldn’t find them. Mum and Dad's questions about eating, exercise and his tablets always made him grumpy.

Some visits were stormy and lasted for only a few minutes. More than once, we were forced to run for it to the bus stop while he yelled and hurled lumps of coal at us as we ran.

‘All right! I'll give him a ring and find out when is best,’ she said more quietly. With that, the storm died down. The atmosphere in the home during the next few days was like the weather, cloudy with very occasional sunny spells.

Over the next two weeks, I’d hoped Mum would’ve forgotten the visit, but she didn’t. Instead, she was always reminding me about the trip. The grey cloud of visiting grumpy Grandpa hung like a wet blanket over everything. However, there was a growing feeling inside me that something exciting was about to happen.

And two weeks on, I was in Grandpa’s kitchen. The bus arrived just after Grandpa finished an enormous and very early lunch. It was a poor start to the visit because his only thought was an afternoon nap. We chatted for a few minutes before his eyes sleepily rolled and closed. He was away in dreamland.

I looked around the old kitchen. There were four of us in the room, Grandpa, Wee Billy his budgie, me and …. ‘the FLY.’ Grandpa and Wee Billy were asleep – only me and the FLY were awake.

The FLY was one of those big, fat, shiny, squelchy types. It buzzed round and round the room. It was trying its best to annoy but wasn’t doing it very well. It was also probably fed up with going in circles all the time. In fact, it was on its fifty-fourth orbit (I counted them) and seemed to be looking for a suitable landing place. Grandpa's nose apparently looked perfect. It landed in the tickly way that flies do.

‘Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz grmph grmph………zzzzzzzzzzz,’ snorted Grandpa, still fast asleep, eyes tight shut and mouth wide open. For a moment or two, he was in frenzied action. Without once opening his eyes, he flailed his arms around like a windmill, trying to defending himself against aerial attack. The FLY took off, probably in disgust, and Grandpa, settling back in contentment, started snoring again.

I sat listening and bored. I hoped the FLY would do something spectacular. You can see how fed-up I was by the way the FLY had caught my interest. It was the only thing with life in the room apart from me.

The FLY angrily zoomed around plotting revenge. It circled over the old man like a dive bomber while planning its next attack. In its aerial investigation, it seemed to be fascinated by a mysterious black cavern. As it buzzed overhead, it looked carefully at the cave and after a couple more orbits shot in. And that was it – for the FLY at least!

The old man almost woke up. He coughed. He gulped. He swallowed, and the FLY was no more.

Then, there were only three left in the room. I remembered the old song and began to sing quietly:

‘I knew an old woman who swallowed a fly,

I don't know why she swallowed a fly,

Perhaps she'll die…’

and, forgetting the next line, I fell silent. I watched to see what would happen next to Grandpa, but nothing did. He went on snoring like an old buffalo. No excitement, nothing wild, just the old man noisily fast asleep!

I said that it was quiet, especially since Grandpa swallowed the FLY, and so it was.

The feeling that something was about to happen was even stronger, but I didn't know how, where or when it would start.

Okay! At last, we’ve hit the point where my story begins.

Chapter Two 

DARK DISCOVERIES AND BLACK DISASTER

If it was miserable in the kitchen, then it was even more so outside. Heavy rain beating against the window panes was just like the weather on my sad journey home from school.

I gazed around the kitchen. It was full of ancient odds and ends I was never to touch. Being cooped up in a stuffy old kitchen with stuffy old things was frustrating. It was even more annoying when I knew something big was going to happen. If it weren’t for this hunch, I’d have walked out and caught the bus back home. As it was, I sat patiently waiting and listening to Grandpa's snores.

The rain came to an end, and midsummer sunshine poured through the dusty windows. I felt warm and opened the kitchen door to the garden, hoping I wouldn't wake up grumpy Grandpa.

Grandpa's main activities were eating and sleeping, and these left him with no time for gardening. As a result, the garden was an overgrown mess. Tall weeds were everywhere, and any flowers were weedy. In places, the grass was a metre high. Invading nettle and bramble armies were fighting it out for ownership of the garden.

I looked around the watery wilderness for anything of interest. The old apple tree in the far corner grabbed my attention and invited me to come and climb. But, as I started squelching my way towards it, I remembered I was in my best clothes. Mum warned me there would be a fate worse than death if they were spoiled. The thought of stirring Mum up to start World War Three drove climbing the tree out of my mind.

I sighed, turned and went back to the sleepy kitchen. All of a sudden, the urge to explore the old house swept over me. Exploring Grandpa’s home was something new, and I was sure this was why I was there. In all my visits I had never seen anything beyond the kitchen. Above everything else, I suddenly had the overpowering need to explore the rambling old house. As Grandpa was asleep, there was nothing standing in my way.

Silently, I opened the door to the hallway. In the panelling under the staircase going up to the first floor was another door. I cautiously opened it and found a flight of stone steps going down into a pitch-black cavern under the house. There was neither a light switch nor a light. Instead, a flashlight hung on a hook inside the door frame.

I began to feel afraid as I looked down into the eerie darkness. I’d heard all sorts of strange tales from Dad about the old house and hesitated on the brink of the unknown. What was down there? Was it only a cellar or was there something else?

I knew the house had been there for hundreds of years and trembled as I remembered stories of labyrinths and skeleton-filled dungeons found under some other very old houses. Despite my fear, there was something like a magnet pulling me down into the darkness.

I got the torch and switched it on. Then, like a robot mechanically clomped my way into the shadowy depths. I felt around for a handrail but found none and, gingerly hugging the wall, made my way downwards. It is odd now, now that I think about it, but then it was all tooreal. Irresistibly drawn on, I slowly moved towards that something I was meant to find.

At the bottom, the light from the torch showed a sort of cavern. I couldn’t see very far, but the impression was that it was huge. My immediate problem was getting past a large, dirty old boiler and a mountain range of coal that hemmed me in on all sides.

As I shone my torch at the barrier, I saw a small gap between the boiler and the coal. It was an impossibly narrow, but it was towards this I was being drawn. And through it, I went like a thread through the eye of a needle. It was a very tight squeeze indeed and took much wriggling to push my way through. I desperately wanted to give it up and run but held like a captive, was made to go ever deeper into the darkness.

Once passed the barrier, I stumbled on towards a massive mound of old junk. Broken chairs; a grandfather clock; an ancient record player complete with horn; piles of gramophone records, all thickly coated with oily coal dust. By this time, I'd completely forgotten about best clothes and Mum's warning. Rootling among old and exciting relics drove everything else out of my mind. Although exploring was exciting, the drive to press on and go even further was becoming stronger by the second.

However, I did stop long enough to find some odd antiques. There were ginormous kettles and pans and next to them, a huge cauldron. Then I stumbled over an old and rusty sword with only half its blade. I tucked this into my belt in case I needed to defend myself. As I wandered on, I discovered old wartime relics. One of these was a canvas case stamped ‘Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders – 1916.’ which contained an old gas mask. I put this on with glee; okay, it may be dirty, but so what?

I was being irresistibly pulled into the darkness. Then I stopped still and listened. I was sure someone else was there. The only sound I heard was my heart beating in my ears. I swung the beam of the torch around and, saw no one, though a sixth sense told me I had company. ‘Hello! Who's there?’ I yelled as loudly as I could through the gas mask. The only reply was the echo and re-echo of my fuzzy sounding voice in that vast cavern. Despite the fact there was neither sound nor trace of anyone else, I knew of a certainty someone or something was there. What is more, I knew it was watching me.

It was creepy, and I was scared stiff. It was hard to stand still when all I wanted to do was scarper out of there. However, it was even harder for me to resist the magnetic pull drawing me deeper into a dark mystery. At last, I gave in and, again like a zombie, moved unwillingly forward into the unknown. The gas mask was a bit of a problem; the eyepieces were steaming up making it very hard to see and, what is more, breathing with it wasn’t easy. None-the-less, I stuck with it; it was fun.

Eventually, I found myself in a corner on the far side of the cavern with nowhere else to go. I stood still then, listening as hard as I could, slowly began to turn around. As I did so, something clutched at my ankles.

I screamed in terror and dropped the flashlight which promptly went out as it hit the floor. In total darkness, I kicked whatever it was that had grabbed my ankles and got down on hands and knees to find the torch. For some time I groped around, becoming more and more scared. Finally, my fingers touched it and, seconds later it was in my grasp. To my relief, I found the fall had merely switched the torch off and that it was still workable.

I got to my feet and shone the torch on the floor to see what had grabbed hold of me. All I could see was a small black bundle. Was it this that had been drawing me through the darkness and watching me as I made my way? In the torchlight, I saw what looked like a pair of black, beady eyes staring up at me. For a minute or two we stared at each other. Pushing my fear behind me, I bent over to see what it was. It was an old set of bagpipes!

With a great sigh of relief, I picked up the old instrument to look at it more closely. Its beady eyes seemed to be nothing more than a reflection of the torchlight from its unusually bright silver chanter, but I knew that wasn't true. As I examined it, I felt my search was over. The answer to why I was at Grandpa’s house was the ancient instrument now nestling in my arms.

I knew all about bagpipes and what to expect but what I saw was way out of the ordinary. Although it was old, its shape was vaguely familiar. I recently read about ancient Scottish music and here was one of the relics illustrated in the book.

A tingle went through my hands like an electric shock as I stroked the chanter. I yelped in pain, and let it go. Instead of it dropping to the floor, it stuck to me as if glued. I don't know where it came from, but I was overwhelmed by the urge to play the old thing. Again, like a robot, I mechanically yanked off the gas mask. It is impossible to play bagpipes and wear a gas mask at the same time. I carefully put the torch on the floor in such a way that I could see what I was doing. I put the mouthpiece to my lips and blew with the old instrument still resting in my arms.

It was not easy. I blew and blew. In fact, I became quite dizzy from the effort but didn't give in. The dust from the mouthpiece got into my throat and made me cough. Suddenly, there was another cough, one that didn't come from me but the old instrument instead. We were both coughing together at the same time.

As it coughed, a cloud of dust shot out of its drone pipes. Although this is perhaps what ancient bagpipes do when they're suddenly brought back into use, I’d never expected it to cough. ‘Well,’ I thought, ‘at least, the cough showed that it was still alive and kicking and probably playable as well.’

I got to my feet, picked up the torch and with the bagpipes hugged to my chest began the return journey. I scrambled over the junk mountain and rushed to the way out of the cavern. I forgot about the boiler and coal and ran straight into the black mountain range. Probably because of being ignored for so long, it seemed delighted in having a new playmate and wanted fun. The coal heap had a mind of its own and fell over me in a joyful cascade of dirty blackness. I too fell all over it, and together we rolled about on the cellar floor, one in joy the other in misery.

Eventually, I got to my feet, ran to the steps and rushed upwards. Out of the cavern and into the daylight I sailed with the ancient bagpipes clutched to my chest.

Chapter Three 

RESCUED FROM DEEP TROUBLE

I emerged into the hallway with my eyes blinking as they got used to the daylight. I was excited about my new treasure and felt happy and contented. The carefree feeling lasted until I looked around and saw the full length mirror.

What I saw reflected back at me, was a terrifying black imp.

I whirled around wondering who it was, but there was no-one there but me. It couldn’t possibly be me, though!

I spun back, but it was there again, the black spook, as large as life and still looking at me.

Convinced it must be someone else, I whirled and twirled time after time like a spinning top. Every time I spun around, I got the same results.

Gradually, it dawned on me; the black imp was no one else but ME! My happy, contented feelings instantly changed to terror. I remembered Mum's warnings, and I gasped in horrified helplessness. There seemed to be no possible escape from Mum's wrath.

‘Wow! Och no! Look at that! Oh dear, I'm really for it now! Whatever shall I do?’ I moaned.

To confirm my suspicions that the mirror wasn't playing tricks, I looked down at all that I could see of me myself. It did no good and only deepened the pit of horror