The Devil's Paintbox. Robin Jarvis
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Название: The Devil's Paintbox
Автор: Robin Jarvis
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Учебная литература
Серия: The Witching Legacy
isbn: 9781780317335
isbn:
The Nimius had lain dormant since that crazy week in the spring. Verne didn’t know how to wind the secret mechanisms, and none of the levers or symbols would push or slide. He and Lil had spent many patient hours examining and testing it, without success. Verne suspected it was broken.
The Nimius was his great secret. Only two people knew that he still had it: one was his best friend, Lil Wilson; the other was the town’s resident witch, Cherry Cerise.
‘What’s driving me round the bend,’ he muttered, ‘is that you’re probably the most valuable thing in the world and here we are, barely scraping by.’
Taking it up once more, he let out a squeak of surprise as he felt an internal movement and a series of delicate clicks. Then, to his delight, some of the many symbols began to rise.
He and Lil had made a pact that if and when the Nimius became active again, he would let her know straightaway. His first thought was to call her, but then he stopped himself. Placing the Nimius back on the pillow, even more gently than before so as not to accidentally press anything, he opened another drawer and took out a notepad.
Turning the pages, he consulted the secret list he and Lil had made. They had studied the magical device very carefully, researching every one of its symbols and trying to figure out what they signified. The Wilsons owned a witchcraft-themed shop called Whitby Gothic over on the East Cliff and the reference books in there had proved very helpful. They had identified several astrological and alchemical signs, including the one for ‘air’, which had once enabled Verne to fly. Some others were easy, like the little hand inscribed with the lines important in palmistry – that was obviously something to do with fortune telling. Then there was a circle engraved with a strange compass-like pattern that Lil recognised as ‘the Wyrding Way’, which was supposed to keep the bearer from getting lost. There was the Eye of Horus, which was protection against evil, a scarab that represented rebirth, an owl that might be to do with wisdom, and some Viking runes.
Other symbols were more ambiguous and had question marks next to the drawings Lil had made of them. Lil and Verne had spent a long time discussing the ones with less obvious meanings. There was an oak leaf, which had remained a puzzle, although they knew that oak trees were important in Celtic mythology. (Verne had wondered if it might grant enormous strength and he had posed like the Incredible Hulk to demonstrate, which had sent Lil into hysterics because he was the absolute opposite.)
Verne scanned the list and turned to the Nimius to see if any of the newly risen symbols were of the obvious variety.
There was a rune inscribed on to an oval button: a vertical stick with two branches to one side. He found the corresponding entry in the notes, then grinned and punched the air.
It was the rune for wealth.
Without a moment’s hesitation, he pressed it. There was a click and the Nimius trembled. The other levers and switches sank slowly into the golden casing once more.
Verne waited eagerly, hardly believing how lucky it was that the very miracle he needed had been supplied so readily. But as the minutes ticked by his joy faded and he began to grow doubtful. He had half expected everything in the room to magically transform into solid gold, or diamonds to fly in through the window. Suddenly uneasy, he reached for his phone again, then decided to go and see Lil and tell her in person.
Rewrapping the Nimius in the T-shirt, he slipped it into his rucksack and hurried downstairs.
‘That you, Verne?’ his father called from the living room.
‘Just going over to Lil’s!’ he called back as he ran past.
Dennis Thistlewood appeared in the hallway, just in time to see the kitchen door close.
‘Hang on!’ he shouted. ‘Take this!’
He had pulled out his wallet and the last of his precious ten-pound notes were clutched in his outstretched hand. For some time Mr Thistlewood stood there, waiting. After a while, when Verne didn’t return, he shook his head in confusion and wandered back into the living room, letting the money fall from his fingers to the floor.
Verne cut through the amusement arcade. With only the front section in use, it was a sad place. The area at the back had once housed vintage automata, but was now filled with broken machines. In this dimly lit area, with its deep shadows, they looked melancholy and neglected. The boy quickened his pace and was soon surrounded by the familiar noises of the working slot machines near the entrance.
Only a handful of holidaymakers were playing them, spending whatever change they had rattling in their pockets. Clarke, Verne’s older brother, was sitting in the change booth, absorbed in a cheeky text conversation with Amy, his girlfriend.
Just as Verne passed by, every machine went crazy.
Lights and buttons flashed, buzzers blared and bells rang in a cacophonous riot. Clarke looked up, startled. Even the amusements that weren’t being played were going nuts. Jackpot after jackpot was clunking into position. There was a rush of silver as each machine spewed out a heap of money. Coins gushed down with such force they overshot the payout tray and cascaded to the floor. It took only moments for each amusement to empty, but the mechanisms continued to chug long after.
At first the bewildered customers backed away in alarm. Then they gave elated yells and were on their knees, shovelling the cash up with their hands.
‘What the . . .?’ Clarke shouted, as he leaped from the booth. ‘Wait, you can’t have that! There’s been some technical fault. Put it down!’
The holidaymakers laughed at him. This was brilliant! There were hundreds of pounds here, just waiting to be scooped into their pockets.
Clarke looked around wildly and saw Verne by the main entrance.
‘Don’t stand there gawking!’ he roared. ‘Get over here, or call the police.’
The people were like greedy seagulls going berserk over a discarded bag of chips. Clarke tried to stop them, but it was impossible. Passing between the spent machines and slipping on the coins, Verne ran to help.
‘Stop it!’ he pleaded. ‘It isn’t yours, you know it isn’t.’
To his surprise, they halted and turned to him, with faces drained of all expression. There was an eerie silence, broken only by a last coin falling from the push-and-drop. Then, as one, they advanced towards Verne.
The boy watched them nervously. They looked weird, with silly grins on their faces. He began to edge away.
The holidaymakers grabbed hold of Verne’s rucksack.
‘Get off !’ he cried. ‘You can’t have that. Let go!’
Afraid they were after the Nimius, he lashed out and stamped on a flip-flopped foot. The person didn’t flinch. Verne was about to kick the nearest shin when he realised that they were actually trying to give him all the money they had taken.
The rucksack dragged on his shoulders as each new load of coins was tipped inside.
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