Abbot Dagger's Academy and the Quest for the Holy Grail Read online

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Sam Llewellyn is the author of many quite brilliant books for adults and children, including three about the delightful Darling children and two about Death Eric, the world’s favourite rock genius.

  Books by Sam Llewellyn

  LITTLE DARLINGS

  BAD BAD DARLINGS

  DESPERADO DARLINGS

  THE RETURN OF DEATH ERIC

  THE HAUNTING OF DEATH ERIC

  SAM LLEWELLYN

  PUFFIN

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  First published 2008

  1

  Text copyright © Sam Llewellyn, 2008

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  Except in the United States of America, 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 other than

  that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition

  being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  978-0-14-191186-1

  For the great John Wells,

  who taught me French

  Welcome to the Badlands.

  The Badlands is a nasty place, full of nasty animals. There are woewolves, whose bite is certain blood poisoning. There are blunderbuffaloes, tenton carnivorous giants that will sit on you as soon as look at you and eat you when they get up. There is all kinds of bad stuff.

  Across the Badlands there slants a valley: a deep, wild valley with a black river writhing along its green bottom, reflecting just at the moment bloody lights from a storm-wrecked sunset.

  In a loop of the river stand buildings: a tower, a cloister and a sprawl of others, set among muddy fields spiked with goalposts. Lights burn in pointed windows, and a cold wind wails in the gargoyles on the tower. It looks like a school. A school is what it is: a boarding school, in fact.

  Its ancient buildings are rambling and crumbling. Its modern buildings are stark and vile. For hundreds of years, they have been crammed with children who did not fit in anywhere else. There were ordinary non-fitter-ins, called Skoolies. And there were rather more brilliant ones, called Skolars. They were all somewhat special, in their ways.

  For example:

  Swami Barmi was a Skoolie, and nobody made any remarks about him floating around in mid-air during lessons. El Vulpo, later the terrible Dictator of Nananagua, was a Skoolie too, Captain of Footbrawl, and nobody found him all that tough. And Professor Igor Startoff, when he was a Skolar, converted the Skool central heating to atomic power without anyone thinking he was anything special.

  Basically, Abbot Dagger’s is a Skool for children so weird or so bad or so just plain brilliant that they need to be taken far from civilization and fenced in by a river in front (there is one of them) and a cliff behind (there is one of them too). Abbot Dagger’s Academy for the Errant Children of the Absent, its staff call it. Its pupils call it Bad Skool, or just Skool.

  So here we are. At the beginning of a story, at the beginning of the autumn term…

  Hang on.

  Up in the Badlands the animals suddenly stop eating each other and cock their loathsome heads as if listening. They are indeed listening, but to thoughts, not words. Woewolves howl and clash their greenish fangs. Blunderbuffaloes twitch their bucket-sized nostrils as if scenting blood. They listen closely to what seems to be… a summons. Then they lick their awful teeth and lope towards the Edge, where the road leaves the Badlands and plunges into the valley, heading straight as an arrow for the drawbridge that is the only access to the Skool.

  Interesting, the animals seem to be thinking.

  Trouble. Lots of it.

  Yum yum.

  ‘What very interesting children these do sound!’ said Solomon Temple, vague, lovable Headmaster of Abbot Dagger’s Academy.

  ‘I hate interesting children, sss,’ said Dr Cosm, severe, grim Head of Behaviour and Physics. ‘Give me the report cards. Let us see them in cold print.’

  ‘Say please,’ said the Headmaster, shocked.

  Cosm fixed him with a cold and jellied eye. ‘No,’ he said, and reached out a wet white hand, and pulled the cards towards him.

  ROSETTI SVENSON

  Age: 12

  IQ: 170

  Star sign: Pisces

  Background: Parents international art thieves. Father has worked as a painter and lion tamer. Mother was principal dancer with the Mariinsky Ballet, then proprietor, Mrs Svenson’s Performing Hyenas, and the Svenson Gallery, Swish Street, Mayfair. Present whereabouts of parents unknown. No brothers or sisters. Educated in the capitals of Europe and at nineteen schools.

  Talents: Drawing, English, running, Communication with People and Animals.

  Crimes: Lack of respect for Authority. Use of animal languages to overthrow order and discipline. An enthusiastic prankster, inventor of the Electric Apple-Pie Bed and the Whitewash Milkshake.

  Regime: Award Skolarship. Watch closely.

  OWEN FRENCH

  Age: 12

  IQ: 230 (machine broke)

  Star sign: Virgo

  Background: Parents run the Post Office, Lesser Twittering, Hampshire. Seeking the best for their child they handed him over to the police on his eighth birthday.

  The police handed him back two days later, claiming that he had beaten them all at chess and poker and they could not stand him one minute longer. No known emotions. Twenty-three schools.

  Talents: Mathematics, card games, Chess Grand Master, mechanical genius.

  Crimes: Lack of respect for Authority in cases where he thinks Authority is not being logical. Blind obedience to Authority (the command ‘Blow up some balloons’ resulted in an explosion that totally wrecked St Wid’s Primary, Stromforth).

  Regime: Award Skolarship. Watch closely.

  ONYX KEENE

  Age: 11 15/16 ths

  IQ: Machine was mended but broke again

  Star sign: Twinkly

  Background: Parents university lecturers engaged in research into Ancient Pomeranian civilizations, early languages and the Theory of Everything. They are wrapped up in their work. This caused Onyx to learn twenty-eight extra languages in the hope that her parents would agree to talk to her in one of them.

  Talents: Languages, research, history.

  Crimes: Excessive keenness. Awful, dreadful, maddening keenness.

  Regime: Aw
ard Skolarship. Watch closely.

  ‘See, Cosm?’ said the Head, rubbing his hands. ‘So mysterious! So logical! Such keenness! What could be better in a set of Skolars?’

  Cosm sniffed. ‘Good behaviour,’ he said. ‘Total obedience. A humble outlook. Full marks in all Tests.’

  ‘You and your Tests!’ cried the Head, ignoring the look of hatred Cosm flung at him. ‘All that matters is that everyone be happy and learn lots!’

  ‘Hopelessly unscientific,’ said Cosm, and sniffed again.

  The Head smiled encouragingly, for he was a kind and cheerful man. But he did hate Cosm’s sniffing. And his Tests.

  And actually most of the rest of him too.

  ∗

  Onyx Keene had said goodbye to her mummy and daddy as fast as possible. Now she was sitting on the edge of her chair in the Hall of Session. She was very, very excited. She had been awarded a Skolarship to Abbot Dagger’s! And today she had met the Headmaster! Well his knees anyway, because she was not tall and the Headmaster was, very! The knees had been baggy and dusty as if he had been looking for something under a sofa! And here she was at Skool which was what you had to call it! And there were twelve Skolars in her year but only three Polymathic ones which were the best kind because Onyx was one, and all Skolars had to live in a part of the Skool called the Skolary which was incredibly ancient, and Polymathic meant that you were good at a lot of things not just one or two things, and Onyx wondered whether they had blankets or duvets in the dorms and what was for supper and where the Library was and she could hardly wait!

  The Hall of Session at Abbot Dagger’s Academy was an enormous room with a stage at one end. Facing the stage were 201 children wearing the Skool uniform of tailcoats and striped trousers for boys, tailcoats and long striped skirts for girls. In the middle of the stage stood the Head with his long white hair and his long black gown and his dirty knees. Behind him was a semicircle of chairs occupied by more teachers. On either side of the stage, hands clasped behind their backs, stood two stocky men in the black uniform of Security, their hard eyes scanning the crowd for trouble.

  ‘Ahem,’ said the Head. ‘We will sing the Skool Song. Pupils be upstanding!’

  A huge chord rolled into the hall. Onyx started bouncing in her seat. She loved singing! Particularly Skool Songs! Up she stood. Up everyone stood.

  ‘WE HAVE NOT BEEN VERY GOOD,’ sang the Skool.

  ‘WE HAVE NOT DONE RIGHT.

  WE HAVE BEEN MISUNDERSTOOD

  AND SET OUR SCHOOLS ALIGHT,

  BUT OUR HEARTS ARE VERY HIGH,

  PROUD AND CLEAN ARE WE.

  O YES WE ARE HAPPY NOW AT OUR AKADEMEE.

  DAGGA DAGGA DAGGA DAGGA SKOOL-A-SKOOL-A-SKOOL-A-SKOOL!’

  Dead insects fell out of the rafters. The children sat down.

  ‘Welcome to the summer term at Abbot Dagger’s Academy!’ cried the Head.

  Kind eyes! thought Onyx.

  ‘And welcome to our New People.’

  That’s nice! thought Onyx.

  ‘Now, then. I know you are all here because no other school in the kingdom will have you.’ He smiled a kindly smile. ‘But here we are and we must make the best of it. Now I must introduce the staff. I am the Headmaster, natch.’

  Clapclapclapclap, went Onyx.

  ‘Suck,’ hissed the barrel-shaped girl in front of her, flicking a lit match in her general direction.

  ‘Hangyou, too kind, simmer down,’ said the Head, kind eyes twinkling. ‘Now, a trip to the Dark Side. Take a bow, Dr Cosm (Behaviour and Physics)!’

  Dr Cosm stood up, and trained upon the pupils eyes like holes burned in a large white pudding. A ripple of fear ran through the ranks.

  Oo, nasty! thought Onyx.

  ‘Hangyou hangyou,’ said the Head. ‘Siddown, Cosm.’ He introduced a mob of geography teachers, maths teachers, civics teachers and French teachers, speaking in a gabble as if anxious to get it over with. ‘Next, Matron, otherwise known as Nurse Drax, dangerous woman, don’t mess.’ Nurse Drax had red lips and redder eyes. She stood up, then sat down. A happier expression spread over the Head’s face. ‘Wrekin Sartorius, art,’ he said. ‘Talented man, needs a haircut. And last but not least a new addition. Boys and girls, I am proud to present to you Miss Artemisia Davies, who has joined us after a period with the Consorority of Ipsissimi. Miss Davies is an Old Dagger, which means she used to be a pupil here, so there are no flies on her, except when she is wearing trousers, haha.’

  ‘Oo, funny!’ squealed Onyx.

  ‘Haha,’ roared all the other children.

  Miss Davies was quite young and very pretty, with curly blonde hair, tawny skin and eyes that reminded Onyx (who knew just about everything) of topazes. She smiled at Onyx kindly. Singling her out! ‘Miss Davies is the new Polymathic Skolars Tutor,’ said the Head. ‘Or perhaps I should say Skolar, because the other two Skolars are late, which means sadly that they have probably been eaten by wild animals.’

  It is my first day and I have already been mentioned! thought Onyx, noticing for the first time that there was an empty chair on either side of her.

  The Head beamed again. ‘Well, children, I am sure that like me you are getting very, very bored with all this. You will find all the usual guff on the Skool noticeboard. All that remains is for me to say that Founder’s Day will be the first Saturday after the full moon in October, i.e. in five weeks’ time. Assembly, dis–’

  But before he could finish, an enormous bell began to ring from the lofty building known as the Tower of Flight. ‘Wha?’ said Onyx to the barrel-shaped match girl, who seemed to be called Elphine.

  ‘It’s the intruder bell,’ said the stout girl. ‘Signal of danger. This way!’ The hall rang with mighty cheers and the thunder of boots on ancient flagstones. Onyx ran after the crowd at top speed. It stopped on a small hill overlooking the gate of the Academy. Being small for her age, she was able to creep to the front without being much harmed. ‘Lower the drawbridge!’ cried the Head. ‘The station bus has arrived!’

  Down came the bridge over the swift-flowing Water of Darkness. Across it there trundled an armoured steam bus of the kind used to collect pupils from the station. Or rather the wreckage of an armoured steam bus. The driver’s cab was empty, the engine silent. The reason the bus was moving was that it was being pulled by a team of sixteen vast horned animals that Onyx instantly recognized as blunderbuffaloes. The beasts were being driven by a lanky boy with floppy brown hair and a faraway expression, sitting on the cab roof. He had no whip and no reins. But Onyx got the idea that he was… making suggestions… to the enormous animals. And beside him sat a huge grey doglike animal with its tongue hanging out. ‘Goodness me,’ said someone, taking a couple of steps backwards. ‘It’s a woewolf.’

  Beside the woewolf sat another boy, this one with spiky blond hair. The spiky boy was looking at the Skool buildings in much the same way that a digital camera looks at a football team.

  ‘Hooray!’ cried the Head, beaming. ‘Our missing Polymathic Skolars have arrived.’

  My fellow Skolars! thought Onyx, lasering them with her eyes. How thrilling!

  But Dr Cosm broke in, in a voice like a jet of lemon juice. ‘Clearly these wicked pupils have attacked the driver and locked him in the bus, whose engine they have destroyed! Security, prepare the Punishment Cells!’

  ‘Um,’ said the Head.

  There was a rather embarrassing silence. It was broken by the voice of Miss Artemisia Davies, Tutor to the Polymathic Skolars. ‘Perhaps that’s not what happened,’ said Miss Davies. ‘Why don’t we ask them?’

  ‘Good idea,’ said the Head. Then, raising his voice, ‘I say! Boys! What happened? Where’s the driver?’

  ‘The bus went off the road,’ said the spiky-haired boy. ‘The driver hid in the Pupil Compartment.’

  ‘Impossible!’ cried Dr Cosm.

  A mournful face appeared behind the bars of the Pupil Compartment. Above it was a peaked cap bearing a badge that said DRIVER. ‘It is all true,�
� said the face in a low, humble voice. ‘We crashed. In the Badlands. Wild wild animals everywhere. The main cylinder blew. Naturally the animals turned up hopin’ to eat us like. But this here Rosetti Svenson tamed ’em, using the mind. Let me out now, there’s good lads.’ The spiky boy pressed buttons and the pupil cage snapped open. ‘Thankee, young sir,’ said the driver. ‘They’re good boys, Head and Dr Cosm. Well, tough, anyway.’

  The two boys slid from the bus’s roof on to its bonnet, and from the bonnet on to the ground. ‘Morning,’ said the spiky-haired one to the Headmaster. ‘I’m Owen. You must be the Head.’

  ‘True,’ said the Head, beaming. ‘And this is Rosetti?’

  ‘I wouldn’t talk to him if I were you, not while he’s talking to the animals,’ said Owen.

  Rosetti was standing by the foremost blunderbuffalo. There was a faraway look in his eyes. ‘Off you go, and thanks a lot,’ he murmured.

  The blunderbuffaloes mooed. They turned towards the gate, lowered their heads and charged. There was a crash and a cloud of splinters. ‘An exciting new project for Carpentry II,’ said the Head musingly.

  The woewolf grinned, showing jagged greenish teeth, and vanished – something woewolves tend to do.

  ‘It looks to me as if the Skolars are complete,’ said the Head. ‘Miss Davies?’

  ‘Of course!’ said Miss Davies, who (Onyx now noted) had really beautiful bronze-coloured fingernails and perfect make-up. ‘Come to the Skolary and I’ll show you round.’

  As they left the courtyard, they were followed by the amazed stares of the whole Skool, and the scowls of two large boys with shaved heads, battered noses and sweatshirts that said Skool Footer – Top Pair. Rosetti could feel their hot little eyes on his neck. ‘Who are they?’ he said to Miss Davies.

  SLEE AND DAMAGE DUGGAN

  Age: 12

  IQ: 80 (combined)

  Star sign: The Rhinoceros

  Background: Parents, father Barry Duggan, bulldozer manufacturer and Parent Governor. Mother Iris Duggan, Northern Lard Queen 1998. These identical twins are at the Academy because their parents want them to be here – a very rare thing.