do not listen to reasoning or excuses: they act on their belief in a creature’s guilt.
‘Hey, have you seen this?’ cried Alex, on his way back to the others from a drinking umbrella.
‘What?’ asked Chloe, not very interested, thinking it might be an old steam-engine toy or something of that nature.
‘It’s a word, written in the dust.’
‘What does it say?’
‘Something about Kate somebody.’
‘It’s probably spider tracks.’
‘No,’ said Alex firmly, ‘it’s a word all right. Here, I’ll show you. Look.’ He pointed.
‘That says “Katerfelto”. That’s not a word, is it?’
‘I dunno. Look, here’s some more. “Any stamps? Any coins?”’
This made Jordy come over and look.
‘Cool,’ he said, ‘Attican graffiti. Stamps and coins. Hey, that would be something, gang. Treasure indeed. I once heard a man found an envelope in his attic which had a stamp worth thousands. Mauritius stamp, I think. He was an East German and very poor, so it meant a lot to him.’
Chloe said, ‘It wouldmean a lot to anyone, that amount.’
‘And coins!’ crowed Alex. ‘There must be coins up here. Old war medals. This could turn out to be a treasure hunt. We could be rich.’
‘Well,’ Jordy said practically, ‘first we have to find Mr Grantham’s watch.’
‘That’s true,’ agreed Chloe. ‘But picking up treasure on the way can’t do any harm.’
The two older children had forgotten completely about the first word etched in the dust: Katerfelto . It was overlooked in the excitement of realising they were in a potential Aladdin’s Cave. Their minds were now tuned to seeking stamps and coins. They scoured the floor with their eyes, looking for the glint of bright gold, burnished silver. Or the dirty yellow of ancient paper envelopes, perhaps held together by a rotting rubber band. This was an adventure to lift the spirits!
On then, into the sunlit-shafted world of Attica, like three lost mice within the walls of an enormous castle. At noon a dust storm rose, seemingly from a single powerful draught coming from the direction of the mountain. The grey choking motes were blown from the boards and from the cracks between, into a thick blizzard. The children tied handkerchiefs around their mouths and noses, but still the dust got into their lungs. There were cobwebs flying about too, and the light airy bodies of dead spiders, along with threads of cotton. They stumbled forward, there being nowhere to take cover, into the blinding, choking storm that threatened to suffocate them.
When they were just aboutexhausted they came across a deserted Attican village, the huts of which were old cupboards. Each of the children found one and crawled inside, closing the doors. Outside, the storm continued to rage for quite a while, until it finally abated and they were able to come out of their dark holes and into the dim and gloomy light. Stillness reigned now. And they were unharmed. Perhaps not safe, for they wondered where the villagers were, who once lived in these abandoned homes.
Yet no one came, after the storm had gone, and they assumed they were in a ghost village, a ruined place, long since evacuated for some reason. It stood in the shadow of the great mountain and Chloe could feel the sadness there, in the woodwork of the cabinets and cupboards, in the piles of junk that littered the floor between the huts. Someone had once loved this village enough to decorate it with gardens of silver candelabras overhung with artificial waterfalls of crystal chandeliers. The cut-glass ‘jewels’ and ‘gems’ on the chandeliers shone like diamonds in the spears of sunlight. The candlesticks and candelabras glistened like silver flowers in their beds below these hanging wonders. Yet there were no owners to appreciate their beauty.
Where, thought Chloe, had the people gone?
‘Deserted!’ stated Jordy, as if his decision was based on a long scientific study. ‘Not a soul around.’
‘Well, duh ,’
‘Hey, have you seen this?’ cried Alex, on his way back to the others from a drinking umbrella.
‘What?’ asked Chloe, not very interested, thinking it might be an old steam-engine toy or something of that nature.
‘It’s a word, written in the dust.’
‘What does it say?’
‘Something about Kate somebody.’
‘It’s probably spider tracks.’
‘No,’ said Alex firmly, ‘it’s a word all right. Here, I’ll show you. Look.’ He pointed.
‘That says “Katerfelto”. That’s not a word, is it?’
‘I dunno. Look, here’s some more. “Any stamps? Any coins?”’
This made Jordy come over and look.
‘Cool,’ he said, ‘Attican graffiti. Stamps and coins. Hey, that would be something, gang. Treasure indeed. I once heard a man found an envelope in his attic which had a stamp worth thousands. Mauritius stamp, I think. He was an East German and very poor, so it meant a lot to him.’
Chloe said, ‘It wouldmean a lot to anyone, that amount.’
‘And coins!’ crowed Alex. ‘There must be coins up here. Old war medals. This could turn out to be a treasure hunt. We could be rich.’
‘Well,’ Jordy said practically, ‘first we have to find Mr Grantham’s watch.’
‘That’s true,’ agreed Chloe. ‘But picking up treasure on the way can’t do any harm.’
The two older children had forgotten completely about the first word etched in the dust: Katerfelto . It was overlooked in the excitement of realising they were in a potential Aladdin’s Cave. Their minds were now tuned to seeking stamps and coins. They scoured the floor with their eyes, looking for the glint of bright gold, burnished silver. Or the dirty yellow of ancient paper envelopes, perhaps held together by a rotting rubber band. This was an adventure to lift the spirits!
On then, into the sunlit-shafted world of Attica, like three lost mice within the walls of an enormous castle. At noon a dust storm rose, seemingly from a single powerful draught coming from the direction of the mountain. The grey choking motes were blown from the boards and from the cracks between, into a thick blizzard. The children tied handkerchiefs around their mouths and noses, but still the dust got into their lungs. There were cobwebs flying about too, and the light airy bodies of dead spiders, along with threads of cotton. They stumbled forward, there being nowhere to take cover, into the blinding, choking storm that threatened to suffocate them.
When they were just aboutexhausted they came across a deserted Attican village, the huts of which were old cupboards. Each of the children found one and crawled inside, closing the doors. Outside, the storm continued to rage for quite a while, until it finally abated and they were able to come out of their dark holes and into the dim and gloomy light. Stillness reigned now. And they were unharmed. Perhaps not safe, for they wondered where the villagers were, who once lived in these abandoned homes.
Yet no one came, after the storm had gone, and they assumed they were in a ghost village, a ruined place, long since evacuated for some reason. It stood in the shadow of the great mountain and Chloe could feel the sadness there, in the woodwork of the cabinets and cupboards, in the piles of junk that littered the floor between the huts. Someone had once loved this village enough to decorate it with gardens of silver candelabras overhung with artificial waterfalls of crystal chandeliers. The cut-glass ‘jewels’ and ‘gems’ on the chandeliers shone like diamonds in the spears of sunlight. The candlesticks and candelabras glistened like silver flowers in their beds below these hanging wonders. Yet there were no owners to appreciate their beauty.
Where, thought Chloe, had the people gone?
‘Deserted!’ stated Jordy, as if his decision was based on a long scientific study. ‘Not a soul around.’
‘Well, duh ,’
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