The Sisters of Pythagoras

By Philip Gwinnell

Age 9 and up. Towards the end of the 1700s, Peter Elliot, a soon to be 12 year old boy, finds himself the unwitting target of a sinister group of women called the Sisters of Pythagoras (Pythags). They possess magical skills including the ability to change into animals in an instant. The Pythags intend to drain the boy’s life force to ensure their own immortality. Fortunately for Peter, they have reckoned without the intervention of a resourceful talking jackdaw called Jebediah, or Jeb for short. Jeb is often pompous, sometimes misguided but always well-meaning. To complicate matters, the Pythags aren’t Peter’s only foes. Due to his accidental involvement with the affable smuggler Tom Crocket and his gang, the boy also has a reward posted for his capture by the local excise men. With help from a mysterious white haired professor and his coachman, Jeb sets out to prevent the Pythags proceeding with their plan for Peter’s demise. After a series of dramatic showdowns with both sets of adversaries the story reaches its climax on the morning of Peter’s twelfth birthday.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Philip Gwinnell
• Release date: Dec 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465753021

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The Sisters of Pythagoras

Philip Gwinnell

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Philip Gwinnell

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination.

eISBN: 978-1-4657-5302-1

Chapter One: The House on the Cliff.

As a youngster, I often wished I’d been born a human. By the end of 1775 I had changed my mind. After what I saw in that year, things were never the same for me again. Before then I’d never dreamed that there were dark forces at work so close to the human world. Scary though it may be, I will try to tell the honest story of what happened all those years ago.

My tale begins in the winter of 1775. I’d picked what looked like an empty farmhouse and made a nest in the garden to keep me warm through the cold winter months ahead. Far from anywhere, the run-down old building stood on a cliff top at Lulbeck Cove on the North Cornwall coast. I thought I’d found an ideal spot until one fateful day in October.

That rainy Saturday started like any other. Then, around mid-morning, I heard the sound of horse’s hooves on the road outside. Curious, I flew up to the farmhouse roof and watched as a horse and cart carrying three strangers drove into the yard.

A stony-faced woman of medium height got out first. She wore a loose black dress tied at the waist with a thick sash of the same colour. Around her neck hung a circular gold pendant ? shiny things attract me so I’d noticed it at once.

Before she taken more than a few steps, the woman slipped on the wet cobbles of the yard and fell sideways into a muddy puddle.

She glared up at a boy who sat in the back of the cart and growled, Peter Elliot you idle so-and-so! Don’t sit there gawping! Get down here and help me up!

The boy, who I guessed to be around twelve, jumped down and with some effort managed to pull the woman to her feet.

Instead of thanking him she shouted, Get the luggage into the house! Once that’s done make up the fire in the kitchen!

Yes, Aunt Marion, the boy said.

I took to the human called Peter right away. Even though he looked as though he could do with a decent meal and a haircut, I liked his blue eyes and impish grin.

From my vantage point, I watched as Peter pulled his threadbare coat tighter around his shoulders. He cupped his bare hands then blew into them before tackling the luggage. The humans didn’t have much: a leather trunk, a couple of wicker baskets and a hamper that I presumed contained food.

The last passenger in the cart alighted. My eyes followed the frumpy large-framed woman as she made her way slowly across the yard with her long arms swinging slowly back and forth. She wore thick leather mittens and the same black outfit as Peter’s Aunt, although of a somewhat larger size. I didn’t like the look of her one bit. Her face bore a permanent frown while her mouth twisted in such a way as to suggest some unwanted bitter taste lingered in her mouth.

I watched the woman lope into the house. Around her neck, I noticed a pendant identical to the one worn by Peter’s Aunt Marion.

****

A fearful noise awoke me the next morning then the loud, piercing sound of metal hitting rock set my beak on edge.

It didn’t take me long to find the source of the racket. I discovered two masons hard at work at the entrance to the yard. Perched on the wall, I watched as they chiselled away at the pillars on either side of the gateway then fixed large iron hangars into the stonework. Next, the workers unloaded two tall wooden barred gates from a wagon waiting in the lane. With grunts of exertion, the humans hung the gates on their new hinges then checked they swung evenly into place. Finally, the men installed a large steel chain complete with a shiny brass padlock to lock the two gates together. The new construction looked strong enough to keep out an army.

I saw Aunt Marion come out of the farmhouse followed by the long armed human female whose name I’d yet to discover. Both women surveyed the mason’s handiwork with smug grins.

Will that do you Ma’am? The elder of the two workers asked, doffing his cap.

What about the lock? Aunt Marion snapped. I asked for the best quality.

The workman remained unfazed.

Finest Sheffield steel, he said, pulling at the new chain with a theatrical gesture. Unbreakable by ‘uman hands.

Aunt Marion examined the gate. She nodded and turned to the woman next to her. This should serve our purposes quite well, don’t you think?

The sour faced woman grunted and gave a desultory nod. Aunt Marion drew some silver coins from her leather purse and handed them to the older worker.

There you are, she said. That’s more than you deserve. Now be off with you!

With a shrug of his shoulders, the man summoned his companion. The two returned to their cart and set off down the lane. Aunt Marion and the other woman went into the farmhouse leaving me alone in the yard.

The gate puzzled me. As far as I knew, there were no wild animals or other dangers nearby that might warrant such a precaution.

****

Later that day I made up my mind to speak to the boy Peter. I found him at the far end of the yard sweeping up fallen leaves. Unsure what he would do when I spoke, I kept my distance and watched him for a while. Finally, I plucked up the courage to say something.

You’re name’s Peter isn’t it? I said in my best human voice.

The boy stopped sweeping. He leant on his broom and glanced around the yard. With no other humans in sight, he scratched his head briefly in puzzlement then carried on with his task. I flapped my wings to attract his attention and called his name again.

When the boy finally saw me, he strolled over to where I perched atop the high wall.

A talking magpie! he said, looking up at me. How strange!

I’d heard the same comment from humans many times but it still irked me. I closed my eyes and shook my head in disgust.

I’m not a magpie I'm a jackdaw. They’re not the same you know.

Peter cocked an eyebrow. Sorry, he said, but I thought jackdaws had all black feathers – you have a white patch on your wing.

He was right of course. I did. In my youth the unusual white markings had made me the target of many a hard stare from other birds.

I’m still a jackdaw whatever the colour of my feathers, I said. and I’m surprised your parents didn’t teach you that it’s rude to make comments like that?

Peter’s face turned the same shade of vivid red as his neckerchief. He leant his broom against the wall then wiped his hands on his faded black breeches.

I’m sorry, he said. I didn’t mean to offend you.

I suppose you weren’t to know. Sometimes it’s not easy to tell the difference between birds.

The boy shuffled his feet awkwardly for a moment.

You seem to know my name, he said. What’s yours?

Jebidiah, but you can call me Jeb.

Where did you learn to talk?

I told him that a gift for both human and animal languages ran in my family and that I’d been lucky to have a wonderful teacher in my youth. Peter let out a sigh and asked me if I would teach him. I explained that I couldn’t, since human ears weren’t as good as those of birds.

What a pity, he said. I could do with something to take my mind off this place and those—

Don’t you like living in Lulbeck Cove then?

No— I feel like a prisoner — especially with that new gate. What I hate most is Aunt Marion always shouting at me.

Yes, I’ve seen that, I said. I wouldn’t put up with it myself.

Peter shrugged. There’s no point arguing with her. She’d only scold me more.

So who’s the ugly fat woman? Another aunt?

Peter screwed up his face.

No way! he hissed. That’s Mrs. Slivet. She’s our housekeeper — I don’t like her — she smells funny.

It struck me as odd that they needed a housekeeper. The farmhouse didn’t look big enough to warrant one. From what I’d seen so far Peter seemed to do most of the work anyway. Before I could ask the boy any more questions my sharp ears picked up approaching footsteps. A shrill voice pierced the morning air. I recognised it from the previous day.

Peter! Aunt Marion shouted. What are you doing? Idling as usual I shouldn’t wonder!

I’d better go, I said in a whisper. I don’t want her to see me. It might put her in an even worse mood if she knows you have someone to talk to.

Peter grinned. Come back soon, Jeb! I enjoyed chatting with you.

I promised I would then flew halfway down the garden to my nest. The place I called home sat on a high shelf in a run down wooden shed. Even though the rough wooden building had seen better days, it provided shelter from the worst of the winter weather.

****

Even on that second day, I felt a strange atmosphere at the farmhouse. I detected something … well … something inhuman about the two women residents. Both of them had lumpen, lifeless skin with the colour and texture of raw chicken.

There were other strange things too. Aunt Marion’s nose didn’t seem to fit her face while the housekeeper’s arms looked far too long for her body. As for the gate, it now seemed that the two women didn’t want the boy to leave the farmhouse for some reason.

****

At lunchtime the next day, I heard voices from the kitchen. I swooped down to take a closer look through the open window. Peter and Aunt Marion sat at a battered wooden table slurping thin oatmeal gruel from wooden bowls. In between mouthfuls Peter asked, Can I come into town with you on Saturday? I’ll be no trouble I promise.

Aunt Marion frowned. I noticed the corner of her right eye twitch.

Come with us to Polport? she said. What on earth for? I don’t want you under my feet while I’m shopping and I’m sure Mrs. Slivet doesn’t either.

Peter sighed. I’d like to get away from here for a while. Please can I come?

Aunt Marion’s eyes became slits in her scowling face.

No you can’t! she shouted. Instead of whining about Polport go and chop some firewood and be quick about it!

Peter hurried out of the room, shoulders hunched. Aunt Marion, looking lost in thought, gazed into the kitchen fire. For the first time I got a proper look at the pendant around her neck: within an outer rim of gold sat a clear glass circle engraved with a triangle and a coiled serpent. I’d never seen anything like it before.

****

Over the next few days I watched the human women from a distance. I noticed that Aunt Marion and Mrs. Slivet spent most of their time watching Peter. Despite the locked gate and high walls all around, the women still seemed nervous the boy might somehow escape – from what I didn’t know. Meanwhile, Peter went about what seemed like a never-ending list of daily chores

****

The next Saturday Peter didn’t go to Polport. As soon as Aunt Marion and Mrs. Slivet left the farmhouse he shouted through the window, Jeb, where are you? Come in and we can talk.

When I heard his call, I flew in through the window, safe in the knowledge that the two women wouldn’t disturb us.

I hadn’t been in the small kitchen before. A tall dresser that reached almost to the ceiling stood along one wall. Four rough-hewn chairs and a square wooden table made up the rest of the room’s furniture. A log fire blazed in the open hearth and made a welcome change from the cold outside.

From the look on his face I could see Peter had something to tell me. He sat down and leaned forward towards where I perched on the edge of the table.

I found a gate at the end of the garden! he said, barely able to contain his excitement. There’s a path behind it. Where do you think it goes?

Let me see, I said, applying the logic for which I was famous, at the rear of the garden wall lies the sea — so one can only assume that the path leads to the cliff top.

Peter’s eyes lit up when I mentioned the sea. He asked me many questions about the cliff and the seashore below. I told him everything I’d seen during my time at the farmhouse and finished by saying, Far to the west lies the town of Polport—

That’s where I want to go! exclaimed Peter. We arrived there in the dark from Bristol. I’ve never seen the town in daylight. What’s it like?

I shuddered and said, I hate the place. It’s full of screaming seagulls and stray cats. I’ll take the peace and quiet of Lulbeck Cove over the hustle and bustle of Polport any day.

Peter leant back in his chair.

All the same, he said, I’d like to go there and take a look around. After all, anywhere would be better than here.

I explained that I didn’t think a human could walk all the way to distant Polport. Even for a bird, the journey took the best part of an hour’s hard flying.

Despite my words, Peter’s enthusiasm for an adventure of some sort didn’t wane. We could go and explore the seashore instead, he said — then his face suddenly dropped — but the gate’s locked. Do you have any idea how to find the key? I’ve looked everywhere I can think of.

I shook my head, No I don’t. You’ll have to ask your Aunt Marion.

I already did. She said she’d hidden the key and wouldn’t tell me where.

I guessed the reason why not and Peter confirmed it. His aunt didn’t want him straying too far from the house. She used the excuse there were wild animals prowling in the woods nearby. I didn’t believe that for a minute. It seemed to me more likely she wanted her nephew at her constant beck and call.

While we chatted, most of the questions I’d intended to ask Peter slipped my mind. I’d never had a real human friend before and in my excitement I forgot to ask about his mother and lots of other things too.

After we’d been talking for half an hour or more, Peter suddenly stood up.

I’d better get on with some work, he said. If the house isn’t clean and tidy by the time Aunt Marion gets back I’ll be in big trouble.

Shouldn’t Mrs. Slivet take care of that? Isn’t that what housekeepers are for?

That’s what I thought, Peter said with a sigh, Aunt Marion says Mrs. Slivet has a problem with her hands so I have to do most of her work.

Is that why she always wears those mittens?

I suppose so, he said. I’ve never seen her without them.

Neither had I. Even with a fire blazing in the kitchen Mrs. Slivet never took off her mittens. I thought it most strange.

I left Peter to his chores then flew back to the garden for some lunch. With the recent rainy weather, there were plenty of worms around so it didn’t take long to eat my fill.

****

That afternoon I made up my mind to help Peter get out of the house and down to the seashore for a while. In my view, it would do the boy good to get some fresh air and exercise. First though, I needed to find where Aunt Marion had hidden the key to the garden gate.

I avoided the two women hovering around the farmhouse while I went about my search. I knew Aunt Marion didn’t want Peter out of the house; if she caught me poking around looking for the key there would no doubt be serious trouble.

My chance came a couple of days later. Seeing no sign of Aunt Marion or the housekeeper I flew in through the kitchen window and up to the ceiling of the room. Logic told me that Peter’s aunt would chose a hiding place high up where the boy couldn’t reach. Sure enough, on top of the kitchen dresser, in a thick layer of dust, sat the biggest iron key I’d ever seen. I flew down to the end of the garden and looked closely at the lock on the gate. As far as I could tell the hidden key might fit.

I found Peter chopping wood in the yard. Despite the cold winter morning, sweat trickled from his brow.

I found a key! I called to him. I think it’s the one for the gate.

Peter’s face broke into a broad grin. Brilliant! he said, wiping his forehead with his red neckerchief. I’d love to get away from here — even for a few hours — those women drive me mad.

I felt my feathers puff with pride at the smile I’d brought to his face.

We’ll wait until Saturday, I said. While Aunt Marion and Mrs. Slivet are shopping in Polport we’ll have plenty of time to explore the seashore.

Peter smiled and said, Saturday’s only three days away. It’s not too long to wait.

****

As I settled down to sleep that night a strange sound reached my ears. It came from the house so I flew up the garden to investigate. Outside one of the upstairs windows, the noise grew louder.

I landed on the ledge and peered in through the glass. Aunt Marion and Mrs. Slivet sat at a small triangular shaped table in the centre of the room. In front of them, a single stout candle in a serpent shaped holder gave out the only light. Ghostly shadows danced across the women’s faces making them look even scarier than they appeared in daylight. I saw that the clear glass in both women’s pendants now glowed with an inner blue light as bright as a flash of lightning in the night sky.

The noise I’d heard from outside came from the women’s chants. I’d never heard the language they used before but the words sounded like ‘san jiao shing, san jiao shing.’

All of a sudden the candle on the table gave out a thick wisp of swirling vapour. Instead of rising upwards, the smoke became a ring that dropped down and wrapped itself around the candle. The circle of smoke began to spin. Faster and faster it went taking on the intense blue colour of the women's lockets. As the smoke ring increased in speed, its circle widened. For a moment I could have