Peter could not take his eyes off the silver feather.
It rested quietly upon Miss Blyton’s old oak desk.
Only a few moments before it had glowed with a soft silver light and pointed towards the ancient clock tower.
Now it looked like nothing more than an ordinary feather.
Andrew leaned forward.
“Do you think it will glow again?”
Miss Blyton gently closed the exercise book before her.
“I don’t know.”
She smiled thoughtfully.
“But I believe it wants us to follow where the old magick is leading us.”
David grinned.
“Then we’d better discover why.”
Miss Ashcombe’s ghost stood silently beside the classroom window. Her long dark robes shimmered gently as though woven from mist. Around her neck hung the silver lantern that had guided generations of Keepers.
“The tower has been waiting,” she whispered.
Outside, autumn leaves danced across the school grounds.
The old clock tower stood at the very edge of Highdon.
Most boys avoided it.
Long ago it had housed the great school bell before the chapel became the centre of the school.
Now it was little more than a forgotten storehouse.
Thick ivy covered its stone walls.
The enormous clock had not moved for many years.
Peter looked up.
“The hands haven’t moved for ages.”
Miss Blyton nodded.
“They stopped on the very day Miss Ashcombe passed beyond this world.”
Simon looked surprised.
“How do you know?”
“I found the record in one of the old school logbooks.”
She paused.
“The same logbooks also recorded every punishment given in the school. Every stroke of the cane. Every slippering. Every detention. Every prefect’s report.”
Peter shivered.
“The old headmistresses believed discipline was as important as lessons.”
Miss Ashcombe gave a gentle smile.
“They believed good character grew from fairness, kindness and firm discipline. Whether history agrees or not, those were different times.”
The heavy oak door slowly creaked open by itself.
Cold air drifted out.
It carried the scent of old wood, candle wax and lavender polish.
Hidden beneath it was something else.
The faint smell of incense.
Miss Blyton looked upwards.
“The old protection spells are still here.”
David switched on his torch.
“Let’s see what the tower is hiding.”
They climbed the narrow spiral staircase.
Round and round they went.
Every wooden step groaned beneath their feet.
Ancient cobwebs hung from the beams.
Old photographs covered the walls.
There were class pictures from every decade.
Some boys smiled proudly.
Others looked terribly nervous.
Peter noticed something.
“In several of the photographs…”
He pointed.
“The headmistresses are carrying canes.”
Miss Blyton nodded.
“They always did.”
Another picture showed an elderly mistress holding a black rubber-soled carpet slipper.
Simon swallowed.
“I suppose that was used as well.”
“It certainly was,” replied Miss Blyton quietly.
“School discipline was very different then.”
Suddenly the air became icy.
One by one, ghostly figures appeared upon the staircase.
Old teachers.
Former mistresses.
Several headmistresses dressed in long black gowns.
Some carried polished hazel canes.
Others held worn rubber-soled carpet slippers beneath their arms.
Their faces were calm rather than frightening.
None spoke.
Instead they silently watched the boys climb.
Miss Ashcombe bowed respectfully.
“My old colleagues.”
The ghosts returned the gesture.
One elderly headmistress gently tapped her cane upon the floor.
Another rested her slipper against her shoulder.
Their ghostly forms slowly faded into the stone walls once more.
“They’re guarding the tower,” whispered Andrew.
“And the old magick,” replied Miss Ashcombe.
At the very top of the tower stood the ancient clock mechanism.
Huge brass wheels filled the room.
Every cog had been beautifully crafted.
The great pendulum hung perfectly still.
Ancient runes had been carved into the beams.
Bundles of dried herbs hung from the rafters.
Rowan.
Mugwort.
Yew.
Oak leaves.
Protective witch marks had been painted onto the stone centuries before.
Andrew walked closer.
“It hasn’t moved in decades.”
Then…
Tick.
Everyone froze.
Tock.
The pendulum slowly began to swing.
Backwards.
Forwards.
Backwards.
Forwards.
No one had touched it.
Outside, the great clock face slowly came to life.
Its hands moved by themselves.
Five minutes.
Ten minutes.
Fifteen.
Then they stopped.
Exactly at midnight.
Although the afternoon sun still poured through the windows.
Peter felt another chill.
“That’s impossible.”
Miss Ashcombe watched carefully.
“The tower does not remember time.”
“What does it remember?”
“The old enchantment.”
The room suddenly filled with pale green light.
Ancient witchcraft awoke within the walls.
Silver symbols floated through the air.
The feather rose gently from Miss Blyton’s hand.
It circled the room before drifting behind one of the great brass gears.
There it settled upon a small wooden box hidden for many generations.
David carefully lifted the lid.
Inside rested a folded piece of parchment tied with green ribbon.
As Peter untied it, the ribbon briefly became a tiny green serpent before changing back again.
Andrew jumped.
“Did you see that?”
Miss Blyton smiled.
“The old magick still protects its secrets.”
Peter unfolded the parchment.
The handwriting matched the journals beneath the chapel.
He read aloud.
To those who follow after us.
If you have found this letter, then the lantern still burns, and Highdon remains beneath its ancient promise.
Do not seek power.
Seek wisdom.
Those who chase power are easily lost.
Those who seek understanding become true Keepers.
Simon smiled.
“I think that’s exactly what Miss Ashcombe has been teaching us.”
She smiled warmly.
“It took many years for my own pupils to learn that.”
As David lifted the parchment, something slipped from the bottom of the box.
It was a beautifully carved wooden disc.
A raven covered one side.
An ancient oak covered the other.
Around its edge ran glowing magical symbols.
The same symbols carved beneath the cedar tree.
As Andrew turned it over, the symbols briefly glowed green.
“It feels alive.”
“It is,” said Miss Ashcombe.
“The Circle remembers its Keepers.”
Miss Blyton examined it.
“It is only one piece.”
“One piece of what?” Peter asked.
Before anyone could answer…
CRASH!
A tremendous noise echoed from below.
They hurried to the narrow window.
Dozens upon dozens of ravens had risen from beside the cedar tree.
They circled above the chapel.
Not in fear.
In warning.
The birds formed the shape of a great protective circle.
David looked towards the dark edge of the woods.
There stood the hooded figure once again.
This time strange purple flames flickered around its boots without burning the leaves beneath them.
It slowly raised one gloved hand.
Dark magical symbols briefly appeared in the air before vanishing.
At the same moment, ghostly figures appeared beside the cedar tree.
Former headmistresses.
Old teachers.
Silent prefects from generations long gone.
Some carried supple canes.
Others held their familiar rubber-soled slippers.
They stood like spectral guardians between the hooded stranger and Highdon itself.
None attacked.
None threatened.
They simply watched.
Protecting the ancient school as they had done in life.
The carved wooden disc inside David’s pocket suddenly became hot.
Very hot.
Miss Ashcombe’s face grew serious.
“They have found another piece of the Circle.”
Peter looked down.
“How many pieces are there?”
“Four.”
“And until they are brought together?”
Miss Ashcombe gazed across the autumn woods where ancient witchcraft still slept beneath every tree.
“Highdon’s greatest secret will remain hidden.”
The hooded figure slowly disappeared into the forest.
One by one the ghostly teachers faded with it, their canes and rubber-soled slippers vanishing into silver mist as though returning to another age.
Then, although bright afternoon sunshine still bathed the school grounds…
The ancient clock struck midnight once again.
Its deep bell echoed across Highdon.
Far below, the ravens answered together.
And somewhere beneath the chapel, the silver lantern glowed a little brighter.
