Amanderella and the Mystery of Wittering Crags. Chapter 8.

Chapter Eight.

 

Tuffort Stones.

 

Amanderella pulled on her coat and stepped outside. The clouds that had threatened rain were gone, leaving a bright blue sky.

Halfway up the track she met Mrs Trudie Baffletuft, a small, determined woman in an enormous knitted hat, hurrying toward her. She clutched a wicker basket to her chest as though it held something explosive.

She skidded to a halt.

“Oh! Miss! Don’t go up there,” she gasped. “Not unless you want your nerves shaken loose. I’ve just had the fright of my life.”

Amanderella regarded her calmly. “What happened, Mrs…?”

“Baffletuft,” she said. “Trudie Baffletuft. I was gathering moss for my window boxes — keeps the slugs off — when the Beast let out a roar right behind me. Right behind me! I dropped my trowel. It’s still up there somewhere.”

“Did you see anything?” Amanderella asked.

“No,” Mrs Baffletuft admitted. “But I felt it. A sort of whoosh. Like something big flapping past. Or possibly my hat slipping. Hard to tell.”

Amanderella nodded politely.

Mrs Baffletuft leaned closer. “And then it shouted something rude. Very rude. I won’t repeat it. Not in daylight. Then it said, ‘I’m a bit of a devil.’”

She clutched her basket tighter.

“At a time like this,” she whispered, “with all the trouble in the valley… to hear that… well, I near dropped to my knees. Thought it was the Enemy himself. In broad daylight! And on a Friday!”

Amanderella nodded. “I understand. That would alarm anyone.”

Mrs Baffletuft shuddered. “Alarm? I ran, Miss. I ran like the vicar’s sermon was chasing me.”

She straightened her enormous hat.

“I’m going home. I’ve had enough of valleys that talk about devils. Moss never frightened me like this.”

“Thank you,” Amanderella said. “You’ve been very helpful.”

Mrs Baffletuft bobbed her head and hurried off, muttering, “Should’ve stayed home. Should’ve stayed with the slugs. Slugs don’t shout at you or claim to be the devil.”

Amanderella continued up the track.

The Crags rose ahead, grey and jagged, but the valley of Tuffort Stones cut a deep green seam through them. She could already see the tops of the trees growing in its sheltered hollow — the only trees for miles.

She paused at the entrance and listened. Only the wind blew across the top of the valley.

“Time to see the place where the Beast roared, screeched, shouted insults, and admired teenage carvings,” she murmured.

The path narrowed as she walked. The wind dropped away the moment she stepped between the steep valley walls. It was quieter here, and warmer. The valley widened into a sheltered hollow where a small stand of trees clung to the slope.

It was easy to spot the tree Tommy had described: its bark was scored with long, ragged gouges.

Amanderella approached and ran her gloved fingers over the marks.

Uneven. Too shallow in places. Too deep in others.

And the spacing was irregular — not the work of a creature, but of a boy with a blunt penknife and more enthusiasm than skill.

She smiled faintly.

Something pale caught her eye near the roots.

She crouched.

A feather lay half‑caught in the moss — long, curved, and brightly coloured. Not pheasant brown or pigeon grey. This one shone emerald to gold.

She lifted it carefully. “Parrot,” she said aloud.

The valley obligingly repeated:

“Parrot… parrot… PARROT…”

Amanderella raised an eyebrow. “So the echo is real.”

A sudden screech tore through the valley — high, metallic, and sharp enough to make even her heart jump.

It bounced from rock to rock, growing stranger with each reflection.

SKREEEE—ee—ee—ee—EECH!

Then, faintly, as though the valley itself were trying to imitate a child:

“Who’s a naughty boy then?”

Amanderella straightened, listening hard.

The voice came from nowhere and everywhere at once. The peculiar acoustics of Tuffort Stones turned a single cry into a chorus. The roar that followed echoed and re‑echoed until the whole valley seemed to shake.

“If that is what people heard,” she thought, “no wonder they were frightened.”

She cast one last glance up the valley. Nothing moved among the trees. The echoes faded. The feather lay safely pressed between the pages of her notebook.

“Best to say nothing yet,” she decided. “Not until I have something firmer than a feather and a voice that shouts insults.”

She turned and walked back down the path. The wind returned as she left the shelter of the valley, tugging at her coat and carrying a fading echo:

“Naughty boy… boy… BOY…”

She ignored it.

The inn was warm and lamplit, full of the clatter of early supper preparations. Amanderella took her usual corner table, ordered a modest dinner, and ate quietly, arranging the afternoon’s discoveries into neat lines.

Outside, the sky softened toward evening. The Crags turned muted purple. Inside, the Pig and Whistle hummed with end‑of‑day sounds — chairs scraping, cutlery clinking, dishes being washed.

When she finished her meal, she thanked the landlord and carried her coffee into the bar.

The bar was busier now. A few men played dominoes. Two women sorted out who owed whom for church flowers. Several others discussed the Beast.

Amanderella sat near the hearth, set her notebook beside her cup, and listened without appearing to.

At the next table, a man insisted he had seen “something with wings, or possibly a coat caught on a branch.”

Someone else claimed the Beast had roared loud enough to shake washing off her line.

Another swore it had shouted at him in perfect English.

Most of it was nonsense.

Some of it was useful.

All of it showed how frightened the village had become.

She sipped her coffee and made no comment.

The villagers talked freely among themselves but left her alone, as newcomers were usually left. Cally Sitt stood up as though to approach, but when Amanderella picked up her notebook, Miss Sitt quietly returned to her seat.

After a while the talk drifted to other things — the weather, the price of eggs, the vicar’s new sermon series.

When she finished her coffee, Amanderella nodded to the landlord and stepped outside. The evening was cool and clear. Lamps glowed in cottage windows. The street was quiet.

The lecture was due to begin soon, but no crowd was heading toward the hall. The only person she passed was a shopkeeper closing his shutters.

“Not going to the talk?” Amanderella asked.

The shopkeeper snorted. “Floating stones? No, Miss. Saw the poster. Didn’t believe it then, don’t believe it now.”

He tipped his cap and went inside.

Amanderella walked on, enjoying the quiet.

She passed the churchyard. The vicar was straightening hymn sheets for the lecture’s opening prayer. He gave her a nervous smile.

“Off to the lecture?” he asked.

Amanderella nodded.

“I shan’t bother,” he said. “If the Lord meant rocks to float, he’d have made them out of wood.”

Amanderella smiled and continued.

The hall looked almost deserted. The door was propped open, but only a few chairs were occupied. Mrs Plover fanned herself. Old Dubard Coor appeared to be asleep. Two teenagers whispered at the back.

Outside, someone was making a great deal of noise.

Crispinshaw Woldscar stood at the foot of the steps, coat flapping, pointing at the noticeboard as though personally offended by it. The hall caretaker stood beside him, hands in pockets, wishing he were anywhere else.

“I must insist,” Crispinshaw said, “that this poster is entirely inadequate. The print is too small. The angle is wrong. No one passing could grasp the importance of tonight’s subject.”

The caretaker shrugged. “Folk know it’s on, sir. They just aren’t coming.”

“Not coming?” Crispinshaw cried. “To a lecture on floating stones? This is scientific importance!”

“Aye,” the caretaker said. “But folk are busy. And there’s the Beast business.”

Crispinshaw made a noise of disbelief. “Superstition! Floating stones are far more interesting.”

Amanderella paused. Crispinshaw noticed her, straightened, and tried to look composed.

“Miss Don’t,” he said. “Good evening. We are having… organisational challenges.”

“Quite,” Amanderella said.

Crispinshaw nodded stiffly and returned to lecturing the caretaker about poster angles.

Amanderella stepped inside.