by Jenny Nimmo
When Cook came to Bloor's Academy she had been given a cold room in the east wing, but she had no intention of staying there. The Bloors had no idea of her true identity; they never imagined that Cook knew more about the ancient building than they did themselves. She had very soon moved into a secret underground apartment they knew nothing about.
How could the Bloors have guessed that Cook had arrived with the sole purpose of helping the children of the Red King? Being endowed herself (another thing the Bloors had no inkling of) Cook had always had a powerful urge to protect children who might suffer for their talents. And she had a strong suspicion that of all the endowed children at Bloor's Academy it was Charlie Bone, with his eager and often clumsy attempts to help people, who was most in need of her watchful eye.
Charlie had a tendency to rush at things without thinking them through, and now he had made his most foolish move yet. With Cook's help he would have to put it right.
Blessed led Charlie as far as the kitchen but would go no farther. He lay in front of the door, with his head resting on his paws. Obviously he was in the habit of guarding Cook's quarters at night.
Charlie made his way over to the broom closet. He had been to Cook's underground rooms twice before but, as far as he knew, Gabriel was the only other person in the school who knew about them, and he had been sworn to secrecy
Charlie clambered over bottles of polish, cans, brooms, and piles of rags. He turned the handle in the small door and it creaked open. Charlie stepped into the corridor behind it and ran toward a flight of steps. He entered another closet and knocked on a panel at the back.
"Is that you, Charlie Bone?" came Cook's voice.
"Yes," said Charlie softly
“You'd better come in, then."
Charlie stepped into a low-ceilinged room with worn, comfortable armchairs and darkly glinting wooden furniture. In winter Cook's stove glowed with bright coals, but today the fire was out and the room had an indoor, summer stuffiness.
One of the armchairs had been turned to face the cold stove and, in the lamplight, Charlie could see a long black shoe and the hem of a dark robe. Someone else was in the room.
Cook put a finger to her lips. "Shhh!"
Charlie tiptoed around the chair and almost jumped out of his skin. There, fast asleep, was Skarpo the sorcerer.
"How did he get here?" whispered Charlie.
"I might ask you the same thing. What have you done, Charlie Bone?"
"It's not my fault, honestly I didn't think it was possible. You see . . . " Charlie felt slightly embarrassed. "I went into this painting where he was. And he must have come out with me. But I didn't see him."
"Tsk! Tsk!" Cook shook her head. "The poor man was in a terrible state when I found him. He was crouching in my broom closet, weeping, begging me to let him go home. He can't stand it here — the noise, the lights, so many people. He's terrified."
"He's done some pretty terrifying things himself," said Charlie, forgetting to whisper.
Skarpo's eyes suddenly flew open. 'You!" he cried, glaring at Charlie.
"Yes, me," said Charlie.
The sorcerer uttered a string of words that were quite unintelligible to Charlie. "What's he talking about?" he asked Cook.
Cook gave a grim smile. "He speaks in an ancient jargon, but luckily we come from the same part of the world, so I can just understand him. The poor man is asking you to take him home."
"How can I do that?" said Charlie. "The painting's at home, and I won't get out of here till Friday"
Skarpo, who'd been watching Charlie's lips, turned to Cook with a frown. In a strange singsong voice, Cook explained Charlie's problem.
Skarpo groaned.
"I'm already in trouble over this," said Charlie. "Dr. Bloor guessed it was my fault — all the bells and the frogs and chickens and stuff. I'm dead meat if it doesn't stop. So you'd better quit putting spells on things or I won't be around to help you."
Skarpo scowled and muttered something.
"I think he understands," said Cook. She heaved a sigh. "I suppose I'd better keep him here until Friday although I can tell you, I don't enjoy sharing my quarters with a sorcerer. Imagine! His father sailed over from Italy with Rizzio, who was Mary Queen of Scots' great chum."
"Wasn't he murdered?" said Charlie.
"Horribly," said Cook in an undertone. "You'd better pop back to bed now, Charlie, or you'll never wake up in the morning."
Charlie was about to leave when a problem occurred to him. "How's he going to get out of here without being seen?"
"The same way he got in," said Cook mysteriously "Good night, Charlie."
Charlie didn't trust Skarpo. Next morning he waited for something awful to happen. But no more elephants or frogs arrived. The sky was clear and blue, the sausages remained sausages, and nothing happened to the evening meat loaf.
"Too bad," muttered Fidelio, the vegetarian.
All through supper, Charlie could feel Dr. Bloor's cold eyes on him, and he had a feeling that the headmaster was almost disappointed. He had probably enjoyed thinking up some awful punishment for Charlie.
In the King's room after supper, there was an atmosphere you could cut with a knife, as Grandma Bone would have put it. Charlie heard Zelda whisper, "Bone's Mayhem Monday" and Asa gave one of his horrible snorts.
It was a very uncomfortable hour, with Lysander's drums still throbbing in the background and Tancred's angry breeze blowing paper off the table. Just to put him in his place, Zelda started moving books and pens out of their owners' reach. Worst of all was Manfred's hypnotizing stare, which seemed to be constantly aimed at Charlie.
Belle was watching Charlie, too. But her face wore a spiteful, bitter look. What was she up to? Charlie wondered.
He told no one of his nighttime visit to Cook, but when he, Gabriel, and Fidelio were on their way to bed, Fidelio said, "Come on, Charlie, what's happened? Did you find the old fellow?"
"Yes," said Charlie. He looked over his shoulder. There was no one within earshot so he described his meeting with the sorcerer.
His friends stood motionless in the passage and listened with rapt attention.
"So that's why the bats aren't gold anymore," murmured Gabriel.
Matron came striding toward them, shouting, "Why are you three lurking there? Bed. Come on, now" She clapped her hands aggressively
To Charlie's great relief, the rest of the week passed without any more unpleasant or magical incidents. People stopped giving him funny looks and whispering behind his back, and by Friday afternoon most of the school was so occupied with the end-of-semester play they had forgotten about Charlie Bone's Mayhem Monday.
Charlie had often wished he could take part in the play All his friends were involved; if they weren't acting, they were painting scenery making costumes, or playing an instrument. Even Billy Raven had been roped in to play an elfish drummer. But Charlie was considered useless when it came to entertainment.
Today, however, Charlie was glad to get out of school while so many of the others had to stay behind for rehearsals. But as the school bus approached Filbert Street, his stomach began to lurch uncomfortably If Skarpo had managed to get into the house without Grandma Bone seeing him, where would he be? And what would he be doing?
Charlie got off the bus and walked very slowly down Filbert Steet. He was thinking of a bargain he wanted to make with Skarpo. He would agree to take him back into the painting only if he could advise Charlie how to make Ollie Sparks visible again. Surely a sorcerer would know how to do that?
Charlie climbed the steps of number nine and was about to let himself in when the door suddenly opened and there stood Skarpo.
"AAAH!" shrieked Charlie.
The sorcerer gave a black-toothed smile, and Charlie quickly looked around to see if anyone was watching. But no one in the street paid any attention. They were used to the strange goings-on at number nine.
The sorcerer said something that sounded like "Whisht!" and pulled Charlie ove
r the threshold.
"Has anyone seen you?" Charlie whispered. "A woman? An old woman?"
"Nae woman," said Skarpo. He grabbed Charlie's arm and dragged him into the kitchen where the painting sat propped against a bowl of fruit on the table. Skarpo nodded at the painting, and said, "Now!"
"Not here," said Charlie. "Someone might come in. Upstairs." He pointed at the ceiling.
Skarpo grabbed the painting and shoved Charlie through the door. He was gabbling away but Charlie could hardly recognize a single word. Still muttering, the sorcerer pushed him up the stairs and along the landing to his bedroom. Once inside, Skarpo sat on the bed with the painting on his knee, facing Charlie.
It was rather odd seeing him sitting there with his silver-black beard bobbing up and down as he spoke, while the painted Skarpo stood perfectly still in a candlelit room.
"Now!" thundered Skarpo. "We go!"
“Actually it's not going to work like that," said Charlie. "You've got to do something for me first."
"Ach!" Skarpo flung down the painting.
“And you'd better not break that or you'll never get back."
The sorcerer glowered at Charlie.
Choosing his words very carefully Charlie explained Ollie's predicament.
Skarpo frowned. "What the snake hath done, the snake must undo."
There was no mistaking his words this time, but just to make sure, Charlie asked, "The snake? The snake must do it?"
“Aye, aye. The snake," said Skarpo. He beckoned Charlie. "Thou maun tak me awa frae here."
"Hold on," said Charlie. "There's another thing . . .”
"Nae mooa!" shouted Skarpo.
Charlie stood his ground. "Yes, more. You said you could help my uncle if you saw him. Well, he's in the room next door."
"Ach!" grumbled Skarpo, but without more ado he jumped up and walked out of the room.
"Wait!" cried Charlie, fearing Skarpo would meet Grandma Bone. But the sorcerer had already marched through Paton's door. Charlie found him noisily examining the objects on the bedside table while Paton gaped at him from the bed.
Without moving his lips, Paton muttered, "Charlie, is this who I think it is?"
"Er — yes," said Charlie. "He might be able to help you."
“And how's he going to do that?" Paton nervously inquired.
All at once, Skarpo reached into his voluminous robes and brought out a chain. He smiled at Paton and twirled the chain in the air.
"Ye gods! You are not going to chain me to the bed!" yelled Paton.
Skarpo's smile grew wider. He put the chain back and brought out a small silver bell, which he rang just above Paton's feet. It tinkled pleasantly as the sorcerer began to chant.
"What's that? My death knell?" groaned Paton.
"I don't think so, Uncle," said Charlie. "You know, it's funny but when I was in the painting I knew what he was talking about, but now I can hardly understand a thing he says."
"Nor can I. I imagine that when you 'go in,' as you put it, you acclimatize to where you've gone; bound to happen, when you think about it."
"I see," said Charlie thoughtfully
Skarpo was now walking around the room, ringing his bell and chanting in a deep singsong voice. All at once, he came to rest beside Paton and commanded, "Show thy tongue!"
Paton scowled up at him and obliged.
The sorcerer recoiled, saying, "Wha hast thou been?"
"If you mean what I think you mean, I've been to Yewbeam Castle," said Paton.
"God's teeth!" the sorcerer exclaimed. “A dritful family — rogues, scoundrels, murderers. Woe to yee!"
"Woe indeed," Paton murmured.
"Vervain!" said the sorcerer. "The sacred herb. Bathe, wash thy heed, drink, take it on thy breath."
At that moment the door handle turned, and before Charlie could stop him, Skarpo sprang to open it. The door swung open revealing Grandma Bone. For a brief second, she stared wordlessly at the sorcerer, and then she closed her eyes and slowly sank to the ground.
“A swoon!" Skarpo declared.
"What's happening?" asked Paton, who couldn't see beyond the door.
"Grandma Bone," said Charlie. "She's fainted. Seeing Skarpo in the flesh must have been a shock!"
"Put her on her bed," said Paton. "She'll think she's had a nightmare."
Skarpo was one step ahead of them. He had already thrown Grandma Bone over his shoulder and, while Charlie led the way he carried the unconscious woman to her room, where he flung her on the bed.
"Watch it!" said Charlie. "Old bones, you know."
Skarpo gave a loud cackle and then demanded, "Now Tak me hame!"
"OK," said Charlie.
When they were back in his bedroom, however, he began to have doubts. "You will let me come out again, won't you?" he asked the sorcerer. "I don't want to be stuck with you forever."
"Nae moor do I," said the sorcerer. "I will give thee a poosh."
"Right," said Charlie doubtfully.
He put the painting against his bedside light and stared into the painted eyes of the sorcerer. Nothing happened. But then, how could it? Charlie realized that the real Skarpo was here, beside him, clinging to his arm. Beyond those painted eyes there was no soul, no will to draw him into the painting.
"I think you'll have to want me to go in," Charlie said.
“Aye." Two bony hands sank into Charlie's shoulder blades. He took a step nearer the painting, and then another.
"Poosh, thou wretch, thou mean beastie," said a voice behind Charlie's ear.
"Do you mind, I'm trying to hel —" Charlie suddenly found himself flying forward. It was the oddest sensation, for the hands at his back seemed to reach right through his body so that they were pulling as well as pushing. Charlie was traveling so fast, he couldn't get his breath. He began to choke on the clouds of dust that streamed into his face. He closed his eyes and sneezed violently
The familiar mixture of candle wax and decay filled Charlie's nostrils. He wiped his eyes and saw, far ahead, the flicker of candlelight. Closer now, and there was the sorcerer's room, the long table, the symbols on the wall, the skull on the floor. And in the center, Skarpo himself with a blank stare in his dark yellow eyes.
Expecting to fall into the sorcerer's room, Charlie was surprised to find it suddenly receding. He reached out, trying to grab the man in the painting, but his hands met empty air. He thrust his feet forward in an effort to touch the ground, but with a sickening jolt, he was turned upside down and bowled backward.
He landed with a painful thud, facedown on the floor of his own room. Beside him, the sorcerer was kneeling on all fours, with his outer black robe right over his head. From beneath this came a muffled moan.
"What happened?" gasped Charlie.
The sorcerer pulled his robe away from his face and sat back. He shook his head for a while, and then said, "Moosie!"
"What?" Rather unsteadily Charlie got to his feet. "What do you mean? We were almost there. What happened?"
"Nae moosie," said Skarpo, pointing angrily at Charlie. "Thou hast stolen the moos."
"Moos?" For a moment Charlie stared stupidly at the sorcerer, trying to make sense of his speech, and then at last, it came to him. "Oh, the mouse. Of course, you can't get back without your mouse. I suppose things have to be exactly the same as they were when you came out."
“Aye," groaned Skarpo.
"The last time I saw it was in my uncle's room. Won't be a sec."
Skarpo leaped to his feet, anxious not to let Charlie out of his sight. They burst into Paton's room, both talking at once about the lost mouse and the unsuccessful traveling.
"Do be quiet," groaned Paton. "My head is splitting. Why is that man still here?"
Charlie explained. "We have to find the mouse or he won't be able to get back."
"Ridiculous," said Paton. "That mouse is long gone. You won't find it in here. It's somewhere under the floorboards. There are probably enough crumbs down there to keep it going for month
s."
Skarpo dropped into a chair, put his head in his hands, and began to rock back and forth, wailing like a siren.
"For pity's sake." Paton clamped his hands over his ears. "Charlie, find my phone."
Paton had bought himself a mail-order cell phone, which he used primarily for ordering books, although, now and again, ill-fitting garments would arrive, only to be hastily sent back.
Charlie eventually found his uncle's phone buried under a mound of paper on the desk. "What are you going to do?" he asked, handing his uncle the phone.
"I'm going to call Mr. Onimous," Paton said, dialing a number. "The cats will sort this out."
"The cats? They'll kill it," said Charlie.
His uncle took no notice. “Ah, Mr. Onimous," he said. "Paton Yewbeam here. We have a problem, Charlie and I, and ah — someone else. I should be very grateful if you could bring the famous flames to see us. If they are available, of course." He paused, while a light, musical voice came leaking out of the phone. "They are? Splendid." Paton glanced at the sorcerer. "Speed would be appreciated. Thank you!"
Skarpo had stopped wailing and was now watching Paton with interest. "Thy fingers hath a magic touch," he said, wagging his own finger at the cell phone.
"Yes, you could say that," Paton agreed, avoiding Charlie's eye. "Now then, Mr. — Skarpo? Patience is required. Very soon a good friend of ours will arrive — with help. In the meantime, I would be very obliged if you would keep quiet. As you are aware, I am none too well, and any more noise might finish me off Thank you!"
The sorcerer listened attentively to Paton's speech. He was obviously impressed. Now and again he hummed under his breath, but apart from that the room was so quiet you could hear a clock Paton had mislaid ticking from the inside of a cupboard.
The house was quiet too, until Amy Bone came home from work. Charlie went down to the kitchen to let his mother know what was going on. He spoke so fast it all came out in rather a muddled rush, but Mrs. Bone soon got the gist of what Charlie was trying to say She dropped her shopping bag and sat down, saying, "How amazing, Charlie. Do you mean to say a medieval sorcerer is actually — in the flesh — sitting in Paton's room?"
"I think he's probably more Tudor than medieval," said Charlie. "His father had something to do with Mary Queen of Scots."
