by Jenny Nimmo
The way to the Music Tower led through a small, ancient-looking door close to the garden exit. Charlie braced himself, opened the door, and began to walk down a long, damp passage. It was so dark he could barely see his own feet. He kept his eyes on a distant window in the small circular room at the end of the passage.
As he got closer to the room, he began to hear voices, angry voices — men arguing. There was a clatter of footsteps. Charlie stood still until whoever it was had reached the bottom of the long, spiraling J staircase. A figure appeared at the end of the passageway It loomed toward Charlie and raised its purple wings, blocking out the light.
Plunged into darkness, Charlie screamed.
THE BOY WITH PAPER IN HIS HAIR
Quiet!" hissed a voice.
Charlie shrank against the wall as the person, or thing, swept past and whisked itself through the door into the hall.
Charlie didn't know what to do. Should he go back the way he had come or on toward the tower? The hissing person might be in the hall, waiting for him. He chose the tower.
As soon as he emerged in the round sunlit room at the end of the passageway Charlie felt better. Those purple wings had been the arms of a cape, he reasoned. And the angry person was probably a member of the school's staff, arguing with someone. He began the long, spiral ascent to the top of the tower. Bloor's Academy had five floors, but Mr. Pilgrim's music room was up yet another flight.
Charlie reached the small landing where music books were stored on shelves, in boxes, and in untidy piles on the floor. Between the rows of shelving, a small oak door led into the music room. A message had been tacked to the center of the door:
Mr. Pilgrim is away.
Charlie rummaged in the boxes, lifted the piles of sheet music, and searched behind the heavy books on the shelves. He found a flute, a handful of violin strings, a box of oatmeal cookies, and a comb, but no trumpet.
Was there any point in trying the room next door? Charlie remembered seeing a grand piano and a stool, nothing else. He looked again at the note. Mr. Pilgrim is away. It looked foreboding, as though there were another message behind those four thinly printed words: "Do not enter, you are not welcome here."
But Charlie was a boy who often couldn't stop himself from doing what all the signs told him not to. This time, however, he did knock on the door before going in. To his surprise, he got an answer.
"Yes," said a weary voice.
Charlie went in.
Dr. Saltweather was sitting on the music stool. His arms were folded inside his blue cape, and his thick-white hair stood up in an untidy careless way He wore an expression that Charlie had never seen on his face before: a look of worry and dismay
"Excuse me, sir," said Charlie. "I was looking for my trumpet."
"Indeed." Dr. Saltweather glanced at Charlie.
"I suppose it isn't in here."
"Nothing is in here," said Dr. Saltweather.
"Sorry sir." Charlie was about to go when something made him ask, "Where is Mr. Pilgrim, sir?"
"Where?" Dr. Saltweather looked at Charlie as he'd only just seen him. “Ah, Charlie Bone."
"Yes, sir."
"I don't know where Mr. Pilgrim has gone. It's a mystery"
"Oh." Charlie was about to turn away again, but this time he found himself saying, "I bumped into someone in the passage; I thought it might be him."
"No, Charlie." The teacher spoke with some force. "That would have been Mr. Ebony, your new teacher."
"Our teacher?" Charlie gulped. He thought of the purple wings, the hissing voice.
"Yes. It's a little worrying, to say the least." Dr. Saltweather gave Charlie a scrutinizing stare, as though wondering if he should say more. "Mr. Ebony came here to teach history" he went on, "but he turned up with a letter of resignation from Mr. Pilgrim. I don't know how he came by it. And now this — man — wants to teach piano." Dr. Saltweather raised his voice. "He comes up here, puts a message on the door, tries to keep me out of a room in my own department. . . . It's intolerable!"
"Yes, sir," agreed Charlie. "But he was wearing a purple cape, sir."
“Ah, yes, that!" Dr. Saltweather ran a hand through his white hair. "It seems that Mr. Tantalus Ebony is in the drama department, hence the purple."
Charlie said, "I see," although by now he was very confused. He had never heard of a teacher being in three departments at once.
"They are Dr. Bloor's arrangements, so what can I do?" Dr. Saltweather spread his hands. "Better run along now; Charlie. Sorry about the trumpet. Try one of the art rooms. They're always drawing our musical instruments."
“Art. Thank you, sir," said Charlie gratefully The art rooms could be reached only by climbing the main staircase, and Charlie had just put his foot on the first step when Manfred Bloor came out of a door in the hall.
"Have you finished writing out your lines?" asked Manfred coldly
"Er, no."
Manfred approached Charlie. "Don't forget or you'll get another hundred."
"Yes, Manfred. I mean no."
Manfred gave a sigh of irritation and walked away
"Excuse me," Charlie said suddenly, "but are you still, er, a pupil, Manfred?"
"No, I am not!" barked the surly young man. "I am a teaching assistant. And call me sir."
"Yes, sir." The word "sir" tasted funny when applied to Manfred, but Charlie smiled, hoping he'd said the right thing at last.
And don't forget." Manfred marched back into the prefects' room and slammed the door.
Charlie still hadn't found Manfred's office. He was now torn between looking for his trumpet and writing out a hundred lines. But then he remembered that he didn't know the last line of the hall rules. "Emma will tell me," he said to himself and he began to climb the stairs.
Emma was often to be found in the art gallery a long, airy room overlooking the garden. Today however, the room appeared to be empty Charlie searched the paint cupboard and inspected the shelves at the back of the room, then he crossed the gallery and descended an iron spiral staircase that took him down into the sculpture studio.
"Hi, Charlie!" called a voice.
"Hey come on over," called another.
Charlie looked around to see two boys in green aprons grinning at him from either side of a large block of stone. One had a brown face and the other was very pale. Charlie's two friends were now in their third year. They had both grown considerably during summer vacation, and so had their hair. Lysander now had a neat head of dreadlocks decorated with multicolored beads, while Tancred had gelled his blond hair into a forest of stiff spikes.
"What brings you down here, Charlie?" asked Tancred.
"I'm looking for my trumpet. Hey I hardly recognized you two."
"You haven't changed," said Lysander with a wide smile. "How do you like the second year?"
"I don't know I'm in a bit of a jam. I keep going to the wrong place. I've lost my trumpet," said Charlie. "I'm in trouble with Manfred and there's an, er, um, thing in the garden."
"What do you mean, a “hing'?" Tancred's blue eyes widened.
Charlie told them about the horse Billy had seen in the sky and the hoofbeats in the garden.
"Interesting," said Lysander.
"Ominous," said Tancred. "I don't like the sound of it." The sleeves of his shirt quivered. It was difficult for Tancred to hide his endowment. He was like a walking weather vane, his moods affecting the air around him to such an extent that you could say he had his own personal weather.
"I'd better keep looking for my trumpet," said Charlie. "Oh, what's the last line of the hall rules?"
"Be you small or tall," said Lysander quick
ly
"Thanks, Sander. I've got to write the whole thing out a hundred times before dinner and give it to Manfred — if I can find his office. You don't happen to know where it is, do you?"
Tancred shook his head and Lysander said, "Not a clue."
Charlie was about to return the way he'd come when Tancred suggested he try somewhere else. "Through there," said Tancred, indicating a door at the end of the sculpture studio. "The new children are having their first art lesson. I think I saw one carrying a trumpet."
"Thanks, Tanc!" Charlie walked into a room he'd never seen before. About fifteen silent children sat around a long table, sketching. Each had a large sheet of paper and an object in front of them. They were all concentrating fiercely on their work, and none of them looked up when Charlie appeared.
"What do you want?" A thin, fair-haired man with freckles spoke from the end of the table. A new art teacher, Charlie presumed.
"My trumpet, sir," said Charlie.
“And why do you think it's here?" asked the teacher.
"Because there it is!" Charlie had just spotted a trumpet exactly like his. The instrument was being sketched by a small boy with mousy hair and ears that stuck out. The boy looked up at Charlie.
"Joshua Tilpin," said the teacher, "where did you get that trumpet?"
"It's mine, Mr. Delf." Joshua Tilpin had small pale-gray eyes. He half-closed them and wrinkled his nose at Charlie.
Charlie couldn't stop himself He leaped forward, seized the trumpet, and turned it over. Last semester he had scratched a tiny "cb" near the mouthpiece. The trumpet was his. "It's got my initials on it, sir."
"Let me see." Mr. Delf held out his hand.
Charlie handed over the trumpet. "My name's Charlie Bone, sir. See, they're my initials."
"You shouldn't deface musical instruments like this. But it does appear to be yours. Joshua Tilpin, why did you lie?"
Everyone looked at Joshua. He didn't turn red, as Charlie would have expected. Instead, he gave a huge grin, revealing a row of small, uneven teeth. "Sorry, sir. Realty really sorry Charlie. Only a joke. Forgive me, please!"
Neither Charlie nor the teacher knew how to reply to this. Mr. Delf passed the trumpet to Charlie, saying, “You'd better get back to your class."
"Thank you, sir." Charlie clutched his trumpet and turned to the door. He took a good look at Joshua Tilpin as he went. He had an odd feeling that the new boy was endowed. Joshua's sleeves and hair were i covered with scraps of paper and tiny bits of eraser. I Even as Charlie watched, a broken pencil lead suddenly leaped off the table and attached itself to the boy's thumb. He gave Charlie a sly grin and flicked it off. Charlie felt as though an invisible thread were tugging him toward the strange boy
He quickly left the room, and the thread was broken.
The sculpture studio rang with the sound of steel on stone. Tancred and Lysander weren't the only ones chipping away at lumps of rock. Charlie flourished his trumpet in the air. "Got it," he sang out.
"Knew it," said Tancred.
Charlie's next priority was the hundred lines. Where should he write them? He decided on his new homeroom. As he crossed the hall, he was swamped by groups of children, some coming in from games, others rushing down the stairs, still more emerging from the coatrooms. Everyone seemed to know exactly where they were going, except Charlie. Something had gone horribly wrong with his schedule. He hurried on, hoping to find at least some of his year's group in the classroom.
There was a note tacked to the classroom door. It was printed in the same, old-fashioned handwriting as the words on A4r. Pilgrim's door:
Tantalus Ebony
Music, Mime, and Medieval History
Charlie put his ear to the door. Not a sound came from the other side. He went in.
• • •
There were no children in the room, but there was a teacher. He sat at a high desk in front of the window, a teacher with a long, narrow lace and black eyebrows that met across the bridge of his nose. His dark hair covered his ears, and heavy bangs ended just above his eyebrows. He wore a purple cape.
"Yes?" said the teacher, looking up from his book.
Charlie swallowed. "I've come to write out some lines, sir."
"Name?" The man's voice rumbled as though it came from underground.
"Charlie Bone, sir."
“Approach!" The teacher beckoned with a long, white finger.
Charlie walked to the desk. The man stared at him for a full minute. His left eye was gray and his right eye brown. It was most disconcerting. Charlie was tempted to look away but he held his ground and looked first into one eye and then the other. An angry frown crossed the man's face and he leaned back, almost as though he feared that Charlie had seen some part of him that he wished to keep secret. Eventually the teacher said, "I am Tantalus Ebony"
"I guessed that, sir."
"How presumptuous. Stand still."
Charlie was about to say that he hadn't moved, when Mr. Ebony went on, "Why are you not with the rest of your class?"
"I got a bit confused, sir."
"Confused? Confused is for freshmen. Not a very promising beginning for your second year, is it, Charlie Bone? And you say you have lines already I wonder why"
"I was talking in the hall, sir."
Mr. Ebony's response was amazing. He roared with laughter. He rocked with unrestrained giggles.
Ahem." The teacher gave a little cough. "Go and write your lines, then. And don't disturb me. I'm going to sleep." Mr. Ebony pulled his purple hood over his head and closed his eyes. Still sitting bolt upright, he began to snore.
Is it possible to be watched by someone who isn't looking at you? Charlie had the impression that the strange teacher was still awake. Or rather that someone else, behind the sleeping face, was still on guard.
After waiting a lew seconds, Charlie tiptoed to his desk, got out an exercise book, and began to write out the hall rules. He had just completed the last line when the horn sounded for snack time. Mr. Ebony opened his eyes, threw back his hood, and cried, "OUT!"
"Yes, sir." Charlie gathered up his papers and hurriedly left the room.
************************************
"Where on earth have you been?" asked Fidelio, when he saw Charlie in the cafeteria.
"Where have you been?" said Charlie.
"1 had English, then games."
Charlie saw a weekend of detention looming ahead. Mr. Carp, the English teacher, wouldn't forgive him for missing a lesson. "I was writing out my lines for Manfred," he said gloomily "And I still haven't found out where his office is."
Fidelio couldn't help, nor could Gabriel when he arrived at their table. "What's with him, then?" he said, munching a Choclix bar. "I mean, what's Manfred supposed to be? He's not head boy anymore, and he's not a teacher. So what is he?"
"He's a hypnotizer," said Charlie grimly. “Always has been and always will be. He'll probably stay here for ever and ever, perfecting his skills until he becomes a musty old magician like his great-grandfather."
As long as he keeps out of my way I don't care what he is." Gabriel swallowed the rest of his Choclix and wiped his fingers on his sleeve. "By the way I've decided to take piano with Mr. Ebony I can't give it up, and he's quite good, actually"
"I'd go to Miss Chrystal if I were you," Charlie advised Gabriel. "Mr. Ebony isn't — isn't what he seems. I think he's dangerous."
The others looked at him questioningly but Charlie couldn't explain his feeling.
After snack time, Charlie took his trumpet to Mr. Paltry's room. The elderly teacher was having a quiet cup of coffee. "I can't give you a lesson now,” he said irritably "Put your trumpet
on the shelf and leave me in peace."
"Yes, sir." Charlie placed his trumpet on the shelf with five others, hoping it wouldn't get lost or stolen again. "Excuse me, sir, but do you know where Manfred Bloor's office is?"
"I don't know every single room in the building, do I?" Mr. Paltry fluttered a freckled hand. "Now, shoo."
Children were advised to leave their capes indoors on sunny days. Believe it or not, it was colder inside the dark academy than it was outside. Leaving his cape in the coatroom, Charlie went into the garden and asked as many people as he could if they knew the whereabouts of Manfred's office. Nobody knew Charlie ran indoors again. As he put on his blue cape, he slipped his fingers into his pocket. The three pages had vanished.
"No!" yelled Charlie, just as Gabriel walked in.
"What's up?" asked Gabriel.
Charlie told him, and for the next fifteen minutes Gabriel helped Charlie search the coatroom, but the three pages were nowhere to be found. Fidelio appeared and joined in the hunt. They looked in empty classrooms and even went down to the cafeteria. And then the horn sounded for dinner.
"Someone's determined to get me into trouble," moaned Charlie. "I'm losing everything, my trumpet, my lines. . . . What's going on?"
"Come and eat," said Fidelio. "Food helps the brain."
"Huh!" Charlie grunted.
The three boys made their way to the long, cavernous dining hall and took their places at the end of the music table.
The academy's staff sat at a table on a raised platform at the end of the room, and Charlie noticed that Manfred was sitting next to his father. So he was now officially a member of the staff. At least he won't be doing his homework with as, thought Charlie.
Dinner was almost over when Dr. Bloor stood up and clapped his hands. There was instant silence. The big man walked to the front of the platform and surveyed the lines of children below him. He was an impressive figure in his black cape, his shoulders wide, his gray hair neatly cropped, and his mustache as straight as a ruler. His eyes were almost hidden beneath thick folds of flesh, and it was difficult to tell what color they were. Now they looked black, yet Charlie knew they were gray
