by Jenny Nimmo
Fr om far away Mathonwy saw the conflagration. He gues sed what had happened. Was it too late to save his fri end, Prince Amadis? Mathonwy did the only thing he could. He caused a snowfall. A blanket of snow swept toward the burning castle. When it reached the island, the snow fell, and where it touched the scorched walls, a strange thing happened. The vitrified stones began to shine."
"A castle of shining glass," breathed Charlie. "But, Uncle P, what's the connection to my family?"
"Mathonwy," said Paton brusquely. "Remember the name on the family tree that Maisie gave you? Your Welsh ancestor?"
"Oh," said Charlie slowly "But the date is wrong."
"The name is enough. The Welsh used their ancestors' names over and over."
"Oh," Charlie said again, and thinking of his Welsh ancestor, he remembered the wand. "Uncle Paton, I've lost the . . . you know . . . the wand."
"What!" Paton's glasses slid to the end of his nose.
"I took it to school. It was stupid of me. I put it under my mattress and now it's gone."
"Do you suspect anyone?"
"Yes. And if it's who I think it is, I'll probably get it back. Please go on with the story"
Uncle Paton shook his head. "Sometimes, your carelessness astounds me, Charlie."
He looked down at the book. "The castle walls became so smooth and so bright that Borlath's soldiers beheld an army looking out at them. What a hideous and terrifying sight it was. Believing that Prince Amadis and his men had survived the lire and were, therefore, supernatural, the mercenaries ran for their boats. Only Borlath realized that the glimmering army was his own, but he didn't attempt to take the castle. For some reason, the shining walls appalled him and he too left the island."
"So they were all dead in there," said Charlie, "except for one. It must have been like a great shining tomb. I wouldn't like to have been the one to survive. Who was it, Uncle P.?"
Paton referred to the book again, turning several pages before he reached a place almost at the end. “Ther e was one survivor, the prince's youngest son, while haired Owain, who was an albino and knew the language of t he beasts and birds. So Owain, being without home or fa mily, departed from the island on the advice of a raven. And the raven traveled with him."
"He sounds like Billy," said Charlie in astonishment. "Exactly like Billy."
"Exactly," Paton agreed. "Odd how the same features pop up through the generations. Unfortunately, it doesn't say how the boy managed to survive, but I'll just read the ending because this is really interesting. “It is said that Prince Amadis will be seen again in the Castle of Shining Glass by one of Owain's bloodline.'"
"Billy?" said Charlie.
Paton looked over his glasses. "Maybe." He returned to the book. “And Owain traveled to the Holy Roman Empire and had two sons. The elder became a scribe — in other words, a person who wrote out documents or copied manuscripts — and the younger could speak the language of the beasts and birds. The latter was banished from his village for consorting with ravens that perched upon a gallows where dead men hung."
Charlie shivered. "Horrible. But it was mean to banish him."
"Unusual habits were considered the work of the devil in those days," said Uncle Paton. "And now for the end." He put a finger on the last paragraph. "The first son of Owain was called Crowquill in that he used such for his work. And these words, being the truth to the best of my knowledge, were written down by a descendant of that Crowquill, in the year of our Lord, 1655."
"So . . . ," said Charlie thoughtfully, "they were connected even then — the Ravens and the Crowquills. There are so many strange things going on in this city, Uncle P."
"Indeed," said his uncle.
"It's as if the city is drawing them all back, all the people whose stories began right here, on the ground under our feet, under all the houses and streets and parks."
"Even this house," added Paton.
"Even us. Like threads being pulled tighter and t ighter together."
How eloquent you're becoming, Charlie," said Uncle Pato n with a smile.
"Today," Charlie went on, "I went into a flower shop, and the woman there knew my name. And she was really interested in my friend Olivia. But Livvy would hardly come into the shop. She said the woman knew more about her than she did herself."
"Is this girl endowed?"
"No, not in the least. But she's a brilliant actress. Only she just failed an audition and she's really — I can't describe it — she's kind of different, desperate, furious!"
"Sounds like trouble, Charlie. Desperate women can be dangerous."
"Can they?" Charlie yawned in spite of himself. "Thanks for reading me the book, Uncle P. It's been like putting things in a frame, so you can begin to see them better. I wonder what's going to happen next."
"I wonder, Charlie," said Uncle Paton. "I wonder." He closed the book and pushed it carefully into one of the cubbyholes on his desk. "You'd better find that wand before it gets into the wrong hands."
Charlie was thinking that perhaps it already had.
THE WHITE MOTH
Manfred Bloor was losing his power. He'd been aware of it for a year now, ever since Charlie Bone had managed to resist him. Charlie had conjured up pictures of his lost father, a man whom Manfred had found easy to hypnotize when he was nine years old. When Manfred was nine, he had been at the height of his powers; now they were waning.
No one had guessed what was happening to him. Manfred was still capable of scaring children when he gave them a nasty glare. And the horse experiment had almost restored his confidence, since it was his part in the procedure that had been the most successful. Or had it been? Maybe it had been Venetia Yewbeam's foul-smelling potions that had done the trick.
Another thing. Where was the horse now? And how were they going to control it? Manfred was secretly fearful of that "undead" horse and its brutal heart. He needed something to protect himself.
It was easy to persuade Billy Raven to steal Charlie's wand. Afraid that his one chance of happiness might be snatched away at the last minute, Billy had found the wand and handed it over.
A lot of good it had done little Billy He was now trapped in the Passing House, and the kind parents he had longed for were nothing more than coldhearted villains with extremely unpleasant powers.
"Oh, what a Silly Billy," Manfred chanted as he paced around his office, twirling the slim white stick. "And now for the test. What are you going to do for me, little stick?" He noticed a fly crawling across his desk and touched it with the wand's silver tip. "Turn into a frog," he demanded.
Manfred felt a sharp sting on his palm and he dropped the wand. The fly was still a fly It flew up to the ceiling where it stayed, upside down and very still. Manfred had a bad feeling it was laughing at him.
"Turn into a frog," he cried, throwing the wand at the ceiling. As the white stick left his hand, a searing pain traveled down Manfred's arm. "Oooow!" he yelled.
The wand hit the fly and fell to the ground. The fly unharmed, sailed over to the window
"Turn that thing into a frog!" screeched Manfred, seizing the wand and hurling it at the window This time, the pain that struck his hand felt like a red-hot poker. Indeed, there was a large red welt across his palm.
As Manfred screamed, the fly buzzed behind the curtain, and once more the wand fell to the ground. There was now no doubt in Manfred's mind that the wand would not work for him. In fact, the more he attempted to use it, the more it would punish him for daring to try
"You . . . you . . ." Swearing horribly Manfred scooped up the wand and pitched it into the empty fireplace. He
then gathered as much scrap paper as he could find and flung that into the fireplace. Manfred's final act was to strike several matches and drop them onto the paper.
The flames that roared up the chimney were very gratifying, but there was a moment of panic for Manfred when they began to leap into the room. He tore off his black cape and tossed it over the fire, smothering the flames. The cape smoldered and a cloud of smoke billowed out. Coughing and choking, Manfred staggered to the window and Rung it open.
At the same moment, Tantalus Ebony walked into the room, chuckling merrily "What are we up to, young man?"
Manfred whirled around, still coughing. He pointed to the fire. "Wand . . . ugh . . . Charlie Bone's . . . I'm . . . ugh . . . burning it." He cleared his throat with a hoarse, grating sound. "It wouldn't work for me, so I've finished it off. At least the little wretch can't use it now"
"Oooo! Temper, temper." Tantalus giggled. "You'll have to learn to control that, my old pal."
"I am not your old pal," Manfred retorted. "And I wish you could decide who you were."
"Today I'm . . ." Tantalus gazed up at the ceiling. "I'm a bit of Vincent Ebony the postman — he called everyone his old pal — but then I'm also partly the hitchhiking headmaster, Tantalus Wright. I haven't had so much fun in years."
"I hope you haven't forgotten why you're here," Manfred said sourly
"Oh, THAT!" Tantalus narrowed his mismatched eyes and licked his thin lips. "No, I haven't forgotten THAT ."
The fire in the grate was by now a glowing pile of ash, and the two men watched with satisfaction as the remains of the charred wand finally crumbled to dust. A sudden draft from the open window lifted the ashes, and a tiny cloud of them fluttered into the room. Gradually the cloud assumed the shape of a white moth with delicate silver-tipped wings.
"Catch it!" roared Tantalus.
Manfred leaped, but too late. The moth floated out of the window, closely followed by the elusive fly
************************************
In the bathroom of number nine Filbert Street, Charlie Bone, wearing pajamas, stood beside the sink feeling very ill. His whole body seemed to be on fire. Was it the flu? He sensed that something awful had happened. But what? Perhaps one of his friends had been in an accident.
Charlie held his hands under the cold tap. Steam rose from his lingers, almost as though they were the prongs of a red-hot iron. "Ow!" Charlie quaked. "Ooo, what's happening?"
"Indeed what?" said a grouchy voice from the doorway. Grandma Bone stood, glaring in at Charlie. "You've been in this bathroom for twenty minutes. Other people have needs too, you know."
"Yessss!" Charlie gritted his teeth as another cloud of steam hissed off his fingertips. "But I'm very hot, you see, Grandma. Look! Steam!"
"Wickedness made manifest," growled his grandmother. "Take your nasty hands elsewhere."
Charlie left the bathroom, flapping his steamy fingers in the air. He went into his bedroom, opened the window as wide as he could, and held his hands out in the cool air. It was a strange evening. An autumn mist was creeping through the town, muffling the sound of traffic and softening the contours of walls and fences. There was a strong scent of flowers in the air.
A shining speck of dust floated out of the sky. As it drew nearer, Charlie could make out two white wings tipped with silver, a white moth. The little creature flew down to Charlie's outstretched hand and settled on his index finger.
"Wow!" said Charlie. "You're amazing." He carried the moth inside and let it walk onto his bedside table, where it spread its wings and sat perfectly still. Charlie got the impression that the moth felt at home in his room. He realized that his hands no longer burned and that his fever had stopped. He was perfectly well again.
************************************
In a house not far from Charlie's, Olivia Vertigo sat on the edge of her bed, peeling an apple. It was the fifth apple s he had tried to peel that day And this attempt was provi ng to be as unsuccessful as the others. Every time she thought she'd reached the end, another inch of peel appeared, and yet the strand that hung from the apple was at least a meter long.
In a sudden fury Olivia dropped the knife and flung the apple across the room. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed, "What's happening to me?"
The door opened and her mother looked in. Vivienne Vertigo (or Viva Valery, as she was known in the movies) might have been a film star, but this had never prevented her from being a kind and considerate mother. She had always managed to help her daughter through her little "spells of temperament," as she put it. But Olivia's mood over the last twenty-four hours was beginning to defeat her.
"The flowers are beautiful, Olivia, thank you!" said Vivienne.
Olivia didn't look up.
"Oh, poor Livvy." Mrs. Vertigo went over to her daughter and sat beside her on the bed. "I failed my first audition too, you know. It just wasn't the right part for you. There'll be another chance. You mustn't be so downhearted."
"I'm not," growled Olivia.
"Then what is it?"
"Something's happening to me, Mom."
"You're growing up, darling."
"It's not THAT!" yelled Olivia. "It's something else. It's making me . . . oh, I don't know I hate it. I don't want it to happen."
Mrs. Vertigo stopped herself from making a dramatic gesture. Instead she gave a modest shrug and said, "I don't quite understand, my darling."
Olivia gave a huge sigh. "When I came in with the flowers, I felt like eating an apple. So I took one from the bowl in the kitchen. But I couldn't peel it. I tried four more, but... but the peel never comes to an end."
"Can't you eat the peel, darling?" asked Mrs. Vertigo. "It's supposed to be good for the hair."
“I don’t like the peel," cried Olivia, exasperated by her mother's lack of understanding. "But that's not the point. Why does the peel never end? I go around and around and around, and it NEVER ENDS."
At last Mrs. Vertigo said, "Those apples come from the tree at the end of the garden. I've never had any trouble with them before."
Olivia gave up on the apples. “And then there's the flowers."
"They're beautiful," gushed her mother. "But where on earth did you find them? I thought you were at the Pets' Café. I was so worried when Mr. Onimous told me you hadn't been there."
"That's the thing, Mom. The flowers found me. There was this alley that I'd never seen before, and I felt I had to go down there. And then I found this flower shop, Angel Flowers. When I went in, the woman inside said she knew me, and that was scary because 1 don't know her. Her name is Alice Angel."
"Alice Angel, Alice Angel," Mrs. Vertigo repeated the name very slowly. "Of course," she said at last. "Alice Angel does the flowers — weddings, christenings, celebrations. She decorated the house for your c hristening party, Livvy. I haven't seen her since, but she lives just down there."
"Where?" Olivia jumped off the bed and followed her mother's pointing finger to the window "Where? Where?"
"On the other side of the wall there's a garden. It backs onto ours. Alice Angel lives in a house at the far end. At least she used to."
"Mom, I'm going to take a look right now"
"OK, Livvy." Mrs. Vertigo was pleased to see her daughter's sad face come to life once more. "But please don't climb over the wall. The house could belong to a stranger."
"Never fear," Olivia said brightly. She ran downstairs and out into the garden.
A white September mist lay over the grass, and the air was warm and filled with scents. Olivia approached th e shrubbery at the bottom of the garden. She could see t
he wall rising above it, but before she could reach it, she stumbled over a fallen apple. There were oth ers lying nearby. In fact, the ground was covered with them. But there were no apple trees in the Vertigos' garden. The fruit came from a long branch that hung over the wall. The tree grew on the other side.
Olivia pushed her way through the dense shrubbery She wasn't tall enough to see over the wall, so she hauled herself up and sat on the top. When she looked down into the garden beyond, she thought there'd been a sudden snowfall, for it was filled with white flowers. They climbed into trees, crowded the borders, and crept across the narrow stone path. White petals lay everywhere, like patches of snow
At the end of the path, a very small house stood under a blanket of white roses. Only the door and one window could be glimpsed. Even the chimney was wrapped in greenery
Olivia had hardly taken in this extraordinary scene when her eyes were drawn to a rounded wooden structure that she could just make out above the sea of flowers. Olivia squinted into the dusk. It was a caravan, a real gypsy caravan.
Just then the door of the house opened and light flooded onto the path. A figure stepped out. It was small and very thin; it wore a long, hooded coat, and it shuffled up the path, head bent and shoulders hunched. And then it left the path and waded through the flowers until it reached the caravan. Olivia heard feet dragging up the wooden steps. She squinted her eyes and leaned farther over the wall, trying to see whether the strange figure was a man or a woman.
A voice called, "Sleep well, my dear." Framed in the doorway of the rose-covered house stood a woman with shining white hair. Alice Angel.
"Bless you!" replied the hooded figure. It went into the caravan and closed the door.
Alice remained where she was for a moment. And then she called, "Is that you, Olivia?"
Olivia shuddered and dropped down into her own garden.
