by Jenny Nimmo
‘Mrs Jones, where’s my dog?’ called Benjamin.
But Maisie had disappeared into the kitchen.
Benjamin walked on to Charlie’s bedroom. He listened outside the door. Not a sound came from the other side. Benjamin opened the door. He saw Charlie, fast asleep in bed. There was a new bed on the other side of the room and Benjamin could just see a few tufts of white hair poking above the duvet. Billy Raven. There was no sign of Runner Bean.
Benjamin stood just inside the door, wondering what to do. His pale solemn face now wore a look of extreme anxiety. What had happened to Charlie while he had been away? He had a vision of his best friend surrounded by all those peculiar children at Bloor’s Academy. The musicians, actors and artists; the weather-monger, the hypnotist and all those other weird things. Perhaps this explained why Maisie and Amy Jones were so pleased to see him. Because he was normal, unlike poor Charlie.
A sudden movement on Charlie’s bed caught Benjamin’s eye. A white moth fluttered over the duvet. Benjamin had always been told that moths were pests. They made holes. He sprang forward and cupped his hand over the moth.
Three things happened. Charlie sat bolt upright and screamed. Billy Raven rolled out of bed, and the moth bit, yes bit Benjamin, who yelled and let go of it.
‘Benjamin!’ cried Charlie.
‘Charlie!’ cried Benjamin. ‘A moth bit me.’
‘It’s my wand,’ said Charlie.
‘Your wand?’
‘Manfred burnt it and it turned into a moth. You haven’t killed it, have you?’
Benjamin shook his head. ‘It’s on top of your wardrobe. Sorry.’
Benjamin never said things like: how can a wand turn into a moth? Charlie realised how much he’d missed his friend. ‘It’s really great to see you, Ben.’
‘It’s great to see you, too. Where’s Runner Bean?’
‘Ah.’ Charlie swung his legs out of bed. ‘He’s not here.’
‘I can see that.’
Billy Raven groaned and sat up. He put his hand up to the bedside table and felt for his spectacles.
‘What’s Billy doing here?’ asked Benjamin.
‘Dr Bloor lets me out at weekends now.’ Billy found his spectacles and put them on.
‘So, where’s my dog?’ Benjamin persisted, turning to Charlie.
Charlie tugged his tousled hair. He had so much to tell Benjamin he didn’t know where to start. He made his friend sit on the bed and, while he got dressed, he explained how Grandma Bone had tried to have Runner Bean put down by the pest controllers. The look of horror on Benjamin’s face prompted Charlie to add quickly, ‘But Mr Onimous got here first. He took Runner to the Pets’ Café, and I go every weekend and take him for a run.’
‘Only once a week?’ Benjamin said accusingly. ‘He needs a walk every day.’
‘Well, I can’t get out of school, can I?’ Charlie lowered his voice. ‘It’s not my fault that I have to sleep at Bloor’s during the week, is it?’
‘No. Sorry. It’s great to see you, Charlie.’
‘You too,’ Charlie said once again.
As soon as Billy and Charlie were dressed the three boys went downstairs where Maisie gave them a huge cooked breakfast. Benjamin gazed dismally at the food. He couldn’t eat. His stomach was churning with apprehension. He had to see his dog. Suppose someone had stolen him.
‘Mr Onimous would never let that happen,’ Maisie patted Benjamin’s head. ‘Runner Bean’s just fine. You’ll see.’
Billy and Charlie wolfed down their breakfasts and followed Benjamin, who was already at the front door.
‘Where’s all the snow gone?’ said Benjamin as they raced up Filbert Street. ‘Last night it was so deep we could hardly drive through it.’
‘The Flame cats had something to do with it,’ muttered Charlie.
‘You mean like it wasn’t real snow?’
‘Don’t know what I mean,’ said Charlie.
When they reached the Pets’ Café they found a ‘Closed’ sign hanging on the door. Charlie pressed his face to the window. Chairs were piled on tables and the counter was bare. But at the back of the café a soft light could be seen coming through the beaded curtain into the kitchen.
Charlie knocked on the door.
For a moment he thought no one had heard. He was about to knock again when Mr Onimous’s small figure appeared behind the counter. The three boys waved and Mr Onimous scurried round the tables to open the door.
‘Well, if it isn’t Marco Polo himself,’ said Mr Onimous, ushering the boys into the café.
‘Marco who?’ asked Benjamin.
‘An ancient traveller, Benjy.’ Mr Onimous locked the door. ‘A man who went to China before most people knew it was there.’
‘I was in Hong Kong,’ Benjamin said gravely, ‘and I’m not ancient. Please, where’s my dog?’
‘Ah.’ Mr Onimous ran a hand over his stubbly chin. ‘You’d better come into the kitchen.’
‘Where is he?’ Benjamin ran round the counter and past the curtain.
Mr Onimous shrugged uneasily and whispered, ‘The dog’s gone, Charlie. Goodness knows where.’
‘Gone?’ Charlie and Billy rushed after Benjamin.
On entering the Onimous’s kitchen, the boys beheld Emma Tolly, sitting in the only armchair. Her eyelids were red and wet streaks covered her cheeks.
‘Emma, are you OK?’ Charlie said and immediately felt foolish because, clearly, Emma wasn’t OK.
In a desolate voice Emma said, ‘I’ve lost my duck.’ She gave a deep sob.
‘What!’ Charlie exclaimed.
‘Now, now, now. Let’s all calm down,’ said Mrs Onimous, almost scalding herself as she emptied a kettle of boiling water into a gigantic teapot. ‘Sit down, boys, and help yourselves to cake.’
‘I don’t think I can eat.’ Benjamin pulled out a chair and dropped on to it. ‘I just want my dog. I’ve been waiting to see him for seven whole months.’
‘Well, you’ll just have to wait a tad longer,’ said Mrs Onimous somewhat testily. ‘As a matter of fact there’s been a mass exodus. All the animals have gone and –’
‘Even Rembrandt?’ squeaked Billy.
‘All means all, even rats, Billy,’ said Mr Onimous. ‘But I’m sure there’s a simple explanation. In order to think we must remain calm. Pour the tea, Onoria, my darling. Tea is restoring.’
Emma joined the boys at the table, while Mr and Mrs Onimous took a seat at either end. Tea and cakes were passed round, but Charlie was the only one to enjoy the cake. His concern for the animals hadn’t managed to spoil his appetite. Surely, they couldn’t all have disappeared. He looked round the cosy kitchen looking for signs of life: a mouse, a spider, the odd fly. But nothing moved on the copper pans above his head, or on the shelves crammed with jars and tins and brightly painted crockery. Finally his glance fell on a lidded basket in the corner and he asked, ‘What about the blue boa?’
‘Gone, the dear thing,’ Mrs Onimous replied sadly. ‘They must have left last night, in the snowstorm. I came down early to make a cuppa and the place was deserted. No welcoming barks, no eager scamperings, no happy slitherings.’ She blew her very long nose with a loud trumpeting sound.
‘Same happened to me.’ Emma’s blue eyes filled with fresh tears. ‘Nancy’s always, always, always in her duck-house in the yard. But it was empty.’
Billy gave a light cough. ‘The Flame cats came to warn us, but they didn’t say anything about animals disappearing.’
‘What exactly did they say, dear?’ Mrs Onimous bent her lean frame eagerly towards Billy.
‘They said Charlie must watch his mother and a shadow was waking up. A shadow called Hark.’
‘Hark?’ Mr Onimous raised and lowered his bristly eyebrows. He scratched a whiskery cheek with slightly furry hands and said, ‘I’m in the dark.’
‘What was that?’ Mrs Onimous suddenly sat bolt upright, craning her long neck towards the far end of the kitchen.
‘Scratching
,’ said Billy.
Now they could all hear it: a very, very distant scratching.
Billy jumped up and rushed to a door that led into the pantry.
‘Billy, no . . .’ Mr Onimous snatched a torch from a shelf and hopped after Billy, calling, ‘Come back, Billy. Do you hear me?’
‘It’s Rembrandt,’ said Billy’s faint voice.
Charlie followed Mr Onimous through a long room lined with shelves of dog food and then down a dark passage with an earthen floor and walls of bare rock. The ceiling was only inches above Charlie’s head, and it was so dark he could barely see Mr Onimous scuttling ahead of him.
The Pets’ Café was built into the ancient city wall, and they were now travelling along an underground passage that led to the very heart of the Red King’s castle. By the time Charlie had caught up with Mr Onimous, Billy had reached a small door at the end of the passage. Before Mr Onimous could stop him, Billy wrenched open the door and leapt into the space beyond. He was now in a cavern whose curved walls were lined with large crates and lumpy-looking sacks.
Mr Onimous stepped into the cavern with Charlie close behind him. In the beam of light from Mr Onimous’s torch, Charlie could see that Billy was holding a large black rat.
‘Oh, Rembrandt, where’ve you been?’ Billy continued with a series of high squeaks and strange little hums.
The rat responded with a few squeaks of his own, and Billy said, ‘He’s had a bit of an adventure. He went through – oh . . .’ as he said this he turned to see Mr Onimous closing a very small door. Black and scarred with age, the door nevertheless perfectly fitted a gaping hole in the wall.
‘Wow! Where does that go?’ asked Billy, staring at the door.
‘It’s just a hole,’ Charlie said quickly.
Mr Onimous bent and retrieved a tiny brass key lying on the floor. ‘Animals,’ he grunted, fitting the key into a tiny lock in the ancient door. ‘They’re too clever by half. I suppose it was you who unlocked the door, Rembrandt rat.’ He pocketed the key.
‘Yes, it was him,’ said Billy. ‘But where does that lead to?’
‘Billy, I want you to promise me something.’ Mr Onimous’s genial whiskery features had become almost severe. ‘I want you to promise never, ever to tell a single soul about this room or that door.’
‘Oh.’ For a moment Billy silently gazed at the door, and then understanding seemed to dawn on his eager face. ‘It’s a secret passage, isn’t it?’ he whispered. ‘To the castle?’
‘I’m waiting for your promise, Billy,’ Mr Onimous said gravely.
‘I promise never, ever to tell a soul about this place or that door,’ Billy said in a small voice.
Mr Onimous smiled at last. ‘You don’t need to know any more. Forget it. Understand?’
‘Yes,’ came the whispered reply. Though how could Billy possibly forget such an exciting place?
The rat began to squeak again and they all trooped back to the kitchen to find out what he had to say.
‘Any news of Runner?’ asked Benjamin. ‘That’s some rat, by the way.’
‘Name’s Rembrandt,’ said Charlie, ‘and we think he’s got something to tell us.’
Rembrandt was placed in the centre of the table and, when everyone had taken their places, Billy gave the rat a light prompting hum. Rembrandt looked round at the expectant faces. He was a sociable rat and clearly enjoyed being the centre of attention. With small squeaks, pauses, grunts and twitters he began his story. Gradually the sounds he made formed a pattern that Charlie could almost recognise as speech. Billy sat with his chin on his folded arms, gazing at Rembrandt and listening intently to his voice. When it was clear that the rat had uttered his last squeak, Billy picked him up and put him in his lap. The exhausted creature curled up and fell asleep.
‘Go on, Billy,’ said impatient Benjamin. ‘What did he say?’
‘Some of it’s hard to explain,’ said Billy.
‘Try,’ urged Charlie.
‘Well – he said that last night something – kind of – woke up. And – and the earth shivered.’
‘We didn’t notice, did we?’ Mrs Onimous looked at her husband.
‘We’re not animals, dear,’ he replied. ‘Not quite, anyway.’
‘Please,’ moaned Benjamin, ‘let him go on!’
With a shake of her smooth, feathery hair, Mrs Onimous pointed her very long nose in Benjamin’s direction. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, I’m sure,’ she said tartly.
Benjamin ducked contritely and then quietly begged, ‘I just want to know about my dog.’
Billy took a breath and continued, ‘Anyway, Rembrandt says that they were very frightened, him and the boa and Runner Bean, and instinct made them want to go – somewhere else. So Rembrandt got a key.’ Billy paused. ‘I think he said it was in your bedroom, Mr Onimous.’
‘Little devil,’ muttered Mr Onimous.
‘And he unlocked a door,’ Billy went on quickly, ‘and they all went into a tunnel and – they went through the castle ruin, and all the mice and squirrels and birds and rabbits, and everything else that lived there, they all went too, and . . . and this is the hard bit, I think they went down a cliff – where the river roars – and over a bridge.’ Billy took off his spectacles, which had steamed up. He rubbed them against his sleeve and put them on again. ‘Imagine all those animals pattering over a bridge.’
‘Maybe some swam,’ Charlie suggested.
‘And some would fly,’ added Emma.
‘Yes, birds would.’ Billy glanced at the frowning Benjamin and hurriedly continued, ‘And after a bit, they found somewhere safe. And that’s where they are now: Runner Bean and the blue boa, and your duck, too, I expect, Emma.’
‘Where?’ Benjamin spread his hands.
‘I don’t know, do I?’ Billy replied. ‘I mean, Rembrandt didn’t tell me any names. He came back here because he wanted me to know what had happened. But he thinks the others might stay there.’
Benjamin was speechless with dismay. In fact everyone was silent, until Emma asked, ‘Why? Why do they want to stay?’
Billy stroked his rat’s glossy coat. ‘I think Rembrandt was trying to say that it’s a kind of – sanctuary.’
‘Sanctuary? I never heard of such a place in this city,’ said Mrs Onimous.
‘But it isn’t in the city. It’s out there, on the other side of the river.’ Billy gazed over their heads to an imaginary paradise, floating somewhere in space.
‘Billy, old fellow, there’s nothing on the other side of the river,’ said Mr Onimous. ‘It’s a wilderness.’
With a cry of despair, Benjamin buried his face in his hands.
The girl in the sunshine coat
Wilderness. The word was in everyone’s mind but no one would say it out loud, just yet. By now, the city was crowded with Saturday shoppers and when the four children emerged from the Pets’ Café, they headed for the quiet street that led to Ingledew’s Bookshop.
Every weekend Emma helped in the shop where she lived with her Aunt Julia. Emma’s aunt was wise and kind. She had read almost all the rare and ancient books on her shelves, and her knowledge of the city and its past was prodigious. She was bound to know about the wilderness across the river. There was also a strong possibility that Charlie’s Uncle Paton would be in the shop. And so, without even discussing it, the children gravitated towards the two people who might be able to tell them what had happened to their animals.
Exhausted by his long journey, Rembrandt had fallen into a deep sleep. He lay curled in Billy’s pocket, incapable of uttering another squeak.
As they drew near to the shop, the noise of the city receded and they became aware that something was wrong. None of them could say what it was, but in one way or another they all felt very uneasy.
‘It’s kind of spooky up here.’ Benjamin wrinkled his nose. ‘It never used to be.’
‘There are no birds,’ said Emma. ‘They’ve all gone.’
They had reached the wide cobbled square in front
of the cathedral where, usually, at least a dozen jackdaws could be seen, strutting across the cobbles, or shouting from the rooftops. Today there was not even a pigeon.
‘No cats either,’ Charlie observed. ‘There’s always a cat mousing round the cathedral.’
‘And dogs.’ Benjamin spun on his heel, staring round the square. ‘On Saturdays people walk their dogs here. So, where are they?’
Billy spoke the words on everyone’s mind. ‘In the wilderness.’
Charlie felt a prickling sensation at the back of his neck. Someone was watching them. He whirled round, just in time to see a figure in yellow disappear into an alley. ‘We’re being followed,’ he said quietly. ‘I saw a yellow floaty thing, down there.’
No one looked where Charlie was pointing. They ran for the bookshop as though a monster were on their trail. Charlie followed them, stumbling down the steps into the shop and bumping into Benjamin, who let out a yell of warning.
Distracted by the sudden commotion, Paton Yewbeam, balanced precariously at the top of a stepladder, began to sway dangerously and the armful of books he’d been placing on a high shelf almost slipped out of his grasp.
‘Paton, look out!’ Julia Ingledew sprinted across the room and steadied the ladder.
‘What’s the trouble, you lot?’ Uncle Paton deposited the books and came down the ladder.
All four children spoke at once, causing Uncle Paton to cover his ears and exclaim, ‘For pity’s sake, one at a time.’
‘Let’s take a break,’ Miss Ingledew suggested.
They all piled into the small sitting-room at the back of the shop and, while the boys made themselves comfortable among the books on chairs and sofa, Emma described her morning, from the discovery of Nancy’s empty duck-house to the absence of birds and animals in the city.
‘I knew something was amiss,’ Uncle Paton said thoughtfully. ‘But I couldn’t put my finger on it. I lose a few details when I’m wearing my dark glasses.’
‘But do you know anything about the wilderness across the river?’ Charlie asked his uncle.
