Charlie Bone and the Hidden King

by Jenny Nimmo

  A kettle boiled on an iron range, and burning logs blazed in the grate beneath it. An oil lamp sitting on a round table gave the room a smooth, mellow glow.

  Naren's father sat in a chair by the stove, while a gray-haired woman bent over him, talking urgently. She looked up when she heard the children enter and gave Charlie a smile that banished all his uncertainty. Like Naren, the woman appeared to be Asian.

  Charlie would have spoken to the woman but something happened that he was quite unprepared for. He became aware that pictures covered every spare surface of the walls. It was as if a hundred windows were showing him different views of a mountain.

  There were mountains bathed in sunlight, mountains ice-white in moonlight, snow fields streaked with purple shadows and splashed with fluttering rainbow-colored pennants. So many breathtaking peaks, so many splendid ranges.

  In one of the pictures an explorer waved at the camera. His dark glasses were pushed up over his blue woolen hat and he was laughing. Charlie could hear his voice. There were movements in the room around him, and then the kitchen swung violently from side to side and vanished. Charlie was alone, sailing toward the distant mountains.

  Cold, cold air stung his cheeks and rattled in his lungs. He was flying over dazzling white snow while the man's laughter grew louder.

  Someone tugged Charlie's arms. It really hurt. He wished they would let go. He tried to shrug them off but he was too weak. So he let himself be tugged and pulled and shaken and shouted at, until he had to open his eyes. And there he was, standing just inside a kitchen door, with a pair of blue eyes peering anxiously into his, and a face that wasn't grumpy anymore.

  Naren's father took Charlie's arm and set him in a chair by the stove.

  "I thought I was on a mountain." Charlie looked up at the pictures on the wall. "You were there, Mr . . .. ?"

  "I know," said Naren's father. "You chose a fine 'time to travel, Charlie Bone. Gave us all a nasty fright."

  "Oh. Do you know about it, then?" asked Charlie in surprise. "My traveling, I mean."

  "Yes. I've heard."

  The Chinese woman said, "You are welcome here, Charlie." She glanced at the man with a frown. "My husband worries for Naren, but he should not have been angry with you." Shaking her head in a worried way, she pulled out a chair and sat at the table. "That was not right."

  Naren put her arm around the woman's shoulders, saying, "Sorry. My fault. Sorry, sorry, Mother."

  "Er . . . who exactly are you?" Charlie asked the man.

  "My name is Bartholomew. I'm Ezekiel Bloor's son." When he saw the alarm on Charlie's face, the man added quickly, "Don't worry, I'm the black sheep of the family, or perhaps the white. I haven't seen my father for years, or my son. They are as far removed from me as the moon from the earth."

  "But why . . . Charlie looked around the room. "How come you're here?"

  "Ah." Bartholomew moved to the window and gazed at his animal visitors.

  "He will tell you," Naren said. "Won't you, Father? You must tell Charlie."

  Bartholomew strode back to them. "Yes." His tone was solemn and a little regretful. "I must." He drew a chair close to Charlie's and began to talk.

  While Charlie listened, Naren's mother gave him a bowl of delicious, steaming tea, and then a cake of sweet, fulfilling munchiness. He had never tasted anything so wonderful, but he could only nod his thanks, for he was incapable of dragging his mind away from Bartholomew's incredible story.

  It began with a wedding. Bartholomew Bloor married Mary Chance on a rainy, autumn morning. No one was happy about it except for the bride and groom, who were so in love they hardly noticed the weather. Ezekiel Bloor and his Yewbeam cousins despised the bride, who was a pretty, but impoverished dancer. And Mary's parents feared for a daughter who was marrying into a strange, unsociable family.

  "For a while they left us alone," Bartholomew said with a sigh. "And then I heard about the expedition. My mother used to take me with her when she collected rare plants in the mountains of Bavaria. Ever since then I have loved mountains. After my mother died, I spent all my holidays climbing with friends. We went to Snowdonia, the Alps, and the Pyrenees, but my dream, always, was to climb in the Himalayas.

  "One day a letter came from one of my exploring friends. Harold, my son, was eight at the time. He was serious and stolid. He didn't share my love of travel. He hated camping, hiking, even picnics."

  Bartholomew gave a rueful laugh. "Imagine a child not liking picnics."

  Naren clicked her tongue. "Imagine!"

  "The letter told me about an expedition," Bartholomew went on. "There was a place for me. They were leaving for the Himalayas in a month."

  Charlie munched the sweet cake as quietly as he could - and waited.

  Bartholomew's voice faltered before he said, "Mary told me it was the chance of a lifetime, and I'd always regret it if I didn't go. So I did." He stood up and began to pace the room. "Things went well until the night of the storm. It was ferocious and terrifying. An avalanche killed two of our party, and I was swept into a ravine. For two days I lay there, unable to move. I was rescued by a man from an unknown tribe of extraordinary people."

  Bartholomew came and sat down again. He told Charlie how the mysterious tribe had cared for him. Both his legs were broken and a gash on his head gave him constant pain, but at the end of a year he was well enough to travel. A young tribesman took him to a mountain path that led out of the valley and, after several weeks, he reached a town with a telephone.

  "I was full of excitement, longing to speak to Mary again, to tell her I was alive and coming home." Bartholomew shook his head, ran a hand through his white hair, and covered his eyes with the other.

  At first Charlie was afraid to ask a question. He looked at Naren and her mother, but they seemed unable to speak. Bartholomew was so distressed. Eventually, curiosity got the better of Charlie and he ventured, "So what happened?"

  Bartholomew looked up. "Your grandmother Grizelda Bone answered the phone. She was in my house, on the verge of selling it. She told me that everyone believed that I had died in the avalanche. When Mary heard she went into an empty theater and danced and danced herself to death." Bartholomew took a deep breath. "My son was living in Bloor's Academy, cared for by Ezekiel and Grizelda. And very happy he was too, apparently."

  Charlie was too shocked to speak.

  "So I didn't come home," Bartholomew continued. "I became an explorer. I went on traveling until I came to China where I lived for many years and met my second wife, Meng." He looked over at the gray-haired woman who smiled at him. "One day, after a terrible flood, a flower from the sun walked into our home. Her parents had been swept away by the water. She was four years old and called herself Naren - a sunflower."

  "Yes, me!" cried Naren. "And they adopted me, and here I am!."

  Charlie looked around at her and grinned. "But why did you all come back here?" he asked.

  "Ah." Bartholomew went to the window. "That's something I can't explain. I had to be close to the place where the Red King's children were born. From this side of the gorge we can see the castle, or what's left of it. But we're safe from the city and those two terrible families. And we're safe from" - he paused - "from something I heard about when I was in Italy. A thing they called The Shadow. I dream about it sometimes."

  A sudden chill entered the cozy room, as though an invisible shutter had fallen across the window. Charlie shivered. "A shadow stands behind the king in his portrait," he said.

  Bartholomew nodded. "You've seen it, then."

  "We think . . ." Charlie hesitated. "It seems as if he's back. The shadow has moved, you see, and we think, well, that is, a rat told my friend Billy" - Bartholomew didn't bat an eyelid - "that the earth shuddered. And then a dog . . ." Charlie repeated Blessed's story about the shadow that had turned into a man.

  Naren's mother put a hand to her mouth and Bartholomew closed his eyes against an unimaginable horror.

  "They say it's Borlath," Char
lie went on, "your ancestor - and mine too I suppose, as we're kind of cousins."

  "It's not Borlath," the explorer said grimly. "The king's shadow was a man who tore the Red King's family apart. I forget his name."

  "I never heard of him before," said Charlie. "He's not in my uncle's history books."

  "Histories are written from a certain point of view," Bartholomew said dismissively. "They are edited, embellished, shorn of the facts. Only the traveler can find the truth, Charlie. For the truth is in men's heads and in their hearts. Do not always put your trust in words that you see on paper."

  "I suppose I'm a traveler, in a way," said Charlie.

  "You certainly are. And, who knows, you may discover more about the Red King than I have, in all my years of traveling."

  "Only if I can get past the shadow," Charlie murmured.

  "Ha, we're back to the shadow." Bartholomew suddenly rose to his feet with a closed look on his face.

  All Charlie's questions were swallowed in a gulp. Instead, he spoke about his life since his father disappeared, about Bloor' s Academy, and the endowed children who had become his friends.

  "You will find your father, Charlie," Bartholomew said with conviction. "Because of the way you are, and because of the loyalty you have inspired. Lyell is an extraordinary man. It's a miracle he remained so decent surrounded by all those vipers. I am old enough to be his father, but in a few short weeks we became the best of friends. You were a year old, Charlie, when I paid my family a brief visit. They wanted nothing to do with me. My son barely acknowledged me. I suppose, in a way, Lyell became the son I'd lost. I took him climbing with me . . ." Bartholomew's voice trailed off. Then, with a big shrug, he said, "Time for you to go home, Charlie. And not the way you came."

  "Can I . . .?" began Naren.

  "No," her father said sternly. "You will stay here with your mother. And you will never cross that iron bridge again."

  Naren grinned sheepishly at Charlie. "But the animals, Father. Charlie must take them back with him."

  "Not all the animals!" Her mother laughed.

  "Just the ones that belong to my friends," said Charlie. "You haven't seen any gerbils, have you?"

  "Lots!" Naren ran into the hallway and, pulling on her coat and boots, called, "The barns are full of them. Come and see."

  Hurriedly putting on his outdoor clothes, Charlie followed Naren to a large barn standing at right angles to the house. As he stepped into the barn an army of small rodents scampered across the dusty floor, leaping for hay bales or burrowing under logs.

  "How on earth am I going to sort them out?" groaned Charlie. "My friend's lost more than twenty."

  "Who's going to know which is which?" said Naren.

  "Gabriel knows his gerbils intimately," said Charlie with a sigh.

  At this, Naren gave such a peal of merry laughter, Charlie began to giggle.

  It took them almost an hour to catch twenty-five, vaguely recognizable gerbils, two white rabbits, a duck, a gray parrot, and a blue boa. Boxes were found and a cage for the boa. "Wouldn't want that thing creeping around my neck while I'm driving," said Bartholomew as he helped Charlie coax the snake into a cage. But the boa was an amiable creature and would never have harmed a friend. None of the family was surprised to learn that it was probably a thousand years old. On his travels, Bartholomew had met creatures of an even greater age.

  A battered-looking van stood in the yard behind the house, and the boxed animals were carefully packed into the back. Charlie took a seat beside Bartholomew, Homer perched on the boa's cage, and Runner Bean sat on Charlie's lap.

  The van spluttered to life and rolled across the yard. All at once, Naren was running beside them. "Don't close . . . tonight," she called.

  "What?" Charlie wound down the window.

  "Give me something of yours," Naren called.

  Almost without thinking Charlie tore off his glove and tossed it through the window. The van lurched out of the yard and onto a rough trail. Charlie turned in his seat and looked through the back window. He saw Naren pick up the glove and wave it happily. Meng stood behind her, a hand hesitantly raised. The van turned a sharp bend and the two figures disappeared from view.

  "Why did she want something of mine?" Charlie asked Bartholomew.

  "She wants to keep in touch." Bartholomew gave Charlie an enigmatic smile.

  "But a glove? And what mustn't I close tonight?"

  "Your curtains, Charlie. Let the moon shine in."

  "But . . ."

  "Look to your right," Bartholomew commanded.

  Obediently, Charlie looked. At first there was nothing to be seen but trees and then, on the other side of the gorge, a square reddish-colored tower came into view.

  "The Red Castle!" Charlie exclaimed.

  "The very same," Bartholomew agreed.

  "And there's a part of the wall!" cried Charlie.

  The van slowed down so that he could see the tumbling remains of a massive wall, built on the very edge of the gorge. Sections of the wall could be glimpsed for at least a mile and then, gradually, the huge stones were lost in a sea of trees.

  "I never realized it was so big," breathed Charlie.

  "Vast," said Bartholomew. His voice softened. "And I believe the king is still there, or certainly his spirit. He is hidden, for now, but, perhaps, soon, he'll show himself, especially if the shadow is back."

  "The queen's there, too," said Charlie.

  Bartholomew turned to him with an inquiring frown, and Charlie told the explorer about the white horse that had carried Billy and himself to the Castle of Mirrors.

  "The queen." Bartholomew's blue eyes glittered. "That is truly wonderful."

  They drove on in silence for a while and then Bartholomew said gravely, "Charlie, it's very important that no one finds out about me and my family.

  Promise not to tell a soul where we live, or where you found the animals."

  Charlie thought of his friends, and Uncle Paton. "I promise," he said reluctantly.

  After another mile they left the trail through the wilderness and joined a road that eventually took them to the wide stone bridge. Charlie thought it best to take all the animals to the Pets' Cafe, where their owners could come and collect them. He directed Bartholomew to the end of Frog Street, but the explorer wouldn't leave his van.

  Before Charlie got out, Bartholomew popped something into his top pocket. "I don't have any photographs of your father," he explained, "but he took that one. I have always kept it and it just occurred to me that it might help you, Charlie."

  "Thank you."

  "Please get out now. I don't want anyone to see me."

  With the boa's cage hanging on one arm, and a box of rabbits and gerbils on the other, Charlie shouted good-bye as the van sped away. Then he trudged down Frog Street with Runner Bean bounding ahead and Nancy the duck waddling obediently behind him. The willful parrot, however, kept disappearing and shrieking rude words from lampposts and window-sills.

  Charlie had almost reached the Pets' Cafe when he became aware of footsteps on the cobblestoned street behind him.

  "Stop right there, Charlie Bone," said a voice.

  Charlie stopped and looked around. Dorcas Loom and her two large brothers came striding toward him. Between the two Loom boys marched Joshua Tilpin.

  "Where are our dogs, Charlie Bone?" asked Albert, the tallest and ugliest Loom.

  "Yeah. How come you've got your dog and all your friends' pets?" demanded Alfred, the shorter, wider youth.

  "What have you done with the animals, Charlie?" said Joshua with a mean sort of grimace. "Come on, tell us!"

  "Nothing," said Charlie. "I just happened to find these." He glanced at Nancy, who came swaying to his side.

  "Oh, just happened to find them, did you?" said Dorcas.

  A growl rumbled in Runner Bean's throat, and Homer shrieked, "Battle stations!"

  "Stop that thing jabbering," snarled Albert. "If you don't tell us where our dogs have gone, we'll ta
ke yours. We'll take 'em all, unless you speak up."

  "Tell us," Alfred demanded, "or else . . ."

  The four of them began to close in.

  TRAPPED IN THE SNOW

  Charlie stood his ground. It isn't easy to run away when you're carrying a cage and a large cardboard box, and expecting a duck to keep up with you. There was only one solution.

  "Runner, get them!" Charlie commanded.

  The big dog didn't need any encouragement. He rushed at the Looms, barking furiously. But Albert and Alfred hadn't trained four rottweilers for nothing. Albert grabbed Runner's collar and tugged him to the side of the alley, where Alfred chained him tightly to a lamppost.

  Frantic with rage, Runner Bean's howls were enough to raise the town, but no friendly policeman appeared and no one came to the door of the Pets' Cafe. Homer, however, was a bird of action. He hurtled out of the sky and dug his talons into Dorcas's curly hair.

  "Get off! Get off!" screamed Dorcas.

  Joshua grabbed Homer by the neck and squeezed. The parrot's gray eyes bulged. He choked and spluttered, his talons clawing the empty air as Joshua pulled him off Dorcas and shook him from side to side.

  The boa gave an angry hiss when his cage was dropped, and Charlie was tempted to release him, but he couldn't risk another creature being injured. Putting the box of rabbits and gerbils beside the boa, Charlie ran at Joshua.

  "Let him go!" he cried, trying to tear Joshua's fingers away from the parrot's neck.

  Charlie didn't stand a chance. Alfred pulled his arms behind his back, and Albert punched him in the stomach.

  "Oooooow!" Charlie sank to his knees, doubled up in pain.

  Albert grabbed the cage and led the way out of Frog Street. Alfred followed with the box. They marched up the narrow street, herding poor Nancy in front of them, while Dorcas helped Joshua stuff Homer into his backpack.

  "You can keep the dog," Alfred called back to Charlie, "for now." His footsteps stopped abruptly. "What the . . . ?" His voice shook a little.