Charlie Bone and the Hidden King

by Jenny Nimmo

Charlie looked up.

  At the end of Frog Street, three glowing forms had appeared.

  "Flames," breathed Charlie.

  A deep sound rumbled down the narrow alley: the low, angry growl of a wild creature. A second growl joined the first, and then a third increased the sound. The dreadful chorus grew louder. Joshua and the Looms stepped back. Faster and faster, they moved. Before they could turn away, a streak of color, bright as a flame, divided into three and flew toward the boys, landing on their shoulders.

  Screaming with terror, Joshua and the Looms flailed wildly as the dazzling creatures bit into their necks.

  "Help us, Dorc," yelled Albert.

  Sobbing regretfully, Dorcas bolted without a backward glance.

  By now, Albert had dropped the cage and Alfred had cast aside the box. A yellow cat still clung to Joshua's backpack. Blubbering with fright, the boy yanked it off his back and tore after the Looms, who were sprinting up the alley faster than they had ever believed they could move.

  "What was that all about?" said a voice behind Charlie.

  Mr. Onimous stood in the doorway of the Pets' Cafe. He was wearing a fake (Charlie hoped) fur bathrobe and bore a striking resemblance to a mole. "It's hardly breakfast," he said, "and Saturday at that. We were sleeping in."

  "The Looms got me." Charlie stood up, rubbing his stomach. "Them and that freak, Joshua Tilpin."

  "I see you have a duck - and a dog - oh, and our blue boa. Onoria will be overjoyed."

  Runner barked with delight as Charlie untied him.

  "I think I've got them all," said Charlie, looking into the box. "Olivia's rabbits and Gabriel's gerbils."

  "That backpack is talking to itself," Mr. Onimous anxiously observed.

  Charlie picked it up and undid the strap. Homer shot out and flew into the air, swearing horribly. Mr. Onimous put his hands over his ears. "That parrot's language!" he protested. "Where did he learn such disgusting stuff?"

  "In the army," said Charlie. "That's what Lysander told me."

  "Tsk! Tsk!" Mr. Onimous carried the box and the cage into the cafe while Charlie coaxed Nancy through the door. Runner Bean needed no coaxing. He rushed into the cafe, around the counter, and into the kitchen, where he knew he would get a treat at the very least.

  Mrs. Onimous, in a pink kimono, was frying bacon when Charlie and her husband walked in. "The animals are back!" she cried. "Oh, the pets, the loves. Bacon for Runner, toast for Nancy, and something special for Boa. Where did you find them, Charlie?"

  Charlie pretended he hadn't heard. "Could you spare a couple of carrots for the rabbits, and maybe an apple for the gerbils?"

  "Of course, Charlie. But where were they?" Mrs. Onimous persisted.

  "Urn. That's difficult to say."

  The Onimouses asked no more questions, for the moment. They set about feeding the animals and Charlie. Mrs. Onimous was just pouring a second cup of tea when an oily voice from somewhere inside the cafe said, "Hello!"

  "We're closed," called Mrs. Onimous, frowning. Lowering her voice, she said, "I hate people catching me in my kimono."

  "I'm sure I locked the door, dear." Mr. Onimous tiptoed out of the kitchen, returning a few moments later with a surprised look on his face, and a parrot on his head. "Must have flown in before I closed the door," said Mr. Onimous. "Another beak to feed, my darling."

  But Homer didn't wait to be served. He swooped onto the table and carried a piece of toast up to a high shelf, where he tore it apart, muttering all the while.

  "How rude," said Mrs. Onimous, probably referring to his behavior, although it could have been his language.

  When all the animals had settled down, Mr. Onimous, once again, asked Charlie where he had found them. Charlie struggled with an answer. He knew he could trust the Onimouses, but he had promised Bartholomew not to tell a soul about the house in the wilderness.

  "On the bridge," Charlie said at last. "I heard Runner's bark and - just went there."

  Just went there, said Mrs. Onimous suspiciously. "And just happened to find all the animals belonging to your friends, but no others? No kittens, or mice or puppies belonging to anyone else?"

  "Er, no," said Charlie.

  "Leave him be, Onoria," said Mr. Onimous. "I think he's made a promise to someone. Am I right, Charlie?"

  Charlie shuffled his feet. "Well, yes. And I would tell you, really I would, but I can't, you see."

  "Can't trust us?" Onoria sniffed .

  "No, no. That is, I mean, yes, of course I can, but . . ."

  "Charlie, son, don't get in a frazzle," Mr. Onimous said soothingly. "You take that dog back to Benjamin, and we'll hang on to the others until your friends come to collect them. We'll take good care of them, won't we, darling?" He turned to his wife.

  "I'm not sure about the parrot." Mrs. Onimous glanced upward. "But I'll do my best."

  "Thanks! You're both the greatest!" Charlie grabbed Runner Bean's collar and led him out of the cafe.

  When they reached Filbert Street, Charlie was reluctant to go straight to number twelve. Benjamin's parents were behaving so strangely, he wondered if he would be welcome there. "But you are Ben's dog," Charlie said to Runner Bean, "so, perhaps, you'd better go home."

  The big dog's excited bark clinched the matter.

  Mrs. Brown opened the door to Charlie. "Charlie, how wonderful. You've found Benjamin's dog." She was all smiles.

  Charlie couldn't understand it. One minute Mrs. Brown was ignoring him, the next she was welcoming him into her house as if he were the best thing to arrive since cell phones were invented. "Benjamin, it's Runner Bean!" she called up the stairs.

  "What!" came an excited shriek.

  The next moment, Benjamin was half falling, half leaping down the stairs, while Runner Bean bounced up to meet him, howling with joy.

  "Charlie, did you find him? Where was he? Oh, thanks, Charlie. Thanks, thanks, thanks! You're the best!"

  Dog and boy rolled down to the hall where Charlie stood, not quite knowing what to say.

  "Where did you find him?" Benjamin begged.

  "Oh, just in the street," Charlie said awkwardly. "He was probably on his way here."

  "In the street?" Mrs. Brown's gray eyes narrowed. "Are you sure?"

  "Of course." Charlie didn't like the way Benjamin's mother was eyeing him.

  "And what about the others? I've heard no birds. I've seen no dogs in the street."

  Mrs. Brown looked so suspicious Charlie felt like backing right out the front door. But the next minute he found himself saying, "I don't know anything about the others. I found Runner Bean, and I brought him back. If that's not good enough for you, well, too bad!" He turned to the door.

  "Charlie," cried Benjamin, grabbing his arm. "Of course it's good enough. Come upstairs with Billy and me."

  "Yes, come on," called Billy from the top of the stairs.

  Mrs. Brown's mouth formed a tight little line and, without another word, she marched into the kitchen.

  Charlie kicked off his boots and ran upstairs. As soon as he was safely inside Benjamin's overheated room he flung off his heavy jacket and burst out, "Ben, what is it with your mom? Did you know that she was working at Bloor's, and your dad?"

  Benjamin looked uncomfortable. "Billy told me, but I swear I didn't know before. When I asked Mom about it she just said it was a job, like any other."

  "But they're detectives, Ben," said Charlie. "They must be investigating something."

  "Yes, they must," said Billy.

  "Well, I did overhear them say something," Benjamin admitted.

  "What? What?" Charlie bounced down on the bed between Benjamin and Billy.

  Rembrandt, who had been snoozing in Benjamin's slipper, woke with a start and scuttled under the bed, while Runner Bean, delighted that the rat had decided to play, squeezed in after him, barking with joy.

  "Leave it!" Billy shouted desperately. "If you hurt my rat, I'll kill you, mangy dog."

  "Billy!" said Benjamin in a shocked voic
e.

  Before an argument could develop, and seeing that everything had gone quiet under the bed, Charlie said quickly, "So what did you hear, Ben?"

  "Well, I was outside their bedroom, so I didn't hear too well, but Mom said something about illusions. Billy told me they'd been appearing at Bloor's, so I went a bit closer and I heard Dad say he had an idea. He was on to them, he said. He knew who was doing it, but he just needed one more illusion to . . ."

  "The illusions!" Charlie leaped off the bed. "They're trying to find out who's doing it, the sneaky . . . He stopped, realizing what he'd said.

  "It's not Mom and Dad's fault," said Benjamin. "They're only doing it for the money."

  "Is it you, Charlie?" asked Billy. "It is, isn't it?"

  "No, it's not." Charlie shook his head. "I can't create illusions."

  "But you know who it is, don't you?" pressed Benjamin.

  "No," said Charlie.

  "You wouldn't tell us even if you did know who it was," said Billy.

  Charlie glanced at Billy. "No, I wouldn't."

  "I don't blame you," Billy said, a little sadly.

  Runner Bean was snoring under the bed and Rembrandt, seizing his chance, was on the move again. He appeared, close to Charlie's foot, and he was chewing something.

  "What's he got?" asked Benjamin.

  "Look's like a photo," said Billy.

  "PHOTO?" Charlie grabbed the rat. "No, no. It is -it's my photo. My only chance."

  Rembrandt, surprised by the look in Charlie's eye, opened his mouth, and the little square of paper fluttered to the floor. Charlie plonked the rat on Billy's lap and scooped up the photograph. Luckily, only one corner had been chewed. Bartholomew was right. It wasn't a good shot. A cloud of snow almost obscured the lonely figure in the foreground.

  "I forgot about it." Charlie hugged the photo to his chest. "How could I? He put it in my pocket, and when I took my coat off, it must have slipped out."

  "Who put it in your pocket?" asked Benjamin.

  "What?" Caught off guard, Charlie mumbled, "Oh, no one, really. I mean, I put it there."

  Benjamin stared at him. "You're being a bit secretive, these days," he said. "We are your friends, aren't we?"

  Before Charlie could answer, Rembrandt and Runner Bean were at it again. The rat leaped onto a shelf, and Runner Bean, barking wildly, was on his hind legs, sweeping his paw along the shelf. Books and toys came crashing down, and the next minute, the door was flung open, and an angry Mrs. Brown stood on the threshold.

  "Benjamin!" shouted his mother. "Can't you control that dog? Your father and I are trying to write up our reports and our vocabularies are all over the place."

  Benjamin blinked. "Do you mean dictionaries, Mom?" he asked.

  Mrs. Brown stamped her foot. "Take him out!" She stood back and pointed to the stairs. "Now!"

  Without another word, the three boys put on their coats and went downstairs to pull on their boots. Billy tucked Rembrandt into his pocket, and Benjamin put Runner Bean on his leash. Then they all went out into the frosty air.

  A smart-looking van pulled away from the opposite curb as the boys emerged, but Charlie thought nothing of it at the time. He told the others he couldn't come to the park because he had something urgent to attend to, and with resigned shrugs, his friends accepted that Charlie's problems were more important than a game in the park.

  A low buzz of excitement came from the kitchen of number nine. In spite of his impatience to study Bartholomew's photo, Charlie was drawn toward it. He found his family gathered around a large basket of food on the kitchen table. Grandma Bone was sitting by the stove, with her back to them.

  "Look, Charlie, Paton's food delivery!" said Maisie in a tone that was almost reverent. "It arrived five minutes ago."

  The lid had been opened, and displayed within was a large bottle of champagne, surrounded by a great many packages of exotically labeled food.

  "There's a note," said Amy, reaching between a glittering bag of nuts and a jar of glace fruits. She pulled out a gold-edged card and handed it to Uncle Paton.

  "Rather florid handwriting," Paton remarked, examining the card.

  Set within a border of glittering golden feathers were the words:

  Dear Mr. Yewbeam,

  An unluckie deathe delayed your Friday Festival. I hope thiscaused you nodistresse. Hereisfare to gladden heartsandsetalle to rite.

  "Terrible spelling," Charlie observed. "I could do better than that in my second year."

  "Aren't we the cleversticks?" said Grandma Bone, without bothering even to look over her shoulder.

  "Oh, look, king prawns!" said Maisie. "They're still frozen. Shall I put them in the freezer, Paton?"

  "Mmm." Uncle Paton licked his lips. "Leave them to defrost. I'll have them for lunch."

  The basket had arrived at just the right moment for Charlie. While Maisie and his mother were still exclaiming over every carefully wrapped morsel, he crept up to his room, relieved that no one had asked where he had been all morning.

  As soon as he had closed his door, he took out the photograph and sat on his bed. He saw a man standing, half turned toward the camera. In spite of the snow that speckled the foreground, Charlie could tell that it was Bartholomew. He was wearing a woolen hat, a padded jacket, and long-laced boots.

  Charlie brought the photo closer to his face. The white moth flew across the room and settled on his arm.

  "My father took this photo," Charlie told the moth. "He was right there, looking through the viewfinder at Bartholomew Bloor, and 'click, catching him forever, just like that. So if I go in and turn around to look at the camera, I'll see him, won't I? What do you think?"

  The moth moved protectively onto his wrist and Charlie smiled at the soft touch of her feet. He was so tense with excitement, his hand began to tremble and the moth moved again, until her shining wings fluttered at the tip of Charlie's forefinger.

  "It'll be all right, won't it?" Charlie could already hear the crunch of snow and someone breathing, steadily, into his ear. He always relished the moment when, just after the sounds reached him, he found himself floating into a picture.

  "Here goes," he said. His body became weightless and he was engulfed in the thick fog of time. Now began the slow whirling tumble toward Bartholomew's solitary figure - and the man behind the camera.

  Laughter. Laughter that was both merry and gentle. Did he recognize the voice? Charlie could hear Bartholomew's gusty chuckles, but the laughter came from another voice.

  "Give it up, Lyell. The snow's too thick."

  No answer.

  "You'll drop the camera. Put on your gloves. Your hands will freeze."

  No answer. Only the soft laughter.

  Charlie wondered if Bartholomew could see his face in the thick mist of snow. When he "traveled" only his face could be seen by the people he "visited," and this could be a little unnerving.

  A bitter wind blew the snow into Charlie's eyes. He tried to rub them but his hands were numb with cold. "Bartholomew!" he called.

  Bartholomew couldn't hear him. The explorer swung away, calling, "Come on, Lyell. You've got your picture."

  Now was the time for Charlie to turn. Now, surely, he would see the man behind the camera.

  He turned.

  He saw a man in a fur-lined hood. His chin was tucked into the padded collar of his jacket, and the rest of his face was obscured by the camera.

  "Lyell!" called Bartholomew. "The light's going. We must get back."

  Again the soft laughter and then, "I'm coming."

  Whose voice was that? Did Charlie recognize it? The camera was lowered and tucked into a pocket. The hood fell over the man's eyes. He pulled on a pair of gloves, keeping his head lowered.

  "Dad!" called Charlie. "Dad!"

  The man walked forward. He walked right past Charlie, his head bent against the driving snow.

  "Dad!" Charlie reached out a hand and caught a handful of ice.

  The man raised his face to the sk
y, as though he'd heard a voice in the turbulent air. His hood fell back, but Charlie saw only a blur, like a face behind frosted glass. And then it was swallowed in snow.

  "Wait!" cried Charlie. When he opened his mouth, tiny particles of ice slipped out. They fell onto the snow with a sinister tinkle. Charlie's chest felt as though it were stuffed with knives. "Where am I going to go?" he croaked.

  Back to where you came from, said the voice of reason, but Charlie's brain was so befuddled with cold he couldn't think how to get there.

  I'm going to die of cold, he thought. But they say it's a niceway to go. He closed his eyes. It was peaceful in the dark. Soon he would be asleep.

  Something bit Charlie's hand. He tried to drag it away, but the something clung on. Now it was stinging his fingers, crawling over his face, tugging his hair, nipping his chin.

  "Let me sleep," moaned Charlie. The cold enveloped him in such a comforting blanket.

  Come back! The whisper seemed to be made of fine silk, soft and utterly compelling. Charlie felt himself lifted. He rolled through the air, getting warmer and warmer. Warmer, warmer, until . . . He opened his eyes.

  He was lying on his bed. The moth hovered above him, its wings a brighter silver than ever before.

  "You did that," Charlie said incredulously. "You brought me back."

  The moth settled on his hand. It had no voice and yet a link in their understanding enabled Charlie to hear an answer.

  I did.

  Charlie sat up. "So if you're with me when I travel, I'll always be able to get back?"

  To this there was no answer because a scream rose through the house, a scream of such anguish and terror Charlie felt that it had stopped his heart.

  It was his mother's voice.

  FROZEN MAISIE

  Charlie leaped down the stairs, stumbling, tumbling, tripping, and bouncing. The Flames' warning rang in his ears: Watch your mother. He hadn't watched. He had thought her safe inside the house. And how could he watch her everywhere?

  It was Amy's scream, but it was Maisie who was in trouble. When Charlie burst into the kitchen, the first thing he saw was Maisie, standing very still in the center of the room. She was facing the door and seemed to be staring straight at Charlie. Her mouth hung open and there was a look of astonishment on her face. Amy and Uncle Paton stood on either side of her. Amy's hands were clasped but Uncle Paton held his out in front of him, as though he didn't quite know where to put them.