by Jenny Nimmo
It cast a gray wash over the cobblestones beyond reach of the single streetlight. Here and there a light could be seen in one of the windows; the Cathedral Close citizens were waking up, but if the inhabitants of Piminy Street were awake, they showed no sign of it.
"Here we are, my dear," whispered Mrs. Kettle.
They had reached an ivy-covered wall where a wooden door stood half open to the alley.
"Well, I'll be... They haven't even bothered to close it," the blacksmith remarked in a low voice. "I won't need the pliers after all. Come on, Charlie."
There were only a few feet between the wall and the back of the chapel. Charlie couldn't see a door. High above him an arched window had been boarded with several sturdy planks. He wondered how they would reach it.
"Around the side." Mrs. Kettle pulled Charlie's sleeve and he followed her around the side of the building.
Treading softly down the graveled path, they came to a freshly painted green door. A large padlock hung beneath the door handle.
"This is going to be easier than I thought," said Mrs. Kettle. Kneeling beside the door, she took from her tool bag a metal ring holding several slim iron rods. Inserting one of the rods into the padlock, she twisted it once, twice, three times. A sparkling blue mist flew out, and with a gentle click, the padlock sprang open.
"Now for the next one." Mrs. Kettle tapped the keyhole beside the door handle. This called for a slightly larger rod. The blacksmith turned it twice in the lock. This time the dust was pink and the opening click more of a groan. Mrs. Kettle stood up and turned the handle. The door swung inward and Charlie found himself standing on the threshold of an ivy-clad stage.
"There!" Mrs. Kettle pointed to a large canvas standing against the far wall of the stage.
Charlie found he couldn't move.
"Go on, Charlie," urged his friend. "You haven't much time. It's getting light."
"I can't," he muttered hoarsely. "There's something in there. Something stopping me."
"Wickedness," said Mrs. Kettle in a matter-of-fact voice. "People like that are bound to leave their thoughts around so folks like us can't breathe the air that they have used. But you can do it, Charlie. You've got Mathonwy's wand. She'll see you through."
The moth was already out of Charlie's pocket and fluttering around his head, as though she knew that the time for help had come.
Charlie walked slowly across the stage. He put down the basket and turned the painting around to face him. Once again he experienced the dizzying effect of looking upon such a dreadful world.
"The boa, Charlie!" Mrs. Kettle called softly. Her large figure, almost filling the doorway, gave Charlie an immediate surge of courage and he opened the basket. The blue boa slid out and waved its feathery head in the air.
"Claerwen, tell the boa I want to be invisible," said Charlie. "Anweledig," he added, remembering to use the Welsh. "And you'd better tell him to become invisible himself. Boa anweledig."
The moth settled among the boa's feathers. It was an odd sight. Was she talking to him in her own magical language? It seemed to have worked, for the snake regarded Charlie in a questioning way and then ducked its head and started to coil itself around his feet. Bit by bit, Charlie's feet, in their gray sneakers, began to disappear.
"Good-bye, Mrs. Kettle!" Charlie called.
"Good luck, Charlie," she replied, in a voice that was already sounding distant.
It was an odd sensation, seeing himself disappear, and yet not unpleasant. The snake's embrace was cool and firm, and Charlie thought of it as a kind of friendly hug. When he felt himself to be completely invisible, he gazed at the painting, waiting for the wind that had previously come howling out of it.
Nothing happened. Not a whisper. Not a breath. Charlie was not wanted in Badlock. Was the shadow even aware of him, standing there, at the very edge of his own time?
"Claerwen, let us enter," Charlie whispered. Then, using the Welsh, "Dwi isie mynd mewn."
The white moth flew across the painting. She flew over the towers and mountains, over rock and scrub and stony plain. She flew across the lowering sky and her wings moved so fast Charlie lost sight of her shape; all he could see was a blur of glittering silver, and he had to rub his eyes against the brightness. He could feel the boa, heavy on his shoulders, and something sliding beneath his feet.
When he opened his eyes, he was traveling very fast through a forest of naked trees, their branches burdened with frozen snow. And then came the wind.
CHAPTER 18
A TIGER WITHOUT A HEART
It was only at night that Billy heard the giant. He had questioned Dorgo, but the servant would only shake his head regretfully and say, "Giant prisoner long time. He here now for punishment. But he make no noise." The little man placed his hands over his woolen hat, where Billy guessed his ears might be, and added, "I not hear."
Billy asked Matilda about the giant. She looked puzzled. "I've heard of a giant," she said, "but he lives in a tower across the plain. He is not a true giant; he is just a very tall man."
"Dorgo knows that he was brought to the palace," said Billy. "Can't you hear him, Matilda? His voice is so low and sad?"
"No." Matilda stared at Billy for a moment. "Perhaps you can hear him because he is from your world, or perhaps" - she frowned thoughtfully - "perhaps it is because of your power, Billy. If you can hear and understand the voices of tiny creatures, you can hear words that cannot reach people like me."
"Do you think the enchanter can hear him?" Billy asked.
"Without a doubt," she said.
They were in Billy's room, playing with some of the toys the enchanter had devised for them: miniature knights with miniature horses that moved at the press of a button, set into a small wooden box. The horses had tiny silver shoes nailed to their ivory hooves, and the sound of their galloping on the wooden floor always made Matilda laugh.
The two children now went everywhere together. Billy had never liked anyone as much as Matilda, except maybe Charlie. But Charlie hadn't come to rescue him. Matilda was kind and generous. When she listened to Billy's stories of life at Bloor's Academy, she always wore an anxious frown, and at the end of the stories she would say, "You have no home in the future, Billy. This is your home for always now."
And Billy would agree. It was only when he heard the giant's melancholy voice, drifting up through the darkened building, that Billy would have a moment of doubt. He didn't belong here, in this palace of enchanted food and magical toys, out of his time.
On the fourth night, the giant's voice was so insistent, Billy got out of bed and tiptoed to the door. He looked into the hall. Dorgo appeared to be fast asleep. He was snoring loudly. Leaving the door ajar, Billy crept past the slumped figure and ran to the stairway. Nothing stirred; the giant's voice was the only sound. Billy padded softly down the smooth twisting stairs. When he reached the bottom, he listened intently, trying to guess where the voice was coming from. And now the giant's words reached him clearly. "Amoret! Amoret!" He was calling to his wife.
Something caused Billy to turn. The fires were out in the hallway of furs. But in the cool light of the false stars pinned to the ceiling, he could make out the dreadful heads with their glistening eyes. There was a sudden bright flash, and Billy leaped with terror.
The enchanter stood at the far end of the hallway. He was dressed in such glittering magnificence Billy could hardly bear to look at him. He wore a golden cloak embroidered with silver, and his long green robe was encrusted with diamonds. A brilliant sunburst sat atop his gold-flecked hair and the head of his ebony wand was a star of mirrored glass.
Billy tried to look away from the shining figure, but he couldn't avoid the gaze of the ivy-green eyes. They willed Billy forward, over the carpet of furs, closer and closer to the enchanter.
Without a word, the enchanter suddenly turned into an open doorway. Billy followed, but the bright figure had vanished, and Billy found that he was alone in a forest. "In a palace?" he asked himself.
"A forest in a palace?" He followed a path through trees with unusual rubbery leaves, and then he was in a moonlit glade. If the moon beaming down at him was false, then it was artfully made, for Billy could see the rifts and valleys of the same moon that he saw from windows in the real world.
A bear walked into the glade; a black bear, on all fours. "A bear?" Billy whispered. "But there are no animals in Badlock." And then before he knew it, a tiger brushed past him, so close he could feel its warm breath. The glade was suddenly full of sound, and looking up into the trees, Billy could see monkeys playing in the branches, bright birds flying through the leaves, and a gleaming snake coiled around the trunk.
A herd of deer wandered into the glade. They began to crop the grass quite close to where the bear sat idly licking his paws. The tiger crouched beside Billy. Very slowly, he put out his hand and touched the striped head. The tiger began to purr. It was a warm, comforting sound and reminded Billy of the three Flames. He spoke to the tiger, using a language he hoped the animal would understand. The tiger didn't reply. It continued to purr, but its purr made no sense.
Billy tried to talk to the bear, but the animal didn't respond. He spoke to the deer, the monkeys, the snake, and even the birds. They didn't understand him. Had he lost his endowment? Had the enchanter stolen it away?
"They have no hearts," said a voice. "They'll never speak to you." Rembrandt was peeking out of Billy's pocket. "I'll admit he's done a fine job," said the rat, "but it's quite obvious that they're just enchantments."
"Really?" Billy wondered if the enchanter could see him. "But they're warm and the tiger purrs, and the birds sing so beautifully."
"Don't be disappointed," said Rembrandt, "at least they won't eat you."
Billy walked farther into the glade. A gorilla lumbered out of the bushes, scratched itself, and plunged back into the undergrowth. Billy followed it and saw an elephant moving through the distant trees.
"I've always wanted to see an elephant," breathed Billy.
"It isn't real. Let's go to bed," said Rembrandt.
Billy yawned. He felt very tired. But when he turned to leave the forest, he couldn't see the path that had brought him to the enchanted glade. As he stared at the undergrowth, a line of bushes began to sway, as though a large creature were moving through them. Suddenly, Dorgo's head popped up through the sea of leaves.
"Master lost," said the little servant. "Bed this way."
Leaping toward Dorgo, Billy found that the path was still there, under the thick springy leaves. He was now so tired all he could think of was his cozy bed.
When they climbed the marble stairway, the giant's voice was lost in the patter of their feet, and by the time Billy fell asleep, he had forgotten all about it.
The next morning Billy could think of nothing but the forest of enchanted animals. He wanted Matilda to see them and hoped that another spell wouldn't cause them to disappear. He didn't have to worry.
Matilda was delighted. She danced around among the animals, stroking their heads and listening to their chattering, singing, and purring. "How clever he is," she cried. "Oh, Billy, the enchanter never did anything like this for me or Edgar. My brother is already jealous of you. Wait till he sees this forest."
"Perhaps it wasn't meant for me," said Billy. "Perhaps it was meant for all of us."
"No, no. The count wanted to please you especially. He wants to keep you here."
Two days ago this would have worried Billy. Now he felt almost pleased. He wished that Lilith and Edgar wouldn't look at him with such resentment, though.
"Why is your brother jealous of me?" he asked.
Matilda blushed. "I said that I liked your white hair and berry-colored eyes, and the count told me I had excellent taste. Edgar was listening and he walked away, looking sulky."
It was a new sensation for Billy, being admired for his albino coloring. He grinned with pleasure.
Edgar refused to visit the enchanted glade. At dinner he complained that animals were dirty and dangerous.
"Not these animals, Edgar," said the count. "These are special. How do you like them, Billy?"
Billy answered that he liked them very much. Lilith threw him a pitying look and Edgar scowled.
Matilda had advised Billy what sort of food to ask for, and he now looked forward to every meal. At the end of one of the lavish dinners, Billy made a puzzling discovery. The candles on the table were burning low, and as everyone rose to leave the room, their long shadows moved across the walls.
The count was washing his hands in a bowl held by the tall servant. The servant's lofty shadow could clearly be seen on the tapestry behind the count, but where the count's shadow should have been, there was nothing. No shadow shook its fingers and wiped its hands, even though the bowl of water and the shadow droplets were visible on the lush colors of the tapestry.
"It is part of his enchantment," Billy told himself.
Every day Billy and Matilda would play in the forest, and Billy would listen to the false songs of the multicolored birds; he would enjoy stroking the tiger that purred but had no heart, and he would watch the monkeys playing in trees that had no names. At night he slept soundly and never heard the giant's voice. But Rembrandt, sitting alert at the foot of Billy's bed, would listen to the giant calling, "Amoret, oh, Amoret."
The black rat knew that Billy was falling under a spell: a spell that was all the stronger for being so delicately done. He tried to remind Billy of the other world where they belonged. But Billy wouldn't listen. "This is our home now," he told the rat.
One day Matilda took Billy exploring. While everyone thought they were with the animals, she led him along an unfamiliar hall, down a flight of steps, and on through rooms full of musical instruments, marvelous costumes, and sumptuous oriental furnishings. Now and again, Matilda would look at the walls and the ceiling and whisper, "I used to think that the count could see everything, but there are days when he is occupied with magic and not so vigilant. Today is one of those days."
They came at last to a room full of paintings. There were rolls of cloth lying at one end of a long table; at the other end stood several boxes of colored powder. Brushes of every size and shape were scattered in groups about the floor, and paintings stood against the walls. Most showed landscapes or astounding cities with golden domes and pointed turrets, and then Billy saw a city he recognized and his heart gave a lurch.
"There's where I come from," he said.
Matilda clapped her hands. "I thought so." She looked around the room and lowered her voice. "My grandfather talks to it. One day I came down here and I heard voices. The count was standing close to that painting and listening. There was a woman's voice in the room, but I could see no one, so I knew her voice must be coming from your city. I believe she is the count's descendant." Matilda grinned. "Maybe she is my descendant, also. If not mine, then Edgar's."
Billy didn't find this funny. "Her name's Mrs. Tilpin, and she's a witch," he said.
"Oh!" Matilda's smile vanished. She sat on a bench and drew Billy down beside her. "I will tell you about the count," she said. "I know he is trying to get into your city; he makes no secret of it. There is a mirror that he can use for travel. He hid it in the grounds of the Red King's castle, and the woman now has it, but it is broken and she cannot help him to journey into the future."
"He's already halfway there," said Billy. "He's a shadow in the Red King's portrait and my friend Charlie says that's how he got into our world before, through his shadow."
"Ah, the shadow!" Matilda lowered her voice until it was almost a whisper. "He is monstrously clever, my grandfather. He cut himself away from his shadow and now it can travel while he stays at home, growing old. His shadow will live forever, he says."
Billy stared at her. "The count has no shadow. Of course, I noticed it. I thought it was just part of his enchantment."
"It is," said Matilda.
They left the room of paintings and began to make their way back to the dining hall. As t
hey passed the marble stairway, Billy stopped and looked up. He could hear footsteps coming down the stairs. But no one was there. The footsteps came closer.
"What is it?" asked Matilda.
"I don't..."
Before Billy could finish his sentence a feathered blue snake's head appeared in midair. It swayed toward Billy, bringing its long scaly body behind it.
Matilda screamed and leaped away.
"Sorry," said a voice.
"Charlie?" Billy gaped at the snake that was lying several feet above the stairs.
"Yes, it's me," said Charlie. "I got Solomon to make me invisible. He was invisible too, but I suppose he was so pleased to see you, he forgot himself. I'll put him down."
The boa rocked gently to the floor where it curled itself into a neat bundle. "Hello, Billy," it hissed.
"Hi!" Billy replied in a puzzled tone. "Good to see you, Solomon." He tried to focus on the space above the boa, where he imagined Charlie's face to be. "I thought you'd come sooner. What kept you so long, Charlie?"
"You've no idea," sighed Charlie. "I tried, tried, and tried. And then they took the painting away. It's a long story, but here I am, so are you ready?"
Billy gazed into space. "I..."
Rembrandt poked his head out of Billy's golden pouch and politely asked after the boa's health.
"I'm doing well," hissed the snake. "How about you?"
"Could be better," squeaked the rat.
Billy put his hands over his ears. "I can't think with all that chattering going on."
"Billy's not going back with you," said Matilda, coming to Billy's side.
"Of course he is," said Charlie, rather taken aback by the appearance of a pretty girl all in yellow. "Who are you, anyway?"
"She's my friend, Charlie, and she's right. I'm sorry, but I'm staying here." Billy began to walk down the hallway of heads and furs with Matilda several paces behind him.
"You have to come," Charlie called.
Matilda looked over her shoulder. "Shhh!" She put a finger to her lips. "Come with us. It's not safe here."
