Charlie Bone and the Time Twister

by Jenny Nimmo

  "Who's that?" she whispered.

  "Me," said Dorcas. "I was just shutting the window It was freezing in here. Where've you been?" Dorcas was one of the endowed but Olivia had never seen any evidence of a magical talent.

  "I've been to the bathroom." said Olivia.

  "Did you see Emma? She's gone, too."

  " Er — yes," said Olivia.

  "Night then." Dorcas closed the curtains and got into bed.

  For several minutes Olivia sat in the dark wondering about the window. Who had opened it? And where was Emma? They said Emma could fly. Was it possible that she and the bird in the ruin were one and the same? If it were true, then Emma would need a way to come back.

  When she was sure Dorcas was asleep, Olivia tiptoed out of the dormitory and opened one of the windows in the corridor.

  "Good luck, Emma!" she murmured.

  The next morning, Olivia could barely keep her eyes open. Emma looked exhausted, too. The girls went down to breakfast together. They caught up with Charlie and Fidelio, just as they were going into the dining hall.

  "You two look as if you've been awake all night," said Charlie.

  "We have," said Olivia, grinning at Emma. "Tell you about it later."

  In the first break the two girls found Charlie and Fidelio sitting on a pile of logs outside the ruin.

  "What's the news, then?" asked Charlie.

  Olivia told them about her adventure. Charlie looked at Emma. "The tollroc came to life, then?" he said.

  "Of course," said Emma.

  At that moment, Gabriel came running up. "Have you heard?" he cried, dropping on to a log. "Beth and Zelda were found wandering on the Heights in their pajamas. They're in a state of shock and can't remember how they got there."

  "We know;" said Olivia.

  When she told Gabriel about the tollroc, he stared at Emma in disbelief.

  "You don't eat gerbils, do you?" he asked gravely.

  Emma shook her head and everybody laughed. But as the laughter died, a chilly draft crept down Charlie's neck and he thought of Henry.

  "I can't wait until the weekend," he said. "Tonight. I may need your help."

  Fidelio stared at Charlie. "You mean . . .?"

  "I'm going to visit Skarpo."

  CHAPTER 15

  THE WAND

  Charlie decided to use the art room for his visit to the sorcerer. The painting of Skarpo wouldn't look out of place among the other pieces of artwork, and if anyone caught him, he could say Emma had asked him to look at her sketches.

  As soon as homework was over, he began to make his way up to the dormitory.

  "What's the hurry Charlie Bone?" asked a voice behind him.

  Charlie turned to see Manfred strolling toward him.

  "No hurry," said Charlie as casually as he could.

  "I want a word with you," said Manfred.

  "Now?"

  "Yes. Now." Manfred came up to Charlie and stared at him.

  Charlie looked away quickly He couldn't afford to be hypnotized when he was so close to rescuing Henry.

  "Look at me!" Manfred demanded.

  "I don't want to," said Charlie. “Anyway you know I can play your mind games."

  " Hm." Manfred stroked his chin, where a few wispy hairs were beginning to sprout.

  "You've got a fine beard coming in, Manfred," said Charlie.

  Manfred couldn't decide if Charlie was being rude or flattering him. “All right. You can go now. But try and keep out of trouble."

  "Yes, Manfred." Charlie hurried away.

  Why had Manfred stopped him? It was almost as if he were trying to slow him down.

  As Charlie walked into the dormitory Billy Raven turned quickly from Charlie's bedside closet. He was holding the painting of Skarpo.

  "What do you think you're doing?" said Charlie angrily.

  "I was looking for something of mine," said Billy innocently. "I thought it might have got into your closet by accident. So I looked, and this fell out."

  "It couldn't have. It was right at the back. You've been spying."

  "Why are you always so suspicious?" said Billy resentfully "I'm telling the truth."

  "Give it to me!" Charlie demanded.

  "OK. OK." As Billy handed the painting to Charlie he pointed to a dagger lying on Skarpo's table. "Look at that dagger. It's so bright. I bet it was as sharp as anything. I bet it killed a few people."

  "I bet," said Charlie, grabbing the painting. "Just leave my stuff alone in the future."

  "Sorry Charlie." Billy smiled. "I didn't mean to be nosy."

  Charlie hurried out of the dormitory. He waited for a few seconds to make sure Billy wouldn't follow him, and then he ran down the passage that led to the art room.

  He was surprised to find his friends already waiting for him. Even Lysander had turned up.

  "Gabriel told me what you're going to do," he said. "I'll stand by the door in case anyone tries to come in while you're . . . out of action."

  "Thanks, Lysander," said Charlie.

  They chose an empty space behind one of Mr. Boldova's large canvases. Charlie sat on the floor with the painting in front of him. Olivia and Emma knelt on either side of him, while Gabriel and Fidelio perched on a bench in front of him.

  All at once, Charlie began to have doubts. He'd never done this before. How would he get out of the painting? He hadn't really thought it through. But somehow it was too late to stop.

  Charlie took a deep breath. "OK. I'm going in."

  "Hold on, Charlie," said Gabriel. "Just so we know — are you going to bring that weird-looking person into this room?"

  " Skarpo? No, I hope not. I'm just going to ask his advice. Maybe I'll borrow something." Charlie was already beginning to feel dizzy "I don't . . .," he began, and then Skarpo looked at him, and he could hear the swish of the sorcerer's robes and the squeak of chalk on stone.

  "Enter," said a voice.

  Charlie's friends began to fade. A white mist drifted around him, obscuring everything except the sorcerer's bony face with its strange golden yellow eyes.

  When the mist cleared, Charlie found himself in a chilly candlelit room. He could smell burning candle grease, pine, spices, and ancient decaying things. The sorcerer's possessions were no longer merely painting objects. Now they were real; pages were rough and ink-stained, feathers were delicate, and velvet smooth, the earthenware bowls were pitted and chipped, and belts and straps had a worn, shiny look.

  Charlie's eyes fell on the dagger. It was lying in front of a large open book, right at the edge of the long table. Candlelight made it gleam with life. The blade was so thin it was just a shaft of brilliant light.

  "What is it you want, child?"

  Charlie jumped. He'd forgotten that the sorcerer could see him, too.

  "You know what that weapon is? It's magic, boy.” The sorcerer's magnetic eyes glittered.

  "You can see me," breathed Charlie.

  "I can see your face. You've been peeping at me for days, you rascal." The sorcerer's voice had a lilt to it, but it was definitely not Welsh.

  "I've come to ask for your help," Charlie said nervously.

  "Is that so?" Skarpo smiled grimly "Then it's the dagger you'll be after. It can pierce a heart and leave no mark at all. Not even a pinprick."

  "I don't want to kill anyone," said Charlie.

  Skarpo ignored this. "A mere touch and they're gone," he persisted.

  Billy Raven had drawn Charlie's attention to the dagger. But Billy was no friend of Henry's and the dagger was the last thing Charlie would choose.

  "I don't want the dagger," he said. "I want to rescue a friend."

  "Someone wants it," muttered the sorcerer. "Someone wants it very much. They've been trying to reach it but they're not — how can I put it? They're not accomplished magicians."

  Ezekiel Bloor, thought Charlie. He scanned the table. What could be used to get Henry out of his dungeon? How could he possibly know what to choose? Skarpo was being deliberately unh
elpful.

  "Herbs?" the sorcerer suggested. "A poisonous potion?"

  "No, thank you."

  "Slip one of these fine feathers into your enemy's boot, and he'll be lame for a year." Skarpo gave a malicious chuckle.

  "I don't want to make anyone lame." Charlie was beginning to lose heart. "I just want to rescue someone."

  "Rescue? Rescuing is no concern of mine. Destruction is more to my liking. If you want someone maimed, or fatally wounded, poisoned, burned, vanished, shrunk, driven mad . . .?"

  "All those things sound very useful." Charlie thought he ought to be polite, just to keep Skarpo on his side.

  "But right now I just need something that will move a rock."

  It was then that he saw the wand. It had to be a wand, for it couldn't be anything else. A slim white stick lay behind one of the huge books. It was about half a meter long with a pointed silver tip. Charlie picked it up.

  "You can't have that," said Skarpo sharply "It doesn’t belong to me."

  "Whose is it, then?" asked Charlie. The wand was cool and smooth, and it seemed to fit into his hand as if it belonged there.

  "I stole it," said Skarpo. "It belonged to a Welsh wizard. It'll be of no use to you at all."

  "But I think it will," said Charlie excitedly "I think it's just what I need."

  "NO!" Skarpo made a grab for the wand.

  Charlie ran around the table. "I'll bring it back. Honest."

  "Give it to me this instant," roared Skarpo. "Or I'll turn you into a toad."

  "No, I need it." Charlie ducked away from the sorcerer's long arm.

  "Villain. Thief You've asked for it!" Skarpo picked up a spear and swung it at Charlie's head. Paper, feathers, and herbs went fluttering off the table.

  Charlie rushed for a low door at the back of the room. He twisted the handle but it was stuck fast. As he bobbed out of Skarpo's reach again, he closed his eyes and thought of his friends in the art room. "I want to be there — NOW!" he said aloud.

  It didn't work. He was still in the sorcerer's cell. Skarpo was chanting now as he raised the spear, ready to hurl at Charlie. "Vile, creeping wretch, I'll burn your heart out," he cried.

  Charlie cowered against the wall. There was no escape. Benjamin had warned him about this. Why hadn't he listened? "Help," he moaned.

  The tip of the spear glowed like a red-hot poker, then suddenly burst into flames. As it flew toward him, Charlie bent his head and wrapped his cape around the wand.

  The flaming spear never reached him. When Charlie looked up he saw two hands catch the spear and fling it back at the sorcerer. The hands were brown with shining gold bracelets at the wrists; beyond the bracelets there was nothing, no sign of a body at all.

  The spear struck the wall and then fell at Skarpo’s feet. He screamed as the flames caught the hem of his long robe. Charlie didn't see what happened next because invisible arms tightened around him and tugged him away Back, back through the wreaths of smoke that were filling the room.

  "CHARLIE, COME BACK!"

  Charlie blinked. His eyes were still smarting from the fire, but the sorcerer's room looked small and faraway. He was looking at it, but he wasn't in it. The painting was held by two brown hands. The hands that had saved him. Charlie looked up into Lysander's anxious face.

  "You had us worried for a moment there, Charlie," said Lysander.

  "It was your hands," Charlie murmured. "You saved me."

  "Not me," said Lysander. "I had to call on my spirit ancestors. Good to have you back, Charlie."

  "What happened — out here?" asked Charlie.

  "It was amazing." Olivia poked her head in front of him. "You were rocking about and shouting, and we kept saying, 'Wake up, Charlie! Come out!'"

  "But you wouldn't." Fidelio peered over Olivia. "So Lysander used his African language to call his ancestors. And then, all of a sudden, you stopped moving and something appeared in your hands. Just like that. Look!"

  Charlie found that he was still holding the wand. It lay across his knees, smooth and pale, its silver tip glittering in the bright lights of the art room.

  "What is it?" asked Emma.

  “A wand," said Gabriel. "I bet it's a wand."

  Charlie nodded. " Skarpo didn't want me to have it. He stole it from a Welsh wizard. I know what I've got to do now! I'll have to use one of the words in my uncle's book."

  "You haven't got long, Charlie," said Olivia. "They’re moving Henry on Sunday and then we'll never find him."

  "How are we going to get into the ruin?" Fidelio asked with a sigh. "They're watching us like hawks."

  "If only Tancred would come back," Lysander murmured sadly “A storm would be a good distraction."

  “A storm would be great, but we can't wait for Tancred," said Charlie. "It'll have to be Saturday when we can get help from outside." He stood up and tried to hide the wand in the sleeve of his cape, but it was too long and stuck out beyond his hand.

  "Give it to me," said Lysander. "My arms are longer."

  Charlie held out the wand and Lysander fit it neatly into his sleeve.

  "We'd better go now" said Emma. " Matron'll be on the warpath."

  Charlie hid the painting under his cape, and the six children filed out of the art room.

  As they walked back to their dormitories, Matron came rushing toward them, shouting, "Where have you children been? It was lights out five minutes ago."

  "Sorry Matron," Lysander said with a smile. "We were looking at Emma's work. And mine, actually"

  Matron had "detention" written all over her face. The children waited to hear their fates. If they were given detention on Saturday how could they possibly rescue Henry? Matron smiled triumphantly "You'll all . . .," she began.

  But a voice behind the little group said, "It's my fault, Matron. I gave them permission. In fact I told them to come to the art room. Blame it on the art teacher, eh?"

  Lucretia Yewbeam's smile of triumph faded as Mr. Boldova walked to the front of the group.

  "Sorry about this, Matron," said the art teacher. "I lost track of time." He turned back to the children. "You'd all better run off now. And thank you for your excellent criticisms."

  The six children scattered like dust as Mr. Boldova asked the matron's advice about a very bad bruise he'd received while playing rugby.

  "Good old Boldova," Gabriel whispered as the three boys crept into their dormitory.

  "Where've you lot been?" Billy demanded.

  "Wouldn't you like to know," said Charlie.

  CHAPTER 16

  TANCRED AND THE TREE

  At the top of the Thunder House, Tancred Torsson surveyed the wreck of his bedroom. He kicked a pile of shoes out of his way and sat on the bed, or what was left of it. The mattress lay on the other side of the room, and his covers were in a tangled heap under the fallen wardrobe.

  Tancred was wearing his pajama bottoms and his green cape. Most of his clothes were torn or stained with food. He was tired of being angry but he couldn't do anything about it. Little waves of fury kept spilling out of him, sending the air into a turmoil.

  Mrs. Torsson put her head around the door. "Are you coming down to supper, dear?" she asked nervously.

  "Do you trust me?" Tancred stared grimly at the floor.

  "Well, it's been a bit quieter today" said Mrs. Torsson.

  "Sorry about the headaches, Mom," said Tancred.

  "You can't help it, dear. I know."

  Tancred's mother scurried downstairs. There were days when she longed to live somewhere else, with a nice ordinary husband and a small, quiet son. But she loved her tempestuous family and, in spite of the headaches, she knew she could never be as happy with anyone else.

  Tancred followed his mother downstairs and took his place at the kitchen table. Mr. Torsson was already digging in to a large portion of shepherd's pie.

  Mrs. Torsson put a plastic plate in front of her son. She'd given up on china for the time being. "There," she said, spooning some pie onto Tancred's p
late.

  "It's about time you calmed down," Mr. Torsson told his son. "This stormy bout has gone on far too long."

  Tancred's paper cup blew over. Luckily it was empty. "I can't help it, Dad," he said. "I've tried, but I can't."

  "If you ask me, that hypnotizer's got something to do with it," boomed Mr. Torsson. "Manfred Bloor. He's put you into a real state, hasn't he?"

  "I don't want to talk about it," said Tancred as the hood of his cape suddenly blew over his head.

  "Control yourself," thundered Mr. Torsson.

  The light above the table swung violently from side to side.

  "See, you're not much better," Tancred remarked.

  "I can direct the violence," said Mr. Torsson. "What we have is a very useful talent, but talents have to be focused."

  "Yes, Dad." Tancred gritted his teeth, but the window behind him blew open with a loud clang. "Sorry," he mumbled.

  And then, through the window, a curious sound could be heard. It was hardly more than a whisper, but it had a strange effect on Tancred. He found that he was listening to music that was like no other music in the world. He stood up, straightened his cape, and carefully pushed back his chair.

  "What is it, Tancred?" asked Mrs. Torsson, surprised by his unusually calm behavior.

  "I have to go," Tancred said gently.

  "Where?" asked his father.

  "Out there!" Tancred pointed through the window at the dark trees in the woods. He strode past his startled parents and left the house before they had time to ask any more questions.

  The ragged moon threw a thin light through the trees, but Tancred didn't hesitate. He knew which way to go. Deep in the woods he found what he was looking for — the source of the haunting music.

  It was a tree.

  The tree was red. The leaves that covered its slender branches seemed to burn with an inner fire, and the glade where Tancred stood was lit by a golden glow. Deep lines scored the bark, where water dripped slowly down the trunk. Looking closer, Tancred saw that the water too was red; as red as blood.

  As he listened to the tree's hushed song, he felt a great stillness overwhelm him. His storms were there, deep inside, but Tancred knew he could control them. His strange talent had lost its grip on him.

  He left the tree but when he was almost out of the woods, he looked back. The fiery light was gone and the song had ended.