Charlie Bone and the Beast

by Jenny Nimmo

  “Are you sure it was Eric?”

  “Yes.” Emma answered Olivia’s question in a husky whisper. She was lying in bed with her eyes closed, wanting to sleep but knowing she wouldn’t be able to. Images of the moving stone man, the shining boy, and the fiery sword kept running through her mind. Closing her eyes against them was useless.

  “What on earth’s going on in Piminy Street?” said Olivia, rather too loudly in Emma’s opinion.

  “You heard what my aunt said. Even the great fire couldn’t destroy those old houses. So many magicians lived there.” Emma yawned. She felt exhausted.

  “Yes, but why have all these things started happening NOW?”

  Emma wished Olivia would give her a bit of peace. She didn’t want to think about what she had seen. “Maybe they’re always happening, but no one’s noticed.”

  A loud Hmmm! came from the other side of the room. “I don’t think so, Em. Something’s happened. Something to do with Charlie, probably.”

  “Why Charlie?”

  “Because his father’s turned up after ten years. That’s bound to upset things for some people, isn’t it?”

  “Why?” Emma asked sleepily.

  “I don’t actually know,” Olivia admitted. “It’s just a feeling.”

  Both girls gave themselves over to a bit of silent thinking for a while and then, miraculously, fell asleep.

  On Sunday morning, when Emma and Olivia went down to breakfast, they found Miss Ingledew, in a blue velvet bathrobe, entertaining Paton Yewbeam. He must have arrived while it was still dark. They were both drinking black coffee, and were obviously in the middle of a rather serious conversation.

  Miss Ingledew seemed flustered. She jumped up and began to get breakfast ready. Paton said, “Morning, girls,” in a distant kind of voice, while he watched Miss Ingledew waft around the room.

  Olivia nudged Emma. “Are you going to tell them about last night?”

  “Last night?” Miss Ingledew put four cereal bowls on the table with a heavy clatter. “What happened last night?”

  Emma sat down and told them about the stone man, the shining boy, and the fiery sword.

  It took the two adults some time to digest this news. They drained their coffee cups, and then Paton said, “Can you go through that again, Emma?”

  Emma went through it again.

  “What does it all mean, Mr. Yewbeam?” asked Olivia, who thought that Paton Yewbeam knew almost everything there was to know.

  “What does it mean?” Paton rubbed his chin. “I don’t know, Olivia.”

  Olivia was not disheartened. “I bet you do. I mean, I bet you’ve got a bit of an idea about what’s going on.”

  Paton smiled. “All right. I admit I’ve got a bit of an idea. It goes like this. Charlie’s father …”

  “I knew it had something to do with Charlie!” cried Olivia. “I knew —”

  “Please! Let Mr. Yewbeam speak,” said Emma.

  Olivia subsided.

  “Thank you.” Paton winked at Emma. “As I almost said, Charlie’s father comes out of a trance, a spell or whatever you like to call it, after ten years. That’s going to put a lot of people out, especially the people who put him ‘under,’ shall we say. There was a reason for the terrible thing they did. We’ve always assumed that it was Ezekiel Bloor’s revenge for the accident that put him in a wheelchair for life. But now that Charlie has told me about the Pikes searching his old house for a certain box, I’m absolutely convinced that Lyell Bone was punished for something he knew about, something he steadfastly refused to give up: the contents of that box.”

  “But why would that cause all those weird things to happen on Piminy Street?” asked Olivia.

  “Things have rather come to a head, Olivia, my dear,” said Paton, “now that Lyell has, so to speak, woken up. Piminy Street was once full of magicians. If you ask me, someone has stirred them up.”

  “Y-e-e-s.” Olivia poured cornflakes into her bowl in a slow and thoughtful stream.

  “They’ve got that little boy Eric working for them,” said Miss Ingledew, jamming sliced bread into the toaster. “Charlie’s aunt, Venetia, married Mr. Shellhorn just to get her hands on the poor child.”

  “I’m going to investigate,” Emma announced. “I want to know why that blacksmith was making a sword.”

  “For the knight,” Paton told her. “The Red Knight on the bridge.”

  “Do you think it could be the Red Knight, Mr. Yewbeam?” asked Emma.

  “I really couldn’t say.”

  “I still want to see the blacksmith.” Emma looked very determined. “I mean, she seems to be the only one in the street who is kind of good.”

  “You’re not going without me,” said Olivia.

  Miss Ingledew wanted Paton to go with the girls. “I don’t like to think of them alone on Piminy Street,” she said.

  Paton cast a gloomy look out the window. “It’s too late for me. The sun’s up. Besides, I suspect that whoever was making that sword will be more likely to talk to the girls if they’re on their own, rather than with a peculiar chap like me.”

  Miss Ingledew shook her head at Paton and said she would go around to the Kettle Shop herself if the girls weren’t back within half an hour.

  Emma and Olivia bolted down their breakfasts, dressed hurriedly, and left the bookstore. They were so eager to find the mysterious sword maker, they didn’t even bother to brush their hair. Almost unheard of for Olivia.

  Piminy Street was silent and deserted. The girls headed toward the Kettle Shop. They hadn’t gone far when they heard footsteps behind them. A voice said, “Are you two spying?”

  The girls swung around. Dagbert Endless walked up to them. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “I don’t see that it’s any of your business,” Olivia said hotly.

  “Maybe not, but I’d still like to know.” Dagbert’s aquamarine eyes flicked from Olivia to Emma. “Well?”

  “As a matter of fact, we’ve come to buy a kettle,” said Emma, trying to sound casual.

  Dagbert gave her a pitying look. “On a Sunday? The shops are all closed. You’ll have to do better than that.”

  “We don’t have to do anything,” Olivia snapped.

  Dagbert stared at her. “Want to change your mind before something nasty happens?”

  Olivia’s mouth became a grim, defiant line.

  “OK.” Dagbert looked past them at a sewer grate in the road. His mocking expression changed to one of cold intensity. Suddenly, water began to gurgle beneath the grate. It flipped open with a clang and the water gushed out in a muddy fountain. The girls were covered in it. Screaming, they ran past the grate, up toward the Kettle Shop. But the water pursued them; twisting away from its natural course, it swept around their ankles in a thin, snakelike tide. The pressure was so great they felt themselves slipping to the ground, unable to withstand the force.

  Emma was the first to fall; Olivia, grabbing Emma’s arm, came crashing after her. As they dragged themselves toward the Kettle Shop they heard, for the first time, Dagbert’s terrible laughter. It bubbled out of him in horrible gloops and burbles.

  Olivia, pulling herself upright against the door of the shop, began to bang the knocker, noticing, in spite of her predicament, that the knocker was, in fact, a small, bronze kettle.

  “Help!” cried Olivia. “Someone, please help!”

  Emma, scrambling to her feet beside her, added, “We’re drowning!”

  The door was opened so abruptly, both girls tumbled headlong into the shop, one on either side of the large woman standing on the threshold.

  Mrs. Kettle glared across the muddy stream at Dagbert. “STOP THIS NONSENSE!”

  Dagbert made a deep, gulping sound, almost as if he were swallowing a bucket of water.

  “I suspected something like this,” said Mrs. Kettle, with a scathing look at the wriggling water. “Well, you can keep your water to yourself, fish boy!”

  Dagbert gazed angrily at the water
which appeared to be drying up very fast. Lifting his chin, he marched past the Kettle Shop without even glancing at the owner.

  Mrs. Kettle slammed the door. “Well, now, you are in a pickle, aren’t you?” she said to the girls.

  “We were in a pickle,” said Olivia. “Thanks for saving the day. I’m Olivia Vertigo and this is my friend Emma Tolly.”

  “Pleased to meet you. I’m Katya Kettle.” She peered closely at Emma. “Have I seen you before?”

  “Um, you might have,” said Emma.

  “Hmmm. Come in then, both of you. I’ll get you some dry clothes. You’re soaked to the skin.” Mrs. Kettle led the way through an arch and into a warm room at the back of the shop. “Get those things off,” she commanded, giving the girls a friendly push toward the stove. “I’ll be right back.” She disappeared through a thick metal door, studded with screws.

  Emma and Olivia removed their socks, shoes, jeans, and jackets. Luckily the brief shower hadn’t permeated Olivia’s pink and silver top, or Emma’s blue sweater.

  When Mrs. Kettle reappeared, she was carrying two large pairs of coveralls and two pairs of thick, woolen socks. “These won’t be a perfect fit,” she warned. “Just roll up the parts that are too long.”

  Grinning shyly, Emma pulled on her coveralls and socks. Olivia took her time, sizing up the huge garment and wondering how she could jazz it up a bit. “Have you got a brooch or something?” she asked Mrs. Kettle.

  The big woman hooted with laughter. “I don’t go in for such things. Pretend you’re a princess in disguise.” She hung their wet clothes on a wooden rack above the stove.

  Olivia grimaced and stepped into the coveralls, rolling up the sleeves until her pink and silver cuffs were revealed.

  “I can see you’re a bit of a fashion queen,” said Mrs. Kettle, with a chuckle. “Cup of tea, girls?”

  Before they could reply there was a loud and urgent knock on the shop door.

  “I hope it’s not that blasted fish boy again,” said Mrs. Kettle, striding back into the shop.

  “Well, well, it’s you,” they heard her say. “What’s up, young man?”

  There was a mumbled reply and the next minute Charlie Bone walked into the room.

  “Good grief!” Charlie blinked at the girls in disbelief. “What an outfit, Liv. Is that the latest fashion?”

  “I think it suits me,” Olivia said haughtily.

  Emma burst out laughing. Charlie joined in, and then Olivia began to giggle. Mrs. Kettle laughed loudest of all. Still spluttering with mirth, she went through her metal door to make some tea.

  It was only then that Emma noticed Charlie was carrying his old black kettle. “You’ve brought it back,” she said.

  “Yes.” Charlie put the kettle on the floor. “I wanted Mrs. Kettle’s advice.”

  “What’s it for?” asked Olivia.

  “Mrs. Kettle gave it to me.” Charlie explained how the liquid in the kettle warmed up when trouble was brewing. “It got so hot last night it was almost boiling.”

  “Last night?” said Emma thoughtfully.

  “And how come you’re both dressed like plumbers?” Charlie asked them. “Are there any burst pipes around here?”

  “You could say so.” Olivia told Charlie about Dagbert and the water.

  Charlie frowned. “I hoped he wouldn’t use his power like that,” he said quietly. “I just can’t figure him out.”

  Mrs. Kettle walked in with a tray of tea, and as they pulled their chairs up to the table, she asked, “So, what brings you here, girls? I know you weren’t just escaping from the fish boy when you burst in. You were coming to see me, weren’t you?”

  Olivia looked at Emma, and Emma said, “Yes.”

  “So what’s the story?” Mrs. Kettle filled four mugs with tea and handed them around, while Emma hesitated, wiped her nose, and cleared her throat.

  “Er, are these your coveralls, Mrs. Kettle?” Emma asked.

  “Of course. There’s no one else living here.”

  “Oh.” Emma stared into her mug. “No one at all?”

  “Not a soul,” said Mrs. Kettle.

  “Oh.” Emma looked around the room, searching for words. It seemed a bit rude to ask a homely person like Mrs. Kettle if she were a blacksmith.

  Olivia had no such qualms. Losing patience, she asked, “Are you a blacksmith, Mrs. Kettle?”

  “Indeed I am,” said Mrs. Kettle evenly. “And are you a bird, Emma?”

  Emma reddened. “Yes. I can be. Sometimes.”

  “So you were sitting on my windowsill, watching me at work last night?”

  “I wasn’t spying,” Emma said quickly. “I was just — exploring.”

  “Of course you were, my dear. Don’t worry. There’s no harm in watching a blacksmith at work.”

  “We came around,” Olivia blurted out, “to find out about the sword you were making.”

  “Sword!” Charlie stared at Mrs. Kettle.

  “Ah, the sword.” She suddenly looked very grave. “You’re not to breathe a word of this to anyone you can’t trust with your lives.” She studied each of them with an expression that was both fierce and solemn.

  “We won’t,” said Charlie earnestly.

  Mrs. Kettle’s features softened. “I have inherited certain skills from my ancestor Feromel. I seldom use them, if ever. By that, I mean that I do not use the magic side of my talent, although I still make tools, harnesses, and even iron furniture. I have never been asked to make a sword before — a very, special, unbeatable sword — so, naturally, I was overjoyed by the request.”

  Charlie leaned eagerly toward Mrs. Kettle and said, “Who asked you?”

  Mrs. Kettle smiled. “A knight with a red crest on his silvery helmet.”

  “It sounds like the one we saw on the bridge,” said Charlie.

  Both speaking at once, the girls asked Mrs. Kettle, “What did he say? Who was he? When did he come?”

  Mrs. Kettle put up her hand. “Hush, my dears. I can’t answer three questions at once. He came a few nights ago, very late. He wore a tunic of chain mail and a shining helmet with scarlet feathers, all streaming in the moonlit breeze. His face was covered by a visor, and he spoke not a word.”

  “How did you know he wanted a sword?” Charlie leaned so far forward he knocked over the sugar bowl.

  Mrs. Kettle set the bowl upright and spooned the sugar back into it.

  “Sorry,” said Charlie, “but, please, how did you know what he wanted?”

  Mrs. Kettle put her hand into the deep pocket of her cardigan. She withdrew a folded piece of paper, opened it, and put it on the table. “That’s how I knew.”

  The children stared at the single word on the paper.

  Caledfwlch

  “I can’t even say it,” said Charlie. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “It does to me,” said Mrs. Kettle. “That word told me that the knight was no ordinary knight, and certainly not a trickster or a hoaxer.”

  “But what does it mean?” Charlie persisted.

  “Are you sure you don’t know, Charlie Bone? Doesn’t it sing out at you?” Mrs. Kettle looked earnestly into his face.

  Charlie stared at the word. “No. I’m sorry. It doesn’t mean anything — unless … is it Welsh?”

  “There you are,” said Mrs. Kettle. “You knew it all along. It is indeed a Welsh word. It is the name of King Arthur’s sword, but it’s mentioned only in the old Welsh legends. Their words have remained a secret code, used by those who can be trusted.”

  “Wow!” Olivia sighed. “I feel honored.”

  “Not a word of this to a soul.” Mrs. Kettle put a finger to her lips.

  The three children vigorously shook their heads, and Charlie murmured, “Only to someone I could trust with my life.”

  “When’s the knight coming back for his sword?” asked Emma, thinking she might do a little more night-flying.

  “No idea. I’ll just have to wait. The hilt needs working on. I think I shall use some g
old, and maybe silver.” Mrs. Kettle gazed over their heads. “I might even use a pearl or two.”

  Charlie suddenly remembered why he’d come to the shop. “I almost forgot.” He lifted Feromel’s kettle onto the table. “This got boiling hot last night.”

  “Did it, indeed?” Mrs. Kettle put her hand on the blackened iron. “It’s cool now. But last night was a dangerous time. A few doors away the stone men began to move.”

  Emma’s mouth dropped open. “You know about that?”

  “I’ve been watching that boy,” said the blacksmith. “Him and his dreadful companion. I suppose you saw them, too, while you were out flying.”

  “I couldn’t believe it,” said Emma. “Eric stared at the door and this huge stone man came walking out. It was horrible.”

  “I THOUGHT it was Eric,” Charlie murmured.

  Mrs. Kettle stood up and put their empty mugs on the tray. “Time for work,” she said. “Your clothes are dry, girls.”

  Charlie decided to leave before the coveralls came off. He arranged to meet the girls at the Pets’ Café in the afternoon. Picking up his kettle, he left the shop, thanking Mrs. Kettle as he went.

  Charlie had just turned onto Filbert Street when he saw Benjamin running up the road toward him.

  “Charlie! Charlie! Have you seen Runner?” cried Benjamin.

  “No.”

  “He’s run off. He tugged his leash out of my hand and then he was gone.” Benjamin’s face was creased with worry. When he reached Charlie he bent over, panting heavily. “I’ve got a cramp now.”

  “It’s not like Runner to go off like that,” said Charlie.

  “He’s never, ever done it before. Where could he have gone, Charlie?”

  Charlie tried to think of all the places Runner Bean might want to go without Benjamin. Only one place came to mind. “Chattypatra,” he said.

  Benjamin straightened up. “Chattypatra? Do you mean he might have gone to Darkly Wynd?”

  “That’s where Runner’s girlfriend lives. He was really goofy about that little dog, wasn’t he?”