by Jenny Nimmo
“I can make it on my own, now.” Asa had an odd little smile on his face. “You’d better get back to school.”
“Are you sure?” asked Charlie.
“Quite sure,” said Asa, as the white horse came toward them.
The boys stood aside to let horse and rider pass. Charlie heard the creak of leather, the rustle of chain mail, and the heavy breathing of the horse. The Red Knight sat erect, his sheathed sword hanging from his belt, and the red cloak lying soft against his back. He paused for a moment and looked down at them. The visor hid his face, and only the glint of his eyes could be seen.
When the horse moved on, Asa walked beside it. Charlie and Billy watched the lanky figure in its long coat and Charlie murmured, “He’ll be safe now.”
“Probably the safest person in the world,” added Billy.
As they climbed back up the bank, they failed to see a small boy and a tall woman standing in the trees.
The journey back to school was easier and faster now that the tunnel was empty of water.
“It’s always quicker when you know what to expect,” said Charlie, as he hauled himself up the iron ladder and out of the dreadful pit. But they weren’t expecting to see what they did when they finally emerged into the room below the theater.
Charlie hadn’t seen Manfred anywhere near the stage, simply because Manfred had been hiding behind the first row of seats in the auditorium. He heard the trapdoor being lowered and waited, smiling to himself, as he imagined Charlie and Billy making their way down to the pit where he’d been keeping the beast-boy. He particularly enjoyed the pictures he’d conjured up for himself, when he thought of Dagbert’s drowning water pouring into the tunnel.
“Asa will drown,” Manfred said to himself, “and I’ll lose my useful beast, but it can’t be helped. And with Billy out of the way, who cares if Lyell Bone finds Maybelle Raven’s will? As for Charlie Bone, the sooner he’s out of the way, the better.”
But Charlie had a way of escaping trouble, and Manfred wanted to make sure that, this time, he wouldn’t survive. Leaving his hiding place, he climbed onto the stage. In his pocket he had an old key that fitted the padlock on the trapdoor. He was about to fit the key into the padlock, when curiosity got the better of him.
Manfred lifted the trapdoor and descended into the costume department. It appeared to be deserted. Swinging the key and whistling to himself, Manfred popped his head around one of the pillars and squinted into the darkness. Nothing. And then, in the distance, he heard Billy’s frantic wail as he slipped in the tunnel.
Manfred smiled with satisfaction. He turned back and, to his utter astonishment, came face to face with Lysander Sage.
“What are you doing here?” stormed Manfred.
“Give me the key,” Lysander demanded.
“I’ll give you nothing,” scoffed Manfred. “Get out of here before I call Weedon.”
“I’m pretty sure that Weedon is driving around the city counting white vans and wondering which one he should watch. Now give me that key.”
“Come and get it!”
“OK.” Raising his arms, Lysander spun around the room, threading his way between leather trunks and wicker baskets. The walls resounded with mysterious chanting, and while Manfred slowly backed toward the steps, drumbeats began to accompany Lysander’s voice. Pale shades began to fill the black spaces between the pillars; slowly each ghostly shape took the form of a tall dark man. Their brown arms were encircled with gold, their bodies draped in white robes, and each man carried a tall spear.
“Illusions,” muttered Manfred.
“You know they are not,” said Lysander. “They are my ancestors and as tangible as any being in this city.”
One of these warriors moved behind Manfred, barring his way to the steps.
“Give me the key.” Lysander held out his hand.
Manfred dumbly shook his head. Clutching the key, he moved away from the steps and down the aisle between cupboards and trunks.
“Then take the consequences.” Lysander uttered a long singing sound and the dark warriors moved forward. As they closed in on Manfred he gave a strangled cry. Throwing the key at Lysander, he lifted the lid of one of the baskets and leaped inside, pulling the lid over his head.
Lysander bounded over to the basket and fastened the buckle. Then, picking up the key, he sat on the basket and waited.
Surprised by the bright light filtering toward them, Charlie and Billy hesitated before they walked through the pillars. And then they saw Lysander, surrounded by his tall spirit ancestors.
“What …?” uttered Charlie.
“Shhh!” Lysander pointed at the basket beneath him. Unfastening the buckle, he stood up and led the others up the steps.
Before closing the trapdoor, he called softly to his spirit ancestors and then his face broke into a wide grin.
“What’s going on?” asked Charlie.
“Manfred was going to trap you,” said Lysander. “But I trapped him instead. My ancestors will keep him prisoner until dawn.”
Billy stared anxiously at Lysander’s calm face. “But he’s going to be furious. He’ll … He’ll …”
“He’ll do nothing,” Lysander told him. “Do you think he’d want anyone to know that he hid in a basket and failed to stop you from getting back? Believe me, he’s too proud for that. Now, tell me, were you successful?”
“Very successful,” said Charlie.
As they tiptoed back to their dormitories, Billy whispered sleepily, “We saw the Red Knight, Lysander, and a white horse. And I think the horse was the queen that Ezekiel accidently brought to life.”
“Then, perhaps, the Red Knight is the king,” said Lysander.
“Has to be,” said Charlie.
On the other side of the city, Mr. Brown, driving back from a very important assignment, counted no less than seventeen battered white vans parked in various places around the city. He wrote down each location in his notebook. “Something’s going on,” he said to himself. “Unless … of course. Illusions.” He tore the page out of his notebook.
By then, the only white van that he had failed to see was already speeding away from the city.
On Tuesday morning, there was a very curious mood in Bloor’s Academy. Even the children who had not been involved in Asa’s escape were aware of a change in the atmosphere.
Dagbert Endless lay in bed, his face covered in scratches. Occasionally, he moaned about the wind. He kept his clenched fist close to his cheek and wouldn’t show anyone what he held, although sometimes between his fingers the glint of gold could be seen.
“Leave him be,” said the matron. “He’s the sort of boy who has nightmares.”
So Dagbert was allowed to stay in bed, an unheard of thing for a boy at Bloor’s Academy.
In his room in the west wing, Manfred Bloor was also in bed. He lay with his face to the wall, mumbling about ghostly warriors.
Old Ezekiel wheeled himself to Manfred’s door and knocked. There was no answer. Finding the door locked, Ezekiel rattled the handle. “Were you successful?” he called. “Mission accomplished? Asa gone? Charlie Bone finished and little Billy abolished?”
“Go away,” snarled Manfred.
“Failed then.” His great-grandfather sighed and he gloomily wheeled himself away.
Scrambled eggs were being served in the blue cafeteria. Charlie could never remember having had such a treat for a school breakfast. He stood at the end of the line, trying to keep his eyes open and yawning loudly.
Cook gave Charlie an extra-large portion when he finally reached the counter. “I rushed out and bought the eggs myself,” she said. “Why shouldn’t you children have a decent breakfast for a change?”
“Cook, you don’t look worried anymore,” Charlie observed.
“I know I’m not alone.” She gave him a mysterious smile and then pulled something out of her apron pocket. “I bumped into your grandma Maisie this morning. What a bit of luck! She wondered how she was going to
get this to you.” Cook reached over the counter and handed Charlie a postcard.
There was an exotic-looking stamp on the back and his father’s handwriting. A few words about the journey and the weather and then, “One day we’ll take you with us, Charlie, and you’ll see these magnificent creatures for yourself.”
On the other side of the card, the huge tail of a humpback whale filled the sky above a vast glittering sea.
I was born in Windsor, Berkshire, England, and educated at boarding schools in Kent and Surrey from the age of six until I was sixteen, when I ran away from school to become a drama student/assistant stage manager with Theater South East. I graduated and acted in repertory theater in various towns and cities.
I left Britain to teach English to three Italian boys in Amalfi, Italy. On my return, I joined the BBC, first as a picture researcher, then assistant floor manager, studio manager (news), and finally director/adaptor with Jackanory (a BBC storytelling program for children). I left the BBC to marry Welsh artist David Wynn-Millward and went to live in Wales in my husband’s family home. We live in a very old converted water mill, and the river is constantly threatening to break in, which it has done several times in the past, most dramatically on my youngest child’s first birthday. During the summer, we run a residential school of art, and I have to move my office, put down tools (typewriter and pencils), and don an apron and cook! We have three grown-up children, Myfanwy, Ianto, and Gwenhwyfar.
ALSO BY JENNY NIMMO
OTHER BOOKS IN
THE CHILDREN OF THE RED KING SERIES
Midnight for Charlie Bone
Charlie Bone and the Time Twister
Charlie Bone and the Invisible Boy
Charlie Bone and the Castle of Mirrors
Charlie Bone and the Hidden King
Charlie Bone and the Beast
Charlie Bone and the Shadow
Charlie Bone and the Red Knight
THE MAGICIAN TRILOGY
The Snow Spider
Emlyn’s Moon
The Chestnut Soldier
Griffin’s Castle
Text copyright © 2007 by Jenny Nimmo
First published as Charlie Bone and the Wilderness Wolf in 2007 in Great Britain by Egmont Books Ltd.
All rights reserved. Published by Orchard Books, an imprint of Scholastic Inc. Publishers since 1920. ORCHARD BOOKS and design are registered trademarks of Watts Publishing Group, Ltd., used under license. SCHOLASTIC and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
First Scholastic edition, June 2007
e-ISBN: 978-0-545-52096-6
Cover illustration © 2007 by Chris Sheban
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
