Children of the Red King Book 05 Charlie Bone and the Hidden King

by Jenny Nimmo

  "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.

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  "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

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  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

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  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?"

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  "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?"

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  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.

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  "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."

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  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 sky, 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,

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  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 brig
hter silver than ever before.

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

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  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.

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  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.

  "What is it?" cried Charlie. "What happened?"

  "We are not - quite sure," said Uncle Paton.

  "She's frozen," Amy whimpered. "Maisie's frozen."

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  Even Grandma Bone had risen from her chair. "What's she done, silly woman? She's done something she shouldn't have."

  "For pity's sake, Grizelda," roared Uncle Paton. "Maisie's in trouble."

  "Huh!" Grandma Bone turned her back. "You'd better do something about it. She's beginning to drip."

  Charlie touched Maisie's arm. She was wearing her pink angora sweater and the soft, furry material had turned to bristling, icy spikes. He had a terrible thought. A moment ago he had been traveling into a world full of snow. Had he, somehow, taken Maisie with him? He touched her face. It was as cold and hard as a block of ice.

  "Charlie, don't," sobbed his mother. "Don't touch her, it's too - dreadful."

  Grandma Bone was right. Maisie was, indeed, beginning to drip. A little pool of water had formed around her feet.

  "Perhaps she's thawing out," said Uncle Paton. "Let's speed it up. We'll get her closer to the stove."

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  With some difficulty Amy and Uncle Paton maneuvered Maisie over to the stove. Uncle Paton turned up the dial, and heat poured into the room. In a few minutes it was so hot, everyone was flinging off cardigans and sweaters, but although Maisie continued to drip, very slightly, around her shoes, she remained as hard as an iceberg.

  "It's a spell." Charlie's mother covered her face with her hands. "It has to be. But why Maisie? She never hurt a soul."

  "Charlie, have you been visiting that sorcerer again?" Uncle Paton's tone was severe.

  "N-no," said Charlie, a little uncertainly.

  "But you have been 'traveling'?"

  Charlie nodded. He could feel Grandma Bone's eyes upon him. "I didn't visit any sorcerer," he said quietly, "but I did go somewhere very cold."

  "Where?" demanded Grandma Bone.

  "Oh - just into a Christmas card," said Charlie. "Just for fun. There's nothing wrong with that, is there?"

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  "You shouldn't use your endowment for fun," she snapped.

  "OK. OK," Charlie mumbled. He noticed that the table was set for lunch. The contents of the basket had been shared among them, and each person's favorite food set neatly beside their plates. Pate for Grandma Bone, venison pies for Maisie and Charlie, tuna for Amy, and prawns for Uncle Paton. The lid of the prawn jar had been removed and two large prawns lay on the cloth, as though they had been accidentally dropped.

  "Uncle Paton, have you eaten any prawns?" asked Charlie.

  "No, I... Paton saw the prawns. "Good Lord, who..." He bent down and peered into Maisie's open mouth. "A prawn!" he cried. "She's been at my prawns."

  "Paton," Amy chided. "Please! You wouldn't begrudge my poor mother a few prawns."

  "My dear, you misunderstand," said Paton. "Maisie was eating prawns when she - when she succumbed to this terrible affliction."

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  Amy looked up. "Poisoned?" She gasped.

  "A bit more than poisoned," said Paton. He turned to his sister. "Grizelda, do you know anything about this?"

  "Don't be ridiculous." Seizing her plate of toast and pate, Grandma Bone marched out of the kitchen, growling, "I'm not staying here to be insulted."

  No one else dared to touch their food. They put every last morsel back into the basket, and Paton called the store. Fifteen minutes later, a young man arrived in the van Charlie had seen driving off an hour before. Paton handed him the basket at the front door. "A member of my family has been taken very ill," he told the young man. "We believe your prawns were responsible. I want them analyzed as soon as possible."

  "It's Sunday," said the youth, who looked nervous and confused.

  "Someone may be dying!" roared Paton. "Get it done!"

  "Yes, sir," mumbled the youth. "The hospital,

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  perhaps." He walked shakily down the steps and placed the basket on the passenger seat, before driving off.

  Charlie had an idea. "The Flame cats," he suggested. "They'll help." He flung on his jacket, rushed out, and headed for the Pets' Cafe. The cats were not always to be found there, but he didn't know where else to look.

  Before Charlie had reached the end of Filbert Street, he sensed that the Flames were already near. His gaze was drawn to the roof of a house he was passing, and there they were, at the very apex, their bright forms etched against the gray sky. As soon as they saw Charlie, they leaped one by one into a nearby tree, and climbed neatly down through the tracery of branches, until they stood at Charlie's feet.

  "Flames, I need your help!" Charlie turned and raced back to number nine, and the cats ran with him, Aries slightly in front, as usual, Leo and Sagittarius at either side.

  When all four bounced into the hall, Grandma Bone shouted, "Not those vile creatures. Get them out!"

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  The Flames marched up to the open living room door and gazed in with their fabulous glittering eyes. Grandma Bone stepped back, bleating, "Take them away."

  The Flames growled at her, and she pushed the door shut with the toe of her shiny black shoe.

  Charlie grinned. He led the cats into the kitchen where they immediately saw what had to be done. They ran to Maisie and surrounded her, mewing softly.

  "Oh, Charlie, can they really help?" Amy clasped Charlie's hand.

  "Those cats can work miracles," said Uncle Paton confidently.

  The cats seemed perplexed. What could only be described as a frown passed over their furry faces. Their golden eyes traveled up the length of Maisie's motionless form until they came to her astonished frozen eyes. They mewed again.

  For a full minute the cats studied Maisie's stiff fingers, her plump legs, her icy pink sweater, and her

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  neat gray curls. They stepped closer and sniffed, their black noses wrinkling in distaste.

  Charlie held his breath. Could the Flames melt Maisie? He watched Aries stand on tiptoes and arch his back. The copper cat began to pace around Maisie's feet in her new red sneakers. She had been so proud of them, Charlie thought. Hopefully, she still was.

  Leo and Sagittarius followed Aries. The cats' gentle pacing became faster. Soon their bodies resembled leaping flames. Maisie appeared to stand inside a circle of fire. Tiny, g
lowing sparks flew up to the ceiling and Charlie could hear the hiss and crackle of flames.

  "She blinked!" Amy's voice was hoarse with excitement. "Did you see that?"

  Charlie looked at Maisie's face. She blinked, twice.

  "I saw it!" cried Charlie. "She blinked."

  "She did, indeed," Uncle Paton agreed.

  "She's melting." Amy sighed happily.

  "Clever Flames. Hooray!" said Charlie.

  Maisie closed her mouth and something like a smile crinkled each corner.

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  They waited for more. Nothing happened. The blinking stopped, the mouth remained closed, and the rest of Maisie's features stayed stubbornly frozen.

  The whirling Flames began to lose their brilliance. The frenzied leaping slowed, and the three cats, taking on their true forms, walked once, twice, three times around Maisie's sturdy legs, and then sat down. They looked exhausted.

  Aries lifted a paw and licked it gingerly. Leo and Sagittarius sprawled side by side and looked up at Charlie, as if to say, We tried. We can do no more.

  "You did your best," said Charlie. "I know you did."

  "She nearly came back," said his mother. "If only they could try, just once more."

  "They can't," said Charlie. "They gave it everything. They can't do any more." He went to the fridge and got out some ham, which he chopped into cubes and placed on a saucer. He put the saucer close to the cats and they gobbled it hungrily.

  Uncle Paton sat down and grimly folded his arms. "It was meant for me," he said bitterly. "I'm sure of it.

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  I'm the one who eats prawns. Someone tampered with them, and it must have been one of them - or should I say one of us, the endowed. Why else... ?" He raised his hands and let them fall into his lap.

  "We must get a doctor," said Amy. "Now. Before it's too late."

  Uncle Paton nodded. "We must. But it will have to be someone we can trust to be discreet."

  A ray of hope lit Amy's face. "I know someone. He looks as if he's used to keeping secrets. He buys a lot of vegetables and one day he gave me his card. He's Doctor... something unusual."