by Anne Cameron
An hour later, after four extra rounds of toast and some genuine tales of adventure from Jeremius, who had once been forced to share an igloo on Svalbard with a family of arctic foxes, Mr. Dewsnap hurried them all out of the house for a trip into Little Frog’s Bottom. They caught another steam-powered coach, which chugged slowly through a deep swirl of cobbled lanes and deposited them in a lively square at the very heart of the spiral-shaped town.
Angus had been looking forward to exploring Little Frog’s Bottom ever since he’d first visited Feaver Street last year in the middle of a treacherous winter. He gazed around the square with interest. There was a row of very crooked-looking shops, all leaning to the left, as if they’d been caught in a stiff breeze for hundreds of years. Cafés, bookstalls, and gift shops spilled out onto the cobbles with tantalizing offers of freshly baked cookies and the latest comic featuring Louie the Lightning Hero. At one end of the square, towering over the roofs of the nearby buildings, stood an imposing statue of two men, bearded and spectacled, wearing long leather jerkins emblazoned with lightning bolts. It took Angus several seconds to realize he was staring at Philip Starling and Edgar Perilous. In the distance, sitting high above the town on a tall tooth of rock, was the Perilous Exploratorium for Violent Weather and Vicious Storms. The stone walls and ornate steel and glass weather bubbles looked magnificent in the soft morning sunshine. Angus felt his heart leap. It was the first time he’d seen it in months. He turned to Dougal and grinned.
“Right, you two, I’ve got to get my boots mended and this beard shaved off,” Jeremius said, scratching the stubbly growth on his chin.
“And I really must return these books to the library.” Mr. Dewsnap patted the pockets in his overcoat, which looked weighted down. “I trust you two can amuse yourselves for a couple of hours.”
“What?” Dougal stared at his dad, shocked. “You mean you’re actually letting us wander about, on our own, for the whole morning?”
“That is correct.” Mr. Dewsnap smiled. “I must insist, however, that you steer clear of Ballantine’s Bazaar of fortune-telling, Christow’s all-weather supplies shop, and the Frog’s Bottom Bakery.” He pointed to a shop that was advertising prune and cuttlefish pie. Angus grinned. It was exactly the kind of experimental cooking Uncle Max got excited about. “I must also have your solemn promise that you will not enter the Horrible Endings Bookshop, Hazardous Haircuts, or Crevice and Sons.”
Dougal’s face fell. “But that’s half the shops in the square!”
“Those are my terms and conditions. You must take them or leave them. You are welcome to accompany me to the library, if you would prefer.”
“Fine.” Dougal sighed, his shoulders slumping. “We promise to stay out of every interesting shop in the whole town. We’ll try not to start a sweater riot in Mrs. Dilloway’s woolens shop.”
“We’ll meet you both for lunch at the Yodeling Yeti,” Jeremius said. He pointed to a cheerful-looking café at the opposite end of the square and then disappeared into a barbershop where a large pair of scissors dangled over the door. Mr. Dewsnap headed for the austere-looking library, which was wedged between a hat shop called Noggins and a fishmonger’s.
“So, where do you want to go first?” Angus asked, feeling amazed by their sudden glorious freedom.
“Obvious, isn’t it? It’s got to be Cradget’s!” Dougal pointed to a tall building close by that was just opening its front doors. “They sell the coolest stuff in town. Come on!”
Dougal led the way across the cobbles. Angus followed, feeling eager to spend some of the extra pocket money he’d earned over the summer helping Uncle Max round up a rogue batch of instant icicle slicers that had run amok in the garden, annihilating a bed of begonias.
Cradget’s did not disappoint. Inside, there were towering displays of unusual board games, most of which Angus had never heard of before. His favorite, Pursuit, sounded positively dangerous and seemed to involve some sort of demented compass. They crept quietly past conundrum corner, where an assortment of comfy, high-backed chairs had all been turned away from one another so customers could sit and solve their favorite puzzles and crosswords in peace. Angus bought a large bag of colorful magnetic marbles. Dougal quickly scooped up something called a scare-me-not, which was long and rectangular and appeared to contain a maze with a small glass ball at the center.
“The idea’s simple, really,” Dougal explained with enthusiasm as he rummaged in his pockets for some change. “The puzzle’s covered in secret holes that open without warning, and you’ve got to maneuver the ball through the maze and down one of the holes before it closes again. It’s top of Cradget’s best-selling timer puzzle range.”
“What’s a timer puzzle?” Angus asked.
“Each puzzle is fitted with an internal timer, set to one day, four months, or anything in between, and unless you solve the puzzle before your time is up, it self-destructs.”
“Seriously?” Angus asked, surprised.
“Yeah, that’s why they’re so popular. You’ve got no idea how long you’ve got to solve the puzzle because each one is set to a completely different time. It’s brilliant and absolutely barmy!”
They were almost at the register when Dougal hurried back to grab another one. “Just in case the first one self-destructs by the end of the day.”
Angus followed, deciding to try the scare-me-not for himself. When they finally made their way toward the exit a few minutes later, Dougal noticed something even more thrilling.
“Hey, look at that!” He darted over to read the large sign that had just been placed next to a stack of crossword puzzle books.
Are you smart enough to claim the title of
Imbur’s brainiest brain?
Entries are now invited for
Cradget’s Annual Tri-Hard Puzzle Competition
First prize: A year’s subscription to Conundrum
Magazine and the coveted Tri-Hard Trophy
Second prize: Cradget’s Gift Vouchers
Third prize: Novelty spy pen with hidden camera
“This competition is really famous,” Dougal said, staring at the poster in wonder. “It’s a real brainbuster. They send you three different word puzzles to solve. Each new puzzle is harder than the last, and you’ve got to complete all three to even stand a chance of winning a prize.”
“Word puzzles?”
“Yeah, they’re not like normal crosswords or anything, though. These puzzles have got layers, and tricks, and booby traps that can trip you up and send you right back to the beginning. They’re incredibly complicated.”
“You should definitely enter,” Angus said, seeing the look of excitement on Dougal’s face.
“Yeah, I think I will.” Dougal was already heading for the queue of people waiting for entry forms. “Just don’t tell anyone else at Perilous, okay? Everyone already thinks I’m a nerd.”
They emerged into the sunshine ten minutes later.
“This is turning out to be a truly excellent morning!” Dougal stuffed the competition entry form into his pocket. “What shall we do next? We could visit the statue of Starling and Perilous, if you want.”
Angus stood and admired the statue properly for the first time. It towered over everything else in the square, the heads of the early lightning catchers reaching above the roofline of the tallest shops as if studying the weather on the horizon.
“Why’s there a statue of Starling and Perilous in the middle of Little Frog’s Bottom, anyway?” he asked.
“Well, they’re both pretty important in Imbur Island history, I suppose,” Dougal said with a shrug. “I think the statue’s been here for at least a hundred years. You can climb all the way up to the top and look out through windows over the whole town. Oh, wait, I forgot. It’s usually closed on Tuesdays for cleaning.”
They meandered instead past the shops closest to Cradget’s, all of which were on Mr. Dewsnap’s forbidden list. At Ballantine’s Bazaar of Fortune-telling there was a window display of half-pr
ice crystal balls. Dougal gazed longingly through the open door of the Horrible Endings Bookshop, which smelled like compost. In each of the windows, the same poster stared back at Angus. It was brightly colored with just two tantalizing words in large red letters, “Coming Soon!”
“I wonder what that’s all about,” he said, stopping to inspect one of the posters properly.
Dougal shrugged. “It’s probably just a sale of meat-eating plants at Brabazon Botanicals or something.”
“Brabazon Botanicals?”
Dougal turned and pointed to a large imposing building on the far boundary of the square that dwarfed the shops on either side of it. A peaked glass roof had been opened at the top, allowing an interesting assortment of tall trees and palms to burst out into the sunshine, their leaves and fronds rustling gently in the breeze.
“That’s Brabazon Botanicals,” Dougal said, “and it’s only one of the most hazardous shops in town, but Dad didn’t say anything about steering clear of it!”
It was like entering an exotic indoor garden. They slipped past a shiny wooden sales counter, crowded with shop assistants, just inside the door and then:
“Whoa!” Angus gasped.
A raging waterfall cascaded down a fake cliff wall. There were banana trees, long trails of purple ivy, and a steaming pond full of giant, carnivorous water lilies, which snapped at their ankles as they hurried past. It was clear that the plant life on Imbur was far more hazardous, and ravenous, than anything Angus had encountered in Devon. They followed the signs to something called the arboretum and stood among the tall trees and tropical palms that they’d spotted from the other side of the square. The breeze coming through the open glass roof above was cool and refreshing.
“This place is amazing,” Angus said, catching a brief glimpse of blue sky through the tangled branches overhead.
“Dad’s brought me in here loads of times over the summer for manure and plant cuttings,” Dougal said. “I really wanted to take a trip over to the mainland instead, to see Stonehenge. But he’s been too busy writing a new book on the history of Little Frog’s Bottom.”
“You could come and stay with me in the next holidays, if you want,” Angus said, with a shrug, “as long as you don’t mind being chased around the Windmill by pods or blizzard catchers.”
“Seriously?” Dougal looked thrilled by the idea.
“Yeah, you can sleep in my room. There’s loads of space.” Angus grinned, wondering why he hadn’t considered such an excellent idea before.
“Brilliant! Thanks. I mean, if you’re sure it’s okay with your uncle Max and everything. And speaking of uncles . . .” Dougal checked over his shoulder to make sure no one was listening. “Have you found out anything else about Jeremius?”
At the end of the previous term, after many doubts about his mysterious new uncle, Angus had discovered that Jeremius spent much of his time trailing monsoon mongrels around the globe, trying to stop them from spreading dangerous storms and hazardous weather. A jagged scar on his chin came from one such adventure at Castle Dankhart.
“He still won’t tell me anything about Castle Dankhart,” Angus said with a long sigh. “But he can’t have been following any monsoon mongrels around in the last few months; he’s just spent the whole summer at the Windmill.”
“Hey, watch out!”
Dougal dragged Angus out of the way as a herd of spiky-looking plants went scuttling past, dragging their long roots behind them, followed by an irate-looking shop assistant.
They spent the rest of the morning exploring bookshops, toffee shops, and bric-a-brac stalls, where they bumped into Mrs. Stobbs, who had just emerged from the fishmonger’s.
“It’s nice to see you again, my lovely.” She smiled at Angus, patting the soft brown curls on top of her head.
“Thanks for the brilliant breakfast, Mrs. Stobbs,” Angus said, suddenly remembering his manners.
“You’re welcome, my dear. I’m making a delicious fish pie for dinner,” she told them, bundling a very smelly parcel with tailfins into her bag. “But I’ve got to get home to my Albert first. He’s having trouble with his lumbago again, poor dear, and he needs his powdered bone cure from Crevice and Sons.”
“Who’s Albert?” Angus asked as they left Mrs. Stobbs to the rest of her shopping. “And what’s Crevice and Sons?”
“Albert’s her husband,” Dougal explained. “And Crevice and Sons is a fine-bone merchant.”
They stopped in front of a dingy-looking shop in another corner of the square farthest away from Brabazon Botanicals. Moss and lichen grew on the cobbles outside the door. There were no decorations, cheerful awnings, or window displays. “The same people own another shop down Feaver Street; you saw it last time you stayed.”
Angus remembered the creepy-looking shop well. He tried to imagine a similar bone merchant on the high street in Budleigh Otterstone, nestled between the bakery and the post office, and failed.
“They’ve been around for hundreds of years; Dad won’t tell me what they sell exactly. But they used to be specialists in mummification.”
“Mummification? What, you mean, like in ancient Egypt?”
“Yeah.” Dougal shrugged. “I don’t think they do it anymore. Although some of the people Dad knows from the Imbur Island Museum look as if they were mummified aeons ago.”
Angus stared at the dark-fronted shop. Uncle Max had lent him a book about the ancient Egyptians once. It had contained a whole chapter about mummification that Angus could still recall in all its gruesome detail, including the section about removing all internal organs from the body and stuffing them into jars. The worst part, however, was the long hook used for removing the brains . . . by wiggling it straight up a nostril. Angus felt sick just thinking about it.
“There was a rumor flying around a few years ago that they had some actual mummies on display inside the shop.” Dougal pressed his nose against the grimy glass. “Maybe if we just take a quick look around . . .”
“Er, isn’t this on your dad’s list of forbidden shops?” Angus said.
“Well, yeah, but it’s not like we’re planning to get ourselves pickled and wrapped up in bandages, is it? Anyway, I’m not even sure it’s open.”
Dougal hesitated for a second, then pushed timidly on the door. A small bell tinkled above their heads, making them both jump as they entered. Inside, the shop was dark and gloomy. A narrow walkway disappeared into a twisting labyrinth of shelves and display cabinets. Thick veils of dust and sagging cobwebs covered almost every surface and windowpane. Angus shivered. There was no sign of anything mummified.
“Urgh! Look at those!” Dougal darted over to a low shelf where a collection of ugly animal-skull table lamps had been arranged.
Just beyond the lamps was a large display of ornamental spoons, earrings, and necklaces made from cow ribs and rabbits’ feet, as well as a whole gallery of anatomical skeletons dangling limply from long rails and arranged in order of height.
“I wonder who Crevice sells those to,” Angus said, gulping, as they hurried through the forest of milky white bones. He flinched as his hand accidentally brushed against the knuckles of a large skeleton. Its empty eye sockets watched him as he stumbled past.
There were cabinets full of teacups and saucers made from fine ox-bone china and a vast collection of glass jars containing powdered bone, which they stopped to inspect in more detail.
“According to this label, powdered bone is supposed to be good for rheumatism, muscle aches, lumbago, and all sorts of other stuff,” Angus said, studying the contents as they passed each jar.
“Yuck!” Dougal wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Talk about dodgy. How do we get out of this place? I think I’ve had enough bones for one day.”
Angus was feeling just as keen to leave. Dougal led them swiftly back the way they’d just come. After several minutes, however, it was obvious that they’d somehow taken a wrong turning and were now heading even deeper into the choking tangle of shelves and jars. They cr
ept through an eerie alley of animal skeletons, including whole packs of scrawny-looking rats and weasels. There was also something suspiciously dinosaurlike with a long neck and barrel-shaped rib cage that was so enormous Angus and Dougal could have stood upright inside it.
“This place is like a rabbit warren,” Angus said, staring around. He glanced at his weather watch. But apart from the fact that they were now headed in a northeasterly direction, it could tell him nothing useful about how to find the exit. He was just about to suggest climbing up onto one of the cabinets so he could get his bearings when Dougal suddenly yanked him down behind the skeleton of a shark complete with vicious teeth.
“What?”
“I think I’ve just seen Creepy Crevice, the shop owner!” Dougal whispered.
Angus peered through the bones. “His first name’s Creepy?”
“Of course it isn’t. That’s just what everyone on the island calls him.”
A man was standing twenty feet away from them behind a dusty shop counter. Creepy Crevice was white haired and withered, his paper-thin skin as pale as the powdered bone that sat in jars on the shelves behind him. His long fingers, sunken cheeks, and scrawny frame gave him the appearance of a living skeleton, dressed in a faded, old-fashioned suit like the ones Angus had once seen at a Victorian Christmas fair.
“Why are we hiding?” Angus asked, keeping his voice low.
“Because Creepy Crevice isn’t exactly friendly,” Dougal whispered. “Dad had an argument with him once about some bone china. I heard them shouting at each other on the front doorstep. Crevice threatened to pickle Dad’s ears.”
Angus could believe it. Crevice was scowling in a very unfriendly manner at a customer on the other side of the counter who was dressed in a dark, flared coat that was so long it brushed the ground. It was also bulky enough to hide more lightning cubs than an inflatable emergency weather shelter. There were three distinctive triangular buttons sewn to the cuff of each sleeve that looked suspiciously as if they were made of bone.
