by Jenny Nimmo
The meal was almost over when Charlie heard a large vehicle maneuvering on the road outside. Through the gap in the curtains he could see that a
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white camper van had parked in front of the kitchen window. He was surprised when Uncle Paton jumped out, quickly slammed the door, and rushed toward the house, his black fedora pulled well down over his face. Charlie crossed his fingers and watched the streetlight. It didn't explode.
"Phew!" Charlie exclaimed as the front door banged.
"Can someone please turn out the lights?" Uncle Paton called from the hall.
Maisie obligingly lit the candles while Charlie sprang for the light switch.
"Where on earth have you been all week?" Grandma Bone demanded as Paton came in.
Ignoring her question, Uncle Paton said, "Something smells good." He placed a well-worn briefcase beside the door and pulled a chair up to the table.
"I asked you a question," said Grandma Bone.
"So you did, Grizelda." Paton rubbed his hands together as Maisie put a steaming dish of lamb before him.
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"And I see no reason to answer you. What I do is my business."
"Research! Research!" snarled his sister, leaving the table. "Poking your nose into other people's affairs. Where d'you think that will get you?"
"Personally, nowhere, dear sister. Though what I unearth may be of great benefit to others." Paton glanced at Billy Raven.
He turned to Charlie. "Has the dog appeared yet, Charlie?"
Charlie shook his head. "Runner's still stuck."
"But I might be able to talk to him," said Billy.
Paton frowned. "Not you, Billy." He began to eat his lamb.
"But maybe..." Billy leaned forward eagerly.
"No," said Uncle Paton firmly. "We'll find another way. Though I confess, in my research I have yet to come across any mention of dogs caught in paintings."
Charlie watched his grandmother march to the door. Here she hesitated, her right hand almost on
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the light switch. He could see that she was hugely tempted to turn on the lamp hanging above the table. If she did, Paton would be bound to shower himself and his meal with shattered glass. But she resisted and, with a resigned shrug, left the room.
"What exactly is your research, Mr. Yewbeam?" asked Billy.
"Ah, my research." Uncle Paton smiled, almost to himself. "I am writing a history of our family, Billy. The Yewbeams. But digging and delving into the past has led me deep into the lives of others. There isn't another city in the country like this one, you know. It was built by a magician, for one thing, and a king at that. The magic, good and bad, is now part of the fabric of the place. It is like a seam that runs through the soil, the rock and clay, the marl and loam beneath our feet."
Maisie uttered a soft "tsk!" She shook her head and said, "Was it really necessary to buy a big van, Paton?"
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"Our ancestors litter the country," was Paton's reply. "I've been traveling to graveyards, libraries, historic homes, council offices, you name it. At nightfall, I often find myself far from home. I could hardly go to a hotel, with all those lights. My only option would be to sleep on a park bench."
"And get mugged," said Billy.
"Mugged, indeed. Exactly, Billy." Paton scooped up his last mouthful, declared it to be the best casserole he'd ever tasted, and sat back with a sigh of contentment.
"And have you found out anything interesting, Mr. Yewbeam?" asked Billy.
Uncle Paton stared at Billy for a moment, as though he were deciding whether or not to confide in him. At length he replied, "I have, Billy. I have, indeed. But at present the clues are a little foggy. In time I shall unravel some of the more puzzling details, and then..." He paused. "And then, lives will be changed - dramatically."
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Charlie got the impression that his uncle's words were meant for Billy alone, and that it was his life that would be changed dramatically. Had Uncle Paton discovered something about Billy's parents?
Uncle Paton would say no more about his research. Changing the subject, he asked Maisie whether anything had happened to the painting while he'd been away.
"You don't think I've looked in the cellar, do you?" she retorted. "After what happened to the poor dog. Anyway, your sister keeps the door locked."
"Just wondered, you know, if you'd heard a bark, or a whine... anything," said Uncle Paton.
"No." Maisie collected the dishes and carried them to the sink. "But I have seen Benjamin Brown, gazing over here as if his heart would break."
"What am I going to do?" cried Charlie, covering his face with his hands. "I'll have to try and rescue Runner Bean, even without Claerwen."
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"You've lost the moth?" Uncle Paton looked concerned.
"I know where she is," said Charlie, "but I won't be able to get her back just yet."
"And why not?" asked his uncle.
"It's too complicated to explain."
Paton accepted this answer reluctantly. "Don't so much as look in that cellar until you find her. That's an order." He stood up and pushed in his chair. Bidding them all a good night's sleep, he tucked his briefcase under his arm, took a candle from the dresser, and went up to his room.
When Maisie heard Paton's door close, she turned on the kitchen light and held up a dishcloth. "OK, boys. Who's going to dry?"
Billy chose to dry, Charlie to put away. Maisie was best at cleaning the pans.
Half an hour later, as Charlie and Billy were mounting the stairs, a cold draft swept through the hall. The coats on the stand swung in the breeze; two pictures swiveled sideways on the wall; the
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doormat lifted at one end; and Uncle Paton's fedora flew up to the ceiling, turned over, and dropped to the floor.
"What was that?" Billy clung to the railing.
"Dunno." Charlie went to pick up his uncle's hat. He could hear no wind in the road outside, no doors rattled, no trees sighed. He looked down the hallway leading to the cellar. He could guess where the evil breeze was coming from, but decided not to tell Billy.
Could the shadow reach them, even here?
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CHAPTER 8
DESTRUCTION IN THE KETTLE SHOP
Piminy Street ran directly behind Ingledew's Bookstore. Its leaning, Tudor buildings looked to be in danger of toppling into the street - their crooked doors were marked by arrowheads and their slate roofs rippled like waves - yet the great fire of the eighteenth century had never touched these ancient houses. According to Miss Ingledew, it was because at that time almost every house in the street had been occupied by a magician - of one sort or another.
Piminy Street, however, was home to Mrs. Kettle, and there was nothing sinister about her. Unusual, maybe, but not threatening. She had once given Charlie a kettle that had been made five hundred years ago by her ancestor Feromel. It contained a dark liquid that could never be poured away. This timeless liquid was usually cool, but Mrs. Kettle had
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warned Charlie that when the kettle felt hot to the touch, he would be in danger.
On Friday night Charlie hadn't been surprised to find the kettle so hot he could barely touch it. He felt it again as soon as he woke next morning. It had cooled a little, but was still warm.
Billy knew about Feromel's kettle. "Is it hot?" he asked.
"Not too hot." Charlie pushed the kettle under his bed.
"We'll go and fetch Rembrandt from Mrs. Kettle right after breakfast, alright?" Billy swung his legs out of bed and put on his glasses.
"Hmmm. Wish I could get hold of Tancred," sai
d Charlie.
Neither Charlie nor Billy owned a cell phone. They weren't allowed in school, and Grandma Bone disapproved of them. Charlie didn't like the thought of speaking to Tancred from the phone in the hall with Grandma Bone listening in.
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The white camper van was gone when the boys went down to breakfast.
"Your uncle must have left before dawn," said Maisie, placing large slices of bacon on each of their plates. "He's on the scent of something - goodness knows what."
After another slice of bacon and several pieces of toast and honey, Charlie and Billy set off for the Kettle Shop.
"You can always bring your rat here, Billy," said Maisie, as she let them out of the front door. "She'll never know," she added, glancing up the stairs, where Grandma Bone was having her morning gargle.
"Thanks, Mrs. Jones." Billy raced after Charlie.
Charlie was anxious to get away from number nine as fast as possible. He didn't want to see Benjamin again before he had rescued Runner Bean.
As soon as they began to walk up Piminy Street, the sense of menace that Charlie often felt there
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seemed to be even stronger. He always imagined that someone was watching him from a dark window beneath the eaves.
The Kettle Shop was near a curious fish shop where there were never any fish. Before they reached the fish shop, however, they had to pass the Stone Shop. Of all the houses on Piminy Street, this was the most sinister. In the dark interior, carved stone figures brandished clubs and axes. There were stone soldiers, horses, and dogs. But the mounted knight that had once attacked the boys was gone - broken in two by the Red Knight and now lying, with his stone horse, at the bottom of the river.
"Let's keep going." Billy plucked at Charlie's jacket. "I hate that place."
Charlie's nose was almost touching the window-pane. He expected to see someone and, yes, there he was: Eric Shellhorn, Great-aunt Venetia's stepson. Charlie could just make out his face, peering from behind a tall, robed figure - a Druid, perhaps.
"I knew he'd be in there," Charlie muttered.
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Billy tugged Charlie's sleeve. "Let's go, Charlie. One of those things might start moving again."
"I don't think Eric would do that in broad daylight," said Charlie.
"He might. Come on. I want to see Rembrandt."
Just before Charlie backed away from the window, he saw Eric dart across the back of the shop. "What's he going to do next, I wonder."
Billy was already racing up the road and Charlie started to follow him, but then he found himself lingering outside the fish shop. The door to this peculiar place was always closed, always locked, and yet a strong smell of fish seeped from the building, as though the very bricks were made of cod or mackerel.
This was the home of Dagbert Endless, if you could call it a home. The window above the sign was dark and grimy. The curtains were threadbare, and all that could be seen of the shop beyond the window was an empty counter in a room with walls of cracked white tiles and a floor
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of mildewed slate. Charlie wrinkled his nose and walked on. By the time he had reached the Kettle Shop, Billy was inside, making his way through the kettles displayed on stands and tables all around the room.
Charlie closed the store door, which squeaked loudly on its somewhat rusty hinges, and he followed Billy through an archway into yet another room filled with kettles. But here there were four chairs, grouped around an empty table, where customers could sit and examine the ancient kettles. On a stove behind the table, a copper kettle whistled merrily.
"I knew I'd see you today, my dears." The store's owner lifted the whistling kettle and poured boiling water into a large brown teapot.
"Because of my rat," said Billy, eyeing the plate of cookies that Mrs. Kettle now placed on the table.
"Because of your rat, my dear." Mrs. Kettle was a very large, muscular woman, with a crown of smooth, copper-colored hair. She wore dark-blue coveralls and thick leather boots spotted with oil, for Mrs.
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Kettle was a blacksmith first and foremost; kettle selling was merely a hobby, a front for her secret profession.
"Where is he?" Billy gazed around, hoping for a black rat to come bounding toward him.
"Guess!" said Mrs. Kettle.
"I can't, I can't," said Billy impatiently. "There are too many places for him to hide."
The blacksmith walked first one way and then another, tapping kettles as she went. She hesitated, then set off again, stopped, and pondered, rubbing her chin. "I do believe I've lost him," she said.
"No-o-o!" cried Billy.
The lid of a huge iron kettle lifted slightly and then slid to the floor with a loud clang. They waited expectantly, but no black rat leaped out. Instead, the head of a blue snake appeared. It bobbed from side to side, and the beautiful blue feathers adorning its head fluttered like silken banners in the wind.
"Oh, I forgot the boa was here." Billy went toward the swaying head.
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"He's a lovely fellow. I've gotten really attached to him," said Mrs. Kettle. "I call him Solomon; he's so wise."
Upon seeing Billy, the blue boa came slithering out of the kettle, slipped to the ground, and began to coil itself around Billy's legs. But Billy lifted the creature and gently curled it across his shoulders, all the while hissing and humming to it. The boa replied with a soft chirruping sound, like a small bird.
"It's OK," said Billy when the boa had settled. "He won't make me invisible."
"It's wonderful how you can do that, Billy, my dear," said Mrs. Kettle. "Solomon was very active before he took that little nap. Spiders, flies, beetles, even a mouse; he's been wrapping them up in his long blue coils and disappearing them all over the place."
Charlie felt something on his foot. Before his very eyes the lace on his sneaker began to disappear. "Billy, I think I've found Rembrandt. He's eating
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my shoelace." Charlie lifted his foot and kicked it toward Billy.
There was a loud squeak and Billy's white hair was suddenly tugged over his face. Billy put up his hands and clasped them around what appeared to be empty air. But he could feel whiskers and fur and a long skinny tail.
"Solomon's done it to Rembrandt," said Billy, pleased to have found his rat but worried by his invisibility.
"I expect you can soon put that right," said Mrs. Kettle. "That boa would do anything for you."
Billy put the unseen rat on the floor and began to twitter at the boa on his shoulders. But Rembrandt was obviously enjoying his invisibility. Charlie felt him run over his foot, then a table shook and a kettle fell to the floor. They all followed the tiny patterings and excited squeaks through the doorway and into the store. Mrs. Kettle dropped to her knees and began to crawl among the kettle displays; the boys followed her example and the boa
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joined in, slithering across the floor with a purposeful look on his scaly face. Mrs. Kettle began to laugh. Charlie couldn't stop himself from giggling, and now even Billy began to see the funny side of things; he lay on the floor convulsing with laughter.
No one noticed the store door opening just a fraction, not enough to make it squeak. No one heard soft footsteps crossing the floor, and no one saw Eric Shellhorn slip into the store and run to the big metal door leading to Mrs. Kettle's workshop.
It all happened in less than a minute, and then the blue boa was curling itself into a knot. There was a very loud squeal, and a black rat jumped free of Solomon's shiny coils and ran to Billy.
"Thanks, Solomon." Billy picked up the trembling rat, gave him a stroke, and slipped him into his pocket.
"A nice c
up of tea is called for, my dears," said Mrs. Kettle, getting to her feet, "and maybe a cookie or two."
The boys followed her back to the table, and
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Solomon slithered across the floor beside them. When Billy sat down, the boa lifted his head and began to sway. Charlie sensed that it was anxious, even fearful. It looked up at Billy and hissed.
Billy answered the boa with a light hum. "Solomon says someone came into the shop," he told the others.
"Well, there's no one here except us," said Mrs. Kettle. "Did your snake say who it was?"
"I asked him, but he didn't know."
Charlie watched the boa slide back to his home inside the big iron kettle. He felt uneasy. The boa had no reason to lie. It was a wise and gentle snake, not a trickster.
Something made Charlie ask, "You've got the stone troll here, Mrs. Kettle, haven't you?"
"You bet I have, Charlie," Mrs. Kettle assured him. "It's been chained up in my workshop ever since it attacked that poor little girl and her father. That troll had a venom all its own, once Eric had brought it to life."
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The stone troll used to stand outside Charlie's great-aunt Venetia's house. On a day Charlie would never forget, the troll had attacked Venetia's new husband and his daughter, Miranda. The poor man had been bewitched into marriage, but once he'd come to his senses, he'd left the city and taken his daughter with him. Eric had remained with his stepmother. Venetia had her own unpleasant endowment - she could bewitch her victims by treating their clothes with a magic poison. But she dreamed of using Eric's talent to further her craving for power.
"I think I met it," Charlie said slowly, "when it was real. It was named Oddthumb."
"Met it, Charlie? The troll?" Mrs. Kettle stopped stirring her tea and fixed her amber-colored eyes on Charlie. "Would you mean - on your travels?"
"Yes," Charlie replied, and he recounted his adventure in Badlock.
The blacksmith sat in rapt attention. Only once did she lift her teacup, very slowly, to take a sip of
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her rapidly cooling tea. And when Charlie had finished, she could only shake her head for a while, in mute dismay.