by Jenny Nimmo
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now at least six inches of water in the room. Soon it would be a foot, two feet, three. This was no ordinary flow. It was a torrent brought on by Dagbert and his set of golden charms, complete now that he had the sea urchin. Water was seeping under the door into the next room, where first years took their drawing lessons.
There were no windows in these basement rooms. Strips of halogen lighting ran across the ceiling, and two small vents let in the air. Emma dragged a chair to the wall, jumped up on it, and tugged at the grill covering one of the vents. It fell into the water with a loud splash, and Emma looked into a dark cavity, where fresh air swirled from an opening high above. I must go in there, thought Emma, there is no other way.
Tancred had closed his eyes. Emma ran to him and shook his shoulder. He slipped sideways and fell into the water. Pulling him upright, Emma cried, "Tancred, you must sit up. You MUST. I have to get help, but if you fall into the water and I'm not here..."
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Tancred opened his eyes. "Yes, Em," he mumbled. "My... legs... are... under... water."
"Yes. But you must keep your head above. Can you walk?"
"Think so." His voice was little more than a croak.
Emma helped him stumble across to the chair beneath the vent. The water splashed against their shins in a vicious tide. Tancred dropped onto the chair and clung to the sides, but it was obvious that he found it hard to stay upright. Emma looked around the room. The griffin would be too heavy to move, she decided, but there were two plaster tigers that might serve her purpose.
Emma pushed the tigers to either side of Tancred. Their heads came just above his elbows. "Who made these?" she asked as she hastily began to change shape again.
"I did." Tancred smiled sleepily. "My tigers." Resting his arms on their wide, painted heads, he looked down at the small bird skimming the water close to his knees. "They'll keep me safe, Em."
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Will they? Suppose they can't, Emma thought as she flew into the vent. Above her was complete darkness. It wasn't easy, even for a tiny bird, to fly blind, up and up, through a narrow pipe. Time and again her wing tips brushed against the sides, tilting her backward and making her head spin. But at last she reached a bend in the pipe, and found that she could stand. Ahead of her a tiny patch of light showed the way out. She hopped to the end of the pipe. Now she had to make a quick decision.
The whole school would be in the underground dining hall. No one would hear her if she knocked on the great oak doors. And if she rang the bell, who would open the door? Weedon, the janitor, who had not an ounce of sympathy for an endowed child.
There was only one place she could go; only one man strong enough to demand entry to Bloor's Academy and rescue Tancred. Emma flew toward the Heights, a distant hill crowned by a thick forest of pines.
The Thunder House stood in a forest glade; visitors
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to the place were few, for the surrounding air was always turbulent. Thunder growled above the trees and an incessant north wind carried hailstones, even in the summer.
Small birds became as helpless as toys when they drew near the Torssons' home. Tossed between clouds and deafened by thunderclaps, they could do little more than close their eyes and hope to keep airborne.
But hope was not good enough for Emma. In the world, no bird was as fiercely determined. She would reach Tancred's father, and he would save Tancred.
As Emma approached the mysterious house with its three pointed roofs, the wind increased its grip. She could hardly breathe as the current's iron fist tightened about her. With a soundless cry of fear she gave in to the wind and allowed it to hurl her at the Thunder House.
When the wind released her, the bruised little bird ruffled her feathers and stretched her needle-thin legs. "Help! Help!" she cried; before she was
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fully changed, she began to rap on the Thunder House door with a fist that still had not lost all its feathers.
When the door was opened, it would be difficult to say who was the most startled: the half-bird, half-girl on the step or the seven-foot-tall man with his moon-yellow hair and electrified beard.
They had met once before and Emma knew Mr. Torsson was a kind man beneath his stormy exterior. "It's Emma," she said. "I'm sorry I'm still not quite me." Then, reaching her full, featherless height, "Ah, here I am."
"Emma Tolly?" boomed Mr. Torsson.
"Yes," Emma shrieked through a thunderclap, and without pausing for another breath, she cried out her news. Every word she uttered increased the tempest that erupted from the thunder man, and before she had finished, her hand was seized in long, icy fingers.
"We'll ride the storm," roared Mr. Torsson, whirling Emma off her feet.
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Afterward, Emma could never find the words to describe her journey through the air. She was flying, and yet she was not a bird. The storm lifted her, cradled her, swung her feet into its arms, and rushed her through the sky. The storm had moon-yellow hair and bolts of lightning grew from his beard. Beneath him the hooves of an invisible horse thundered over the clouds.
It was over in less than two minutes. They landed in the courtyard of Bloor's Academy, and before Emma could gather her thoughts, Mr. Torsson had mounted the worn stone steps. One blow from his icy fist sent the great doors crashing apart, their long iron bolts scudding over the flagstones.
"Where's my son?" roared the thunder man, striding into the hall.
"This way," cried Emma, running to the staircase.
The ancient wood groaned in distress as Mr. Torsson mounted the stairs. The railings rattled and the carpets sighed as hailstones bruised their thick pile.
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"Hurry, please! Hurry," called Emma, running down the hallway that led to the art room.
Voices could now be heard in the hall. "Who's there? What's going on?"
Easels clattered to the floor as Mr. Torsson marched through the art room. He reached the trapdoor and Emma pointed to the bolt that held it shut. She could hear the water gurgling beneath them. How high would it be now?
In almost one movement, the thunder man had pulled open the trapdoor and whirled down the spiraling steps. Emma, following, saw to her horror that the water was now level with the tigers' eyes. Tancred had gone.
"Don't touch the water!" Mr. Torsson commanded as he waded through the flood.
Shafts of electricity lit the water and the room was bathed in the reflected blue-white glow. The thunder man bent down and, with a dreadful sucking splash, lifted his son out of the water. Tancred's face was a deathly gray.
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"NO!" With tears streaming down her face, Emma scurried back up to the art room. Thundering footsteps and the steady stream pouring from Tancred's clothes followed her up the steps and through the tangle of fallen easels.
Squelch! Squelch! Squelch! Mr. Torsson's wet boots punched damp holes into the floorboards as they hurried down unlit corridors until they came to the landing above the hall.
Dr. Bloor stood looking up at them. Behind him, some of the staff had gathered. They stared at Mr. Torsson, their mouths agape, like dying fish.
"You'll pay for this!" bellowed Mr. Torsson, raising the boy he carried.
Hissing blue water streamed down the polished staircase and spilled onto the flagstones. Fearing electrocution, the crowd moved back with exclamations of alarm. But old Mr. Ezekiel, in his rubber-wheeled chair, moved to the foot of the dripping stairs and croaked, "Why should we pay? Your son has evidently made a mess. Must
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have left the tap running and slipped in the water."
"LIAR!" boomed the thunder man.
Hailstones the
size of oranges rained down on the terrified staff. Most ran, howling childishly, into the nearest hallway; a few, including Dr. Saltweather, raised their hands protectively above their heads and waited to see what would happen next.
They didn't have to wait long. The next minute a bolt of lightning whizzed around the paneled walls. Flames began to eat at the wooden signs above the coatroom doors, and then all the lights went out. When Mr. Torsson thumped down the staircase, the whole building shuddered. Distant bangs and crashes could be heard as paintings fell off walls, furniture toppled over, and cupboards flew open, disgorging their contents over anything and anyone in their way.
Down in the dining hall, children clutched their plates while knives and forks flew in every direction.
"Do not impale yourselves," Mrs. Marlowe, the
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drama teacher, called theatrically through the darkness. "It's just a thunderstorm. Stay calm."
"A typhoon more likely," said Bragger Braine.
"A typhoon, definitely," echoed Rupe Small.
Crouching on the landing, Emma watched Mr. Torsson's huge silhouette move across the hall. In the dangerous flicker from tiny fires all around the room, she could just make out the retreating figures of Dr. Bloor and Mr. Ezekiel, in his wheelchair.
With a final, deafening crack of thunder, Mr. Torsson stepped between the open main doors and down into the courtyard. Emma longed to follow him, but she didn't dare to move. She stayed where she was while the staff rushed around, shining flashlights and setting things right again. And then she crept up to her dormitory and waited to tell Olivia the unbelievable, heartbreaking news.
Charlie sat huddled in a corner of the Gray Room. He guessed that the violent thunderstorm must have
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had something to do with Tancred. But what had happened? He longed to know.
When the storm had passed, a profound silence settled into the hallway outside. It was as though the grandfather clocks and mechanical toys were holding their breath. A minute later they started up again, even louder and faster than before.
Charlie looked at his watch. Nine o'clock. Had they forgotten his existence? Did they intend to starve him? He was too hungry and too cold to sleep.
At half past nine the door opened. Charlie leaped up. A powerful light was beamed at his face, and he covered his eyes with his hand.
"Can I go now?" asked Charlie. "And... and could I have something to eat?"
"Oh, yes, Charlie Bone, you can go!" It was Weedon's gloomy voice. "You've been suspended." * "Suspended?" uttered Charlie.
"I'm taking you back to your home, where you can cool your heels for a while."
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"But ..."
"No buts. Follow me."
Charlie had no choice. He was led down to the hall, where there was a strong smell of burning.
"I suppose the storm knocked the lights out," said Charlie.
There was no reply.
"Can I get my bag?" asked Charlie.
"No bag. No fraternizing," growled Weedon as he fiddled with the main doors.
"The bolts are broken," Charlie observed. "Was that the storm, too?"
"Shut up!" said Weedon.
Charlie followed the burly figure across the courtyard and down into the square. The streetlights still gave out their bright glow, and Charlie saw a black car parked beside the school steps.
"Get in," Weedon ordered.
Charlie obeyed. He was a little frightened and very confused. This had never happened before. Why hadn't he been given detention or some other
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punishment? Weedon swung himself into the driver's seat and turned on the engine.
"Why is this happening?" cried Charlie. "What's going on? Can't you tell me, please, Mr. Weedon?"
"I can tell you one thing, Charlie Bone." An ugly smile crossed Weedon's face. "Your friend, the weather boy, was drowned tonight."
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CHAPTER 13
CHARLIE IS SUSPENDED
I don't believe you. The words were on Charlie's tongue but he couldn't utter them. A sickening, deadly chill settled over him and he knew it must be true. Dagbert-the-drowner had won. And Tancred had lost.
Charlie held his face in a rigid mask. He would not let the man beside him see the tears that had filled his eyes. But Weedon did not even glance at Charlie. The janitor was staring at the road ahead. Raindrops the size of pebbles began to lash the windshield and intermittent thunder rolled above the city.
"Who does he think he is," growled Weedon, "that thunder man?"
The thunder man! So Tancred's father knew what had happened. Had he tried to save his son? Charlie wondered. He didn't want to speak to Weedon, but
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suddenly found himself asking, "Did Mr. Torsson come to the school?"
"Huh!" Weedon grunted. "Don't know how he knew, but he was there all right. Nearly set fire to the place."
"But he couldn't save Tancred?"
"No." Weedon put on a silly, spiteful voice. "He couldn't save his little boy."
Charlie gritted his teeth. There were no more questions to ask.
"Soon there won't be any of you left, will there, Charlie Bone? Now that little Billy's gone." Weedon gave a hoarse cackle. "You might as well give up and use your talent for something useful. Give old Mr. Ezekiel a hand."
Never, thought Charlie.
"I hope you haven't forgotten your mommy and daddy, all alone on the big wild sea." Weedon's tone had changed. He sounded in deadly earnest.
Charlie didn't have to answer. They had arrived outside number nine Filbert Street.
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"Get out," said Weedon.
As soon as Charlie had climbed out of the car, Weedon leaned over and slammed the passenger door. The car sped off, showering Charlie with a muddy spray.
Charlie imagined that Maisie would answer the door. He began to prepare an explanation for his sudden arrival. But he needn't have bothered. It was Grandma Bone who stood on the threshold when the door opened. She had obviously been waiting for Charlie.
"They've told me everything," Grandma Bone said grimly as Charlie stepped into the hall. "Upstairs."
"Could I have... ?"
"Nothing," she said. "That's what you can have. Nothing."
"But I'm so hungry." Charlie clutched his stomach. "I haven't eaten since ..."
"Didn't you hear me?" His grandmother raised her voice. "Upstairs."
Maisie's frightened face appeared around the
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kitchen door. "What's going on?" she asked. "Charlie? You're soaked, love. What's happened?"
"None of your business," said Grandma Bone.
Annoyed by her tone, Maisie walked assertively into the hall. "It certainly is my business. Charlie's soaked. Come into the kitchen, Charlie."
"I haven't eaten since breakfast," Charlie said with desperation. "I'm so hungry, Maisie."
"He has been suspended from school," said Grandma Bone. "He is being punished for outrageous behavior."
"You surely wouldn't begrudge him a sandwich, Grizelda." Maisie felt Charlie's damp cape. "Take that off. You'd die of pneumonia and starvation if some people had their way." She threw a defiant look at Grandma Bone and pulled off Charlie's wet cape.
"One sandwich," said Grandma Bone, reluctantly. "Then bed." She went upstairs and slammed her door.
Maisie drew Charlie to the stove and sat him down in the rocker. "Tell me everything, Charlie.
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What's been going on?" She went to the fridge and brought out an armful of food.
"You'll soon have the biggest sandwich I can manage. So come on, Charlie. Tell all."
Maisie's kindness was too much for Charlie. A sob rose up from his chest and threatened to choke him. "Oh, Maisie," he cried, "Tancred's dead."
"What?" Maisie stared at him aghast.
The tears that Charlie had been holding back now streamed down his face and dripped onto his hands as he vainly tried to wipe them away.
"Charlie! Charlie, tell me what happened?" begged Maisie, using her handkerchief to dab Charlie's cheeks.
"I don't know, Maisie. I don't know. I was locked up." And Charlie told Maisie everything that had happened until the moment Claerwen had emerged from her shining cocoon. "I knew Tancred had been tricked, then." Charlie gave a shuddering sigh and wiped his eyes. "But I never thought Dagbert would... would really drown him."
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"So, it's come to this." Maisie put a plate of huge sandwiches on Charlie's lap. "I'm glad you've been suspended, Charlie. I don't think you should ever go back to that awful place."
"But I've got to, Maisie. There's only three of them now. Well, four, if you count Olivia, I suppose. They NEED me there."
"No, they don't. Your family needs you. I need you. And there's an end to it." Maisie pulled up a chair and sat opposite Charlie, watching him eat.
It would be useless to try and explain, Charlie realized. He could hardly explain it to himself, this instinctive need to be with the others: Gabriel, Emma, Olivia, and Lysander. Because only if they were together, could they stop the shadow from returning to the city and... And what? Charlie didn't even dare to think about that.
"Claerwen!" he cried. "She's in my pocket."
Maisie caught the plate that would have rolled off Charlie's knees as he leaped up and ran into the hall. The white moth had climbed out of his pocket and
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now sat on top of the coat hook, sending tiny rays of light across the dark hall. She immediately flew onto Charlie's arm and he carried her into the kitchen.
Maisie watched Charlie settle back into the rocker and handed him his plate. "Don't think you can go traveling again," she said, eyeing the moth. "Grandma Bone's taken the key to the cellar door. So you can't get into that painting, Charlie, with or without your little moth."