Charlie Bone and the Invisible Boy

by Jenny Nimmo

  “He’s probably curled up asleep somewhere,” said Charlie. “I’m going to put some potatoes in the oven.”

  Before he could do this, his mother walked in with an armful of carrots. She showed no surprise on seeing a small white-haired boy sitting at the kitchen table. She was used to Benjamin’s visits and was glad that Charlie would have a friend around over the weekend. She had guessed that Paton had come home because she’d heard strange noises very late the previous night, but she hadn’t had time to pop in and see him before she left for work.

  “He’s ill, Mom,” said Charlie. “Really, really ill. His hair’s turned gray, and he can’t speak.”

  “Oh, dear, perhaps I’d better go and see.” Mrs. Bone ran upstairs.

  A few minutes later she came down looking very worried. “I’ll call the doctor. Does your grandmother know about Paton?”

  “She said he deserved it for meddling,” Charlie told her.

  Mrs. Bone shook her head. “That family,” she muttered.

  While Charlie got the dinner ready, Amy Bone called the doctor. She was on the phone for quite some time, trying to describe Paton’s symptoms. It wasn’t easy explaining that someone had turned gray overnight.

  “I don’t think the doctor believed me,” said Amy, replacing the receiver. “But he’s coming around in an hour, just to check.”

  At that moment Grandma Bone came back with her prunes. As soon as she heard that a doctor had been called, she went to the phone and canceled his visit.

  “How could you do that?” said Amy. “Paton needs a doctor.”

  “No he doesn’t,” Grandma Bone retorted. “There’s nothing a doctor can do. It’s a waste of his precious time.”

  “Honestly! Your own brother,” cried Amy. “Suppose … suppose he dies? How would you feel then?”

  “We all die — in time,” said Grandma Bone, rinsing her prunes.

  Watching the arguments in wide-eyed silence, Billy decided that family life wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be.

  Dinner was an uncomfortable affair. Refusing ham and potatoes, Grandma Bone worked her way through a bowl of prunes, making a horrible sucking noise in the process.

  After dinner, while Mrs. Bone made up a bed for Billy, the boys told her about Rembrandt.

  “Oh, Charlie, not another animal,” sighed Mrs. Bone.

  “He’s very clean,” said Billy, “and not a biter.”

  “But a rat …”

  “Just look out for him, please, Mom?” begged Charlie. “We don’t want Grandma to find him first.”

  “I should think not,” said his mother with a grin. “I’ll do my best, but don’t blame me if I scream when I see him.” She left the bedroom saying, “Rats. Whatever’s next?”

  Billy wanted to continue the search for Rembrandt, but Charlie was afraid Grandma Bone would become suspicious. Besides, Uncle Paton, who could always be relied on in a crisis, was now lying in some terrible stupor, unable to tell anyone what had happened to him. Perhaps he would never be quite himself again.

  “Your uncle breaks lightbulbs, doesn’t he?” said Billy.

  “He’s a power-booster,” said Charlie. “Something happens when he looks at a light; it just kind of explodes. That’s why he doesn’t go out until after midnight. Someone might see one of his ‘accidents.’”

  “There was a light on in his room,” said Billy.

  “What?” Charlie hadn’t noticed. He had to find out if it was true.

  When he looked into his uncle’s room, there it was — a bright light hanging from the ceiling, right above his uncle’s desk.

  “It’s gone, Charlie,” came a faint voice from the bed.

  Paton’s dark eyes were now open. He was gazing at the light with an expression of horror.

  “Uncle, you’re awake!” cried Charlie.

  “If you can call it that,” croaked Paton. “Charlie, I’m cleaned out, whipped. He’s stronger than anyone could imagine.”

  “Who?” said Charlie.

  Paton closed his eyes again. “Your grandmother put the light on to test me. She wanted to make sure I’d lost the power. Well — I have.”

  “But who did this to you?” Charlie asked.

  Paton’s gray head tossed from side to side. “I thought he was dead — gone. But he never will be.”

  “Who?” begged Charlie.

  “I can’t say his name. Perhaps, tomorrow …” Paton turned his face to the wall.

  Charlie realized that he couldn’t press his uncle any further. He was about to leave the room when the wand caught his eye, and the beginning of an idea crept into his mind. He picked up the ruined wand and slipped back to his room.

  Billy was sitting on Charlie’s bed, looking very despondent.

  “Don’t worry about Rembrandt,” said Charlie. “He’s a clever rat, and you’re his friend. He’ll turn up soon, I bet.” He saw that Billy wasn’t really listening to him; he was gazing at Charlie’s hands with an expression of awe.

  When Charlie looked down he saw that the burned wand was changing. He could feel it moving gently under his fingers, as slippery as silk and warm as sunlight. The silver tip began to sparkle and the blackened wood gradually faded until it was a pure white.

  “How did that happen?” breathed Billy.

  Charlie shook his head. “Don’t know.” He sat beside Billy and ran his fingers over the smooth white wood.

  “It’s a wand, isn’t it?” said Billy. “It was all black and broken and now it’s like brand-new. Is it your uncle’s?”

  “No,” said Charlie slowly. “I borrowed it from a person who had stolen it from someone else.”

  “Looks like it really wanted to be with you,” observed Billy. “Like it belonged to you.”

  “It can’t,” said Charlie. “It’s impossible. I’m not a wizard or a sorcerer.”

  “But you’re endowed, like me.”

  “Not in that way,” Charlie muttered. He decided to tell Billy the truth about the wand.

  Reaching under the bed, Charlie pulled out a small painting. It showed a man in a long black robe with silver black hair and a beard the same color. He was standing in a room lit by candles in a tall iron stand. With a piece of chalk he was drawing a star on a stone wall already covered in strange symbols.

  “You brought that picture to school last semester, didn’t you?” said Billy.

  “Yes. The man’s a sorcerer called Skarpo. I stole the wand from him.”

  Billy’s jaw dropped. He turned to Charlie and gave him one of his long dark-red stares. “You …?” he said huskily.

  “I went into the picture,” said Charlie. “I’d never done that before, I’d only heard voices.” He caught a sudden glint in the sorcerer’s eye and quickly turned the painting over. “I mustn’t look at him too long or he’ll drag me in again.”

  Billy shook his head in wonder. “How did you get out?”

  “That was a bit tricky. Lysander helped me.” Charlie glanced at Billy, wondering again if he could really trust him. He decided he would have to chance it. “The thing is, Billy, I thought I might go in again. That sorcerer is very powerful. He had loads of stuff in his room, did you notice? Herbs and feathers and things.”

  “He had a dagger; I saw that.”

  Charlie held the painting up to Billy. “What else do you see?”

  “Bowls and books and jars of colored water, and big candles and signs on the wall, oh, and a mouse looking out of his pocket, and loads of junk on the table.”

  “He might have a cure for my uncle,” said Charlie. “If I give him back the wand, maybe he’ll give me something in return. And I could ask him about Ollie. He may know a cure for invisibility.”

  “Lysander’s not here today,” said Billy dubiously. “Suppose you can’t get out?”

  “That’s where you come in, Billy. Just cling on to my arm, will you? And if I’m acting a bit funny, give me a tug. I don’t go right in, you see, it’s just my mind. But he can see my face, and he’ll
probably see the wand. I won’t go in as far as I did last time. I’ll keep to the edge and just talk to him.”

  Charlie propped the painting against his bedside lamp, then he got up and held the wand in front of him. “Are you ready?”

  Billy slid off the bed and clutched Charlie’s arm. “Ready.”

  Charlie looked at the sorcerer. It didn’t take long for Skarpo to see him. “You’re back,” said a husky singsong voice.

  Charlie felt himself sliding forward, through a drifting white mist. All he could see was the sorcerer’s bony face, and he quickly lowered his eyes to avoid Skarpo’s magnetic yellow gaze. A rich smell of burning herbs filled his nostrils and he sneezed violently.

  “Stop that!” said the voice.

  “S-s-achoo — sorry. Couldn’t help it,” said Charlie. He looked past the dark robed figure and scanned the objects on the table.

  “What do you want this time, you thief?” said Skarpo.

  “I’ve brought back your wand,” said Charlie. “And I was just wondering …”

  “What?” Skarpo seemed to be looking at the wand. “Take it away,” he said in a low voice.

  “But I thought you wanted it,” said Charlie. “You were so angry when I took it. I came back to exchange it for — well, just a bit of advice, really, you being so experienced in magic and everything. I thought you might be able to help me.”

  “It’s not mine, boy, I see that now.” The sorcerer seemed unable to drag his eyes away from the wand. “Well, I never. It was yours all along.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Charlie. “It’s not mine. But anyway, the thing is, my uncle’s very ill, so ill he’s lost the power he used to have. It was him who first told me about you, actually, so have you got anything for endowed people that have sort of become unendowed?”

  “I’d have to see your uncle.” Skarpo took a step toward Charlie.

  “You can’t do that.” Charlie took a step backward.

  Skarpo moved closer. “I’ll have to, my wee fellow. How can I help a man I don’t see? Besides, I’ve a mind to peek into your century.”

  “That’s impossible,” said Charlie firmly. “You belong in your picture.”

  “I’ll hitch a ride with you.” The sorcerer’s pale hand stretched out toward Charlie, and Charlie felt something tug his sweater. He stepped backward very fast, saying, “No! No! No! I’m going now. Now! Now!” And again he stepped back. This time he tripped and found himself falling. It was like tumbling through air, down, down, and down.

  Charlie had to close his eyes against the horrible pitching and tossing that was happening to his body. And then the back of his head hit something hard, with a loud bang.

  Charlie opened his eyes. He was lying on his bedroom floor, not quite on the floor but on something small and bumpy.

  A muffled voice beneath him said, “Charlie, you’re squashing me.”

  Charlie rolled over and found Billy stretched out beside him. His glasses had fallen off and his eyes were wide with fright.

  “Sorry,” said Charlie. “What happened?”

  “Wee-i-erd,” said Billy, sitting up. He found his spectacles and put them on. “I held on to you, like you said, but you kept moving backward and saying, ‘Now! Now!’ and then you tripped over my foot and we both fell down. I couldn’t see anything because you were on top of me, but there was an almighty wind and someone stepped on my hand, and the door blew open.”

  At that moment the front door slammed. The boys were silent, waiting to hear footsteps in the hall. There were none. Charlie got up and looked out of the window. There were several people in the street and a few passing cars. And then, in the distance, he saw a dark shadow traveling very fast against the evening light.

  Charlie felt slightly queasy. Whether it was from banging his head, or the feeling that somehow things had gone a little bit wrong, he wasn’t sure.

  “What happened in there?” asked Billy, pointing at the picture.

  Charlie noticed that the sorcerer was still in the painting. That was reassuring. He laid it facedown on the bedside table. “He wanted to come out,” he said.

  “Perhaps he did come out,” said Billy.

  “No. Couldn’t have. Let’s get ready for bed. You can use the bathroom first.”

  The two boys changed into their pajamas, and Billy took his wash kit to the bathroom. In a few minutes he was back, with toothpaste around his mouth and a black rat in his hands. “Look what I’ve found!” he cried.

  “Rembrandt! Where was he?”

  “In the bathroom, under the bath.” Billy put Rembrandt on Charlie’s bed. “It’s so good to see you, Rem!”

  “I don’t think I want Rem in my bed tonight,” said Charlie, and he ran down to the kitchen to look for a box.

  Unfortunately, Grandma Bone was in the kitchen, slurping up another bowl of prunes. “What are you looking for?” she demanded as Charlie rummaged around in the pantry.

  “A box,” he said.

  “What for? (Slurp.)”

  “To put something in.” Charlie emerged with a box in his hands and six cookies in his bathrobe pocket.

  “What sort of thing? Drat!” Grandma Bone missed her mouth and a prune fell on to the tablecloth.

  “Whoops!” said Charlie.

  “What are you putting in that box?”

  “A monster with six eyes, four tails, and bad breath,” said Charlie, running out of the room.

  “Don’t be insolent,” screeched Grandma Bone. She came into the hall and was about to shout something else when she suddenly changed her mind and said sweetly, “Say good night to that little boy for me.”

  Charlie was so unnerved by her tone he almost dropped the box. Did his grandmother think she could use Billy against him?

  “Phew, Grandma certainly likes you,” he said, handing Billy the box. “This is for Rembrandt. And I’ve got some cookies for his dinner. Billy? Billy!”

  Billy’s white eyebrows were drawn together in an odd frown.

  “What’s up?” said Charlie.

  “I’ve been talking to Rembrandt,” Billy said in a puzzled voice.

  “He gave you some bad news by the look of it,” Charlie remarked.

  “He said there was a bad smell in the bathroom.”

  “There’s always a bad smell,” said Charlie. “It’s Grandma.”

  “No, Charlie. This is different,” Billy said gravely. “Rembrandt says it smells of bad magic and things that should be dead.”

  Charlie resisted the temptation to say, “Like I said,” and marched along to the bathroom, followed by Billy who was still clutching Rembrandt.

  “Can’t smell a thing,” said Charlie, opening the door.

  “Look!” Billy whispered. “Under the sink.”

  Charlie looked. Sitting under the sink was a brown mouse. It began to squeak, almost hysterically, and while it squeaked, Rembrandt joined in, squealing even louder than the mouse.

  Billy began to translate Rembrandt’s shrill words, if they could be called words. “He says … the mouse is very scared … because it doesn’t know … where it is … or how it got here. Rembrandt says its smell is from a long time ago, so long it’s messing up his brain.”

  “A long time ago?” Charlie looked at Billy, who returned his gaze with a mixture of disbelief and bewilderment.

  “Skarpo had a mouse in his pocket,” Charlie said slowly.

  “So, where’s Skarpo?” Billy whispered.

  When the squeaking had finally died down, Billy said, “Should we let it go or try and keep it?”

  Charlie took a step toward the mouse and that decided the matter. The little creature darted under the bath, and when Charlie tried to crawl after it, the mouse leaped through a hole in the floor.

  “That’s it, then.” Charlie stood up and dusted himself off.

  “What are we going to do about the sorcerer?” said Billy.

  “There’s nothing we can do. We’ll just have to wait.”

  Charlie was a
wake for most of that night. Billy grunted and chattered in his sleep while the rat made a peculiar twittering sound. Now and again Charlie would shout, “Shut up, both of you!” but his visitors slept on.

  Very early next morning Charlie tiptoed downstairs for a bowl of cereal. The house and the street outside were eerily quiet. And Rembrandt was right, there was a very strange smell around the place. Was that how bad magic smelled? Charlie wondered if the mouse had brought bad luck as well as bad magic into the house.

  When he’d finished his cereal, Charlie took a cup of tea and a cookie up to his uncle’s room. Paton was sitting propped up against a mound of cushions and pillows. He still looked deathly white but a bit of life appeared to have seeped back into his gray hair.

  “Morning, dear boy.” Paton’s voice was very faint.

  “You’re looking a bit better, Uncle,” said Charlie. “Your hair — it was all gray yesterday.”

  “Ash,” Paton said hoarsely. He touched his throat. “Can’t talk much.”

  Charlie noticed that the light was still on. It flickered now and again, but there were none of the bright explosions that Paton usually managed to generate.

  “Maybe it’s a good thing that you’ve lost your …” Charlie hesitated. “Well, I mean, now that lights don’t explode all around you.”

  “It crossed my mind,” Paton whispered, “but only for a moment. I’ve realized that it’s never a good thing to lose your talent; you lose a bit of yourself along with it.”

  “I suppose so,” said Charlie solemnly. “Uncle Paton, what happened to you?”

  Paton closed his eyes. “Can’t talk now, Charlie. If you see Miss IngIedew, tell her … tell her …”

  “Yes,” said Charlie eagerly. “Tell her what?”

  “Tell her I wish —” Paton shook his head. “No, I’m afraid it’s too late.”

  “Too late!” cried Charlie. His uncle’s expression scared him. “What do you mean, too late?”

  “Never mind. I’d like to be alone now, Charlie.”

  Whatever it was that had happened to his uncle, Charlie was afraid that the effects might be permanent, or fatal. He quietly closed the door and went back to his room. Billy was sitting on the edge of Charlie’s bed with Rembrandt on his knee. “I thought it was all a bad dream,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “But it really happened, didn’t it? The mouse and the sorcerer.”