Bookweirder

by Paul Glennon

  “Nah, that’ll be Pippa with the signals,” George said, rising from his sleeping bag to a crouched position. “She’s a brick.”

  Norman guessed that being a brick was a good thing. He handed George the Thermos of tea.

  George took the Thermos from his hand. “I say,” he enthused, “that’s a cracking watch you have there.” Norman hadn’t thought of it when he’d pressed the button to illuminate the digits. “I suppose it’s an American thing. Brilliant, all the same. I’ll have to have one sent over.”

  Norman smiled, not wanting to burst his bubble.

  “I’ll take over now,” George declared, placing the empty Thermos aside. “I’ll wake you in a few hours.”

  Norman still had not removed the telescope from his eye. He did not want to miss anything.

  George didn’t insist. “I should like to go to America when all this business here is done with,” the older boy continued. Something about his tone at this moment was less convincing than before. The confidence and maturity for a moment became bluster. George was just a kid, too. And Norman realized that “this business here” wasn’t just the poacher or even the legal issues about the house. This was happening only because his father was in prison. Norman wanted to say something, but he had no idea what.

  A movement at the edge of the forest stopped that thought dead. “George,” he whispered hoarsely, “there’s something there.” He handed the telescope over and pointed towards the treeline.

  George raised the telescope to his eye and trained it on the spot Norman had indicated. He was silent and still for a moment, adjusting the scope for a better look before announcing, “That’s our man, all right. Send the signal.”

  Within moments they were in motion. Norman and George hurried down the Rook’s spiral staircase and sprinted across the lawn in the shadow of a low stone wall. The border collie, Nelson, bounded silently ahead of them. Summoned by Norman’s signal, Pippa and Gordon were letting themselves out the kitchen door. Norman and George caught up to Nelson at the forest’s edge.

  George drew the spyglass from his coat and confirmed that their quarry had not moved from his spot at the end of the forest path. “He’s setting a trap,” George told Norman as they watched and waited for the Cooks to come into view. “But he’s falling into ours,” he added dramatically.

  He handed the telescope to Norman and crouched down to set up the flashlight on the ground, fixing it on an angle behind the wall so that when they flicked it on, the light would just clear the top of the stones.

  Through the telescope Norman watched the progress of the poacher. From the dark silhouette he looked like the man from London, but it was impossible to know for sure. Pivoting to the side Norman trained the telescope on the two smaller figures of the Cooks creeping along the path.

  “Okay,” Norman murmured, “Gordon and Pippa are behind him now on the main path.”

  George waited, crouched down on the ground, and stared grimly into the dark like an action hero.

  “George,” Norman whispered more loudly.

  George raised his head sharply and flicked on his flashlight. Its beam shone upwards on an angle over the stone wall. In unison George and Norman leapt onto the wall and shouted in the deepest voices they could muster:

  “You there, stop!”

  Nelson backed them up with a frenzy of barking.

  The poacher turned and stared towards them. With the flashlight lighting them up from behind, he could not see their faces. He could not tell that they were only kids. Standing on the wall, and with the light elongating their shadows, they appeared much taller than they were.

  The poacher froze for a moment, staring back at his pursuers. It was him, all right—the man from Dodgeworth’s. Norman gritted his teeth. This was the man who had Malcolm. The poacher seemed to regain his senses, turned and ducked clumsily into the woods.

  Norman and George gave chase. They could hear the big man crashing heavily along the path up ahead. Nelson made sure that their pursuit was noisy. They wanted the intruder to know they were after him. The plan depended on driving him towards their trap. Norman hoped that Pippa and Gordon had been quick enough to get in position ahead of them on the trail.

  Up ahead there was a fork in the trail. They needed the poacher to take the right turn. Pippa and Gordon were supposed to make sure of that.

  “Nearly there,” George said huskily, almost out of breath. “The fork is at that big oak.” They kept running. Where were Pippa and Gordon? If they didn’t spring their surprise soon, the poacher might take the left fork and escape.

  The beams of four flashlights suddenly snapped on up ahead to the left. The silhouette of the poacher froze. Perhaps he was calculating his odds. Was he better to face the four new pursuers who had cut him off, or the two with a dog behind him?

  Norman aimed the beam of his flashlight directly at their quarry’s face. It was him, all right. The same bristly bald head, the same mean, squinting eyes, the same ragged red bandana. The poacher blinked back angrily into the light, then made his decision, careening down the right fork.

  The four children set off in combined pursuit. The trail narrowed, angling down the side of a ridge, forcing them to run in single file. Soon they were all hurtling down the ridge as fast as they could. Norman could hear the ragged breathing of Gordon Cook behind him. Up ahead, George had stopped shouting encouragement, saving his breath for the chase. Norman could just keep up, but the Cooks were falling back quickly. It didn’t matter to Norman. All he could think of was rescuing Malcolm. It probably didn’t matter to George, either. George had never met a criminal that he could not take on single-handedly.

  Ahead of them all, the big man smashed through the forest, his heavy boots crushing twigs and brush beneath him, his bulk whipping and snapping branches as he ran.

  Suddenly there was a shout or a surprised grunt. He had fallen into the trap.

  Norman and George skidded to a halt. Both boys lifted their flashlights to illuminate the huge old pine tree that spanned the path. The big poacher should have been up there. He should have been dangling by his foot from the thick rope they’d tied to the overhanging branch—but there was no overhanging branch.

  They dipped their flashlights, swinging their beams across the forest. There in front of them, lying across the path, was the branch. Beside it lay the poacher, who looked as though he was just recovering his senses after a nasty fall. The branch had snapped under his weight.

  “Stop there, you!” George commanded in his usual tone of offended authority.

  The big thief pulled himself to a sitting position and began tugging at the rope around his ankle.

  “I said stop. Stay where you are!” George repeated haughtily.

  The man in the red bandana looked up. His eyes wild with anger, he spat out an insult that Norman had heard once or twice on the playground but never in a book. The poacher was nearly loose from the trap now—a few more tugs and he would be free.

  George just cried, “Get him!” and dove at the captive poacher. Had he thought about it, Norman would have stayed back. But he acted instinctively. This was the man who had captured and tortured his friend.

  Norman hurled himself at the thug, but the big man just shrugged off his tackle. Norman heard an “umph” that might have come from him or George as they both tumbled to the ground. The poacher resumed his efforts with the rope.

  George struggled to his hands and knees and launched another attack, grasping the man’s arm. Nelson barked and nipped at the big man’s heels. Their efforts barely slowed the struggling giant.

  Norman thought for half a second about how dangerous this was, then he grabbed the villain’s other arm. The three struggled together for a few more moments in an uneven wrestling match.

  The poacher was too strong and too mean for them. One vicious swing of his elbow caught George in the ribs. The boy hit the ground with a gasp. He lay there stunned for a moment, holding his chest.

  A heavy boot caugh
t Nelson in the hip. The dog yelped and skittered away sideways. Taking a position between his master and the poacher, the collie bared his teeth and let out a low growl, but kept his distance. Norman clung to the poacher’s back, making futile grasps at his arms. He felt himself rising as the poacher undid the last of the knots and staggered to his feet.

  With one furious twist the poacher shook Norman from his back, flinging him violently to the ground. Norman winced and peered fearfully up at the bald criminal who loomed over him.

  “Stupid brat,” he snarled. “You tryin’ to get yourself killed?” His accent reminded Norman of the noisy New York police station in The Magpie.

  Suddenly the look in the poacher’s eyes changed. “Rams? That’s a Rams jersey,” he growled. He grabbed the shoulders of Norman’s sweatshirt and shook him. “Where’d you get this?” Norman stared back uncomprehendingly as the bald man’s anger swelled. “You tell me where you got that shirt, kid, or I’ll knock your teeth out.”

  “My … my … my mom,” Norman answered, confused and scared by the question. What did his shirt have to do with anything?

  The poacher’s eyes opened wide and stared manically.

  The guy is crazy, on top of everything, Norman thought. He’s going to kill me because I’m wearing a Rams shirt. Norman wasn’t even much of a football fan.

  “You’re not from here,” the thug growled, bringing his face in close. The smell of his sour breath brought Norman back to the last time he’d been cornered by an angry enemy. It was wolves that time, but this was just as terrifying.

  “You’re from the other place. The real place, the future, and you’re taking me back with you,” the poacher fumed.

  Norman blinked and stared. What did he mean, the other place? A terrible thought began to occur to him.

  The beam of a flashlight blinded Norman. “Put him down right now,” George commanded.

  The thug turned and sneered, but now four new beams of light shone down from the path. A whistle sounded, followed by a shrill “Halt! Police!”

  It wasn’t the police, it turned out. It was only Gordon and Pippa, each holding two flashlights, but in the dark and chaos of Kelmsworth Wood, the poacher was hardly to know this. He could deal with two crazy kids, their dog and their lame traps, but the prospect of four policemen weighing in was a little much. He dropped Norman unceremoniously to the ground.

  Norman scrambled to the other side of the tree, lest the poacher change his mind. For a moment the bald man didn’t move, unwilling to leave even now. He stared at Norman for a long time, his eyes wide with anger and frustration. He looked more like a rabid animal than a man.

  The whistle sounded again. The bald man gave Norman one last wild look and went crashing into the forest.

  They knew better than to chase him. Norman and the Intrepids were relieved to have escaped without serious injury.

  “Are you sure you’re all right, George?” Pippa asked for the third or thirteenth time, handing over the mugs of cocoa she’d prepared back at the lodge.

  George furrowed his eyebrows but didn’t answer the question. Since they’d left the forest he’d been lost in thought, as if struggling with an impenetrable riddle.

  “Strange,” he mused to himself as he sipped his cocoa. “That ought to have worked.” He was genuinely perplexed that he had not been able to capture a criminal more than twice his size. He was so used to his schemes working, the failure was unaccountable. “I can’t explain it. First London, and now this.”

  Norman shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He had an idea why neither scheme had worked.

  “Just a run of bad luck,” Gordon opined cheerfully. “We’ll have him out in the next over.” He sat back and licked the cocoa moustache from his upper lip.

  Norman wasn’t so sure. George was used to coming up against a different kind of villain. The world of the Intrepids didn’t include opponents who were too smart or too tough for George. That wasn’t how it worked. But Mr. Todd didn’t play by these rules because Mr. Todd was Fuchs. Fuchs wasn’t from the world of the Intrepids. Fuchs didn’t care that their mouse distraction was supposed to work. The poacher didn’t care either, and Norman had a terrible suspicion that the reason was the same. Neither of them belonged in the pages of the Intrepids.

  “You ought to give me your jumper,” Pippa said, obviously trying to change the subject. “I’ll have it mended. George, you’ll lend him one of yours, won’t you?”

  George mumbled a distracted agreement.

  When Norman pulled his sweatshirt over his head, he noticed how badly it was ripped. The violence of the poacher’s grip came back to him and made him shiver.

  “By the way, Norman, what’s Rams?” Gordon asked blithely. “What’s that all about, then? Is it your school PE kit?”

  It took a while for Gordon to explain that PE was what Norman knew as Phys. Ed., and in the end it was easiest for Norman to agree that yes, it was his gym uniform.

  Gordon grinned, content with his perspicacity, and drained his mug. “So what do you think of our poacher, then, now you’ve heard him? Is old Dodgeworth right? Is he from New York?”

  Norman nodded, and lifted his cup to his lips to avoid saying more. He had been to New York only once, and he had not enjoyed it. When the bookweird had started to go wrong before, he’d been transported into The Magpie, a crime novel that his mother had been reading. The detectives in The Magpie, Rorschach and Darwin, had been on the trail of a killer when Norman had turned up at the alleyway crime scene. He’d spent two hours in a dingy interrogation room before Fuchs had saved him.

  Norman had no idea how the bookweird worked, how you got from one book to another. It had all started for him when he’d accidentally eaten a page of The Brothers of Lochwarren and fallen into the world of Undergrowth. Fuchs had called this his ingresso. Eating book pages had side effects. It was contagious. It caused things to move from book to book.

  When Norman escaped Undergrowth something else escaped with him. The wolves that hunted him in Undergrowth pursued him into Dora’s horse book, Fortune’s Foal, killing a horse and nearly wrecking the book completely. It was as if his ingresso created doorways between books. When he fell into that New York alleyway in The Magpie, he accidentally brought a horse with him. He’d never thought of what might have been displaced from The Magpie when he escaped … until now.

  “What is it, Norman?” Pippa asked. Norman had looked up suddenly from his cup as the idea hit him.

  His mind immediately leapt to the worst of all possibilities—the killer. A killer who could elude the wily Rorschach and Darwin for more than four hundred pages could easily wreak havoc in the world of the Intrepids.

  He bit his lip and pretended to sip his cocoa again. He would have to tell Todd. As Fuchs, he had intervened before to get Norman out of a book. He’d been there in the interrogation room with Rorschach and Darwin, and had given him the page to eat himself out of The Magpie. Fuchs knew how dangerous that world was. If he knew the killer was loose here with the Intrepids, he’d do something to stop it. Wouldn’t he?

  “When are you going back to London?” Norman asked George.

  “Not until we’ve got this sorted out here,” George replied. “It’s obvious that this poacher is something to be reckoned with.”

  “Couldn’t Fu—I mean, Todd help?” Norman asked.

  “Mr. Todd doesn’t seem to be able to help anybody,” Pippa replied a little bitterly. “He’s been working on Lord Kelmsworth’s appeal for ages now, and we haven’t seen any progress at all. I think George ought to talk to his MP.”

  George scowled but did not disagree. “It’s more vital than ever that we stay here. That poacher is a villain of the first water. It’s obvious that your pet stoat is in serious danger.”

  Norman didn’t need to be told. If the poacher was the Magpie, then killing a small forest animal would be the least of his crimes.

  “What we need to do is rescue your stoat,” George declared, putting his mug d
own emphatically. “We’ll get him out of harm’s way and prove that old baldy is a thief. Then we can get the constabulary involved.”

  The Cooks nodded their red heads solemnly in agreement, and Norman wasn’t about to argue. He’d have liked nothing better than to rescue Malcolm and get out of there. He wished that he shared the Intrepids’ confidence. He smiled weakly and agreed—yes, of course—doing everything he could to pretend that this was a wise plan certain to succeed.

  When the Cooks had returned to the main house and George had retired to his room, Norman tossed and fretted on the couch. Things were bad. In fact, they couldn’t be much worse. It was almost a year since Norman had woken up in the public library after his last trip inside the pages of a book. He had thought that it was all over, that he had stopped falling into books and that their characters had stopped falling out of them and into the pages of other books. If the poacher was a character from The Magpie, he had been in the Intrepids books for months. And if he was the Magpie himself, then there was no telling what damage he’d already done. A murderer from one book was likely to remain a murderer in another.

  Norman tapped his foot rhythmically on the floor beside the sofa. He couldn’t sleep like this. He hadn’t been this afraid since the last time. It wasn’t just Malcolm he was worried about anymore. He was afraid for his own life. It was enough to make him fantasize about going home now, getting out of this book right away. He didn’t do it—couldn’t really do it—but he wanted to. Even the thought of abandoning Malcolm made him feel guilty.

  Since he wasn’t sleeping anyway, Norman rose and tiptoed quietly to the desk where George had sat all evening. Methodically and quietly he tore a page from the notebook where George had scribbled his observations. Tonight was not the time to learn how to use a fountain pen. He ferreted through the drawers until he found a suitable pencil. Then he sat down and began to write a story.

  “That summer, Norman and his parents and sister moved to the house of his mother’s family in England,” he began. “The house belonged to Norman’s uncle Kit, his mother’s brother. Uncle Kit was away and let them stay at the house while he was gone.”