Bookweirder

by Paul Glennon

  Sleep was no escape for Norman. In his dreams he still heard the desert fortress burning. He saw the blackened faces of Jerome and Brother Godwyn as they raced frantically through the library, trying to save their precious manuscripts. These were terrible nightmares because they were true. That’s exactly what Jerome and Godwyn would do. They wouldn’t think of themselves first. They would think of the scrolls, and they would die in there.

  And once again it was all Norman’s fault. He had let himself be caught. He’d let Black John believe he was the boy he was looking for. They wouldn’t have burned the place down if they’d known Jerome was in there, or if Sir Hugh had been able to show his letter of protection from the king.

  Should he have admitted that Jerome was still in there? Would Black John have believed Norman? Would it have been different if he’d shown them the letter? His mother was right. The bookweird was too dangerous. People were dying now because of him, and he didn’t know if he’d ever be able to make that right.

  The Poacher Poached

  Norman knew Malcolm was there even before he was fully awake. He could feel the rhythm of the stoat’s breathing as Malcolm slept in the crook of his arm. It made everything right. He was back. His best friend was here. Everything would be fine. He allowed himself to sleep in. His mom would call up when it was time for breakfast.

  The sound of rain blown against the window by the wind finally made him open his eyes. He tried pulling the sheets up to cover his head, but that only disturbed Malcolm, who growled in complaint. By then their sleep was wrecked.

  Malcolm stretched and smacked his lips dramatically. “Is your dad going to make us some pancakes?” he asked drowsily.

  Norman snorted and rolled over, trying to hold on to that last bit of sleep. “Breakfast? That’s what you’re thinking about? How about the map? You don’t want to know about A Secret in the Library?” He yawned. It was no use. He was awake now.

  Malcolm didn’t answer. It was unusual for the stoat not to have a sharp answer when called on, but Norman could no longer enjoy the silence.

  “I did get it, by the way,” he said, rousing himself and rubbing his eyes, “but I’ve made a mess of another book.”

  Norman sat up and tried to figure out where Malcolm had got to. It took about two seconds to realize that he was not at home in bed after all.

  “Malcolm?” he asked hopefully. “Did you do this?”

  “I was going to ask you the same question,” Malcolm replied.

  The room was familiar to them both. Here were the high-backed chairs where the Cooks usually sat. Beyond them was the kitchen where George made tea. They had not woken up in Norman’s bedroom after all. They had woken up on George’s couch, but the lodge was not as they had left it. It was not as they had ever seen it.

  “Todd?” Norman asked. “Do you think Mr. Todd did this?”

  Malcolm frowned. “He didn’t make this rat’s nest, nor did George.”

  Norman had meant the bookweirding, not the mess, but there was no point in clarifying. The lodge was a bigger emergency. It was a disaster area. Furniture had been dragged into the centre of the room, away from the windows. All the cupboard doors were open. The shelves were almost bare. Empty cans and cardboard boxes were strewn across the floor. There were dirty dishes everywhere, on the side tables, on the floor. The kitchen sink was piled high with filthy pots and pans, but no one had taken the extra step of actually washing them. Had it got that bad for George?

  Malcolm answered his unspoken question, pointing to a pile of cigarette butts in the crystal bowl beside the sofa.

  “The poacher,” Norman declared in a wary whisper.

  Malcolm asked the question they were both thinking: “Where do you imagine our George has got to?”

  “Hopefully he’s up at the main house. Todd would have let him in, wouldn’t he?”

  “Aye,” Malcolm replied. “And that’s where we ought to be heading. I don’t think our bald friend expects to come home to houseguests.”

  They let themselves out as quietly as they could, leaving the door gapped rather than forcing it shut. Norman pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head. Malcolm leapt onto Norman’s shoulder, sharing the cover of the hood as they set out across the grounds to Kelmsworth Hall.

  They stopped at the greenhouse to reconnoitre. Norman put his hand on the wet glass and let Malcolm lean out around the corner to survey the lawns.

  The stoat pulled his neck back in and shook his snout. “Nothing,” he reported.

  Norman hesitated before proceeding. “It’s different here.” And then he finally realized what was wrong. “It’s raining. It never rains here. That’s why I thought we were home.”

  Malcolm looked around at the rain. He considered it silently for a moment, then shook the rain from his wet fur. Neither boy nor stoat could put his finger on why it bothered him, but both felt it meant something wrong. The stoat king motioned for them to move again.

  They made their way stealthily, dashing from cover to cover, from the greenhouses through the arboretum to the low stone walls.

  “Tsss,” Malcolm hissed, alerting Norman to danger. Norman ducked lower below the stone wall. “The Rook’s fallen, too. Door’s off its hinges.” Malcolm let out a low whistle as he assessed the scene. “Must have been some battering ram.”

  Norman poked his head up to see for himself that the Rook’s door hung loose, its top hinge pulled from the door jamb.

  Malcolm jumped from one shoulder to the other to get a view of the main house. “I don’t like the look of this open ground between us and the kitchen door. We’re best to skirt the lawn from here, stay at the edge of the woods and take the long way round to the front of the house.”

  Norman admired his old friend’s calm. This was the stoat’s natural state, in combat, in command. It was like being back in Undergrowth again.

  Malcolm tucked himself into the hood of Norman’s sweatshirt and they made a dash for the edge of the woods.

  “Wait,” Norman whispered when they reached the first of the trees. “What if the poacher is in the woods, too?”

  “He likely is,” Malcolm affirmed, “so don’t faff about. Let’s get a move on.”

  Norman quickened his pace as he dodged through the trees.

  They emerged around the front of the house. Kelmsworth Hall was even more impressive from the front. Two long reflecting pools ran on either side of a wide gravel path. The path ended in set of stone steps and a porch topped with four monstrous stone columns that reached a full three storeys to the roof. Between them was a huge, glossy black front door.

  The gravel crunched under Norman’s feet as he dashed up the path, making him painfully aware of how exposed they were.

  Malcolm let out a low whistle of admiration as they leapt up the steps. “In Undergrowth this would be a wonder of the world,” he murmured. “And to think that George’s father is only a baronet. What must the king’s castle look like?”

  “Save your sightseeing,” Norman told him, gasping for air. “Let’s get into the house before the poacher sees us.”

  Norman was almost out of breath when they arrived at the massive front door. He cast around for the doorbell but couldn’t find anything that looked as though it might be it.

  “You’re out of shape,” Malcolm chuckled. He had a way of lightening the tension when the going got really scary. “I remember when you could run for a whole day without getting out of breath.”

  “Maybe you were lighter then.”

  “Aye, I’ve put on some muscle,” Malcolm boasted, leaping onto the door handle and flexing a tiny stoat biceps. “Is that why you’re waiting for me to knock?” He indicated the huge cast-iron door knocker beneath him. He needed two hands to lift it, but he swung it with all his weight behind it, rapping out three resounding knocks. When he was done, he turned to Norman and flexed his muscles again comically.

  Todd answered the door in his housecoat—or somebody’s housecoat, most likely George’s f
ather’s. He held a book in one hand and an unlit pipe was clenched in his teeth. His hair had grown even more preposterously around his face. His moustache twirled in ridiculous curlicues that tickled the sides of his overgrown sideburns. On his head he wore his white lawyer’s wig, but it was tilted and falling off the back, as if he’d forgotten it was there.

  “Ah, the travellers have returned,” he proclaimed. He stood at the top of the steps and regarded them with bored amusement. “Have you found our lovely map?”

  “Never mind about that. Let us in. We’ve been knocking for five minutes. The poacher could be here any second,” Norman remonstrated. He’d always thought that Dora was the most annoying person on the planet, but Todd was rapidly eclipsing even his sister.

  The new lord of the manor put the pipe in the pocket of his paisley housecoat and craned his neck out the doorway. “I don’t see any poacher out there,” he drawled, “but if you two are frightened, please do come in and settle your nerves.”

  Malcolm bared a snarling fang. Sufficiently warned, Todd stepped back. The boy and the stoat ducked quickly past him into the house. Todd stayed a moment longer in the doorway, admiring the view before closing the big door behind him.

  “Shall we discuss matters in my study?” He beckoned them with a wave of his pipe.

  “You mean Lord Kelmsworth’s study,” Norman shot back bitterly.

  Todd did not turn around to reply. He continued down the long corridor to an open door. “If you insist on using my title, go ahead, but I do find it a little formal,” he replied, unperturbed.

  Norman and Malcolm fumed as Todd took a seat behind a polished antique desk.

  “What would you like us to call you, then?” the stoat asked, his words as sharp as his sword. “Do you still liked to be addressed as Abbot, or do you prefer Fuchs? Is it Todd these days? Or,” he snarled, “shall we just call you usurper, if Lord Kelmsworth doesn’t sit well yet?”

  Even Norman flinched at this. In Malcolm’s mind, “usurper” was the worst insult possible. His own father had lost his throne and had given his life to reclaim it for Malcolm. Todd knew all this but stared back calmly, unaffected by Malcolm’s taunts.

  “Shall we see the map, then? Did you have any trouble getting it back?” Todd began. “No, I don’t imagine you did. Young Jerome isn’t the quickest of souls. I’m sure you told him his long-lost love Meg sent for it, and he did whatever you wanted.”

  It was Norman’s turn to snarl. He had met Jerome only once, but the boy seemed far braver and more honourable than the imposter lawyer. For all Norman knew, the young scholar might be dead now because of him, burnt alive in the fire at St. Savino. Norman was getting heartily sick of being manipulated by this man.

  Norman set his jaw and replied, “We have the map, but we’re not giving it to you.”

  Todd raised an eyebrow.

  “It belongs to Malcolm. He’s taking it back to Lochwarren.”

  “Oh, really?” Todd asked. He leaned back on his chair and put his arms behind his head. “You’ve got that worked out, then—how to get back to Undergrowth?” He looked so smug there in his housecoat and slippers that Norman wanted to kick the legs out from underneath his chair.

  “I brought Malcolm to the Shrubberies with me. I can take him home to Lochwarren.” Norman hoped he sounded more confident of this than he felt.

  Todd brought his chair back down onto four legs. His lip twitched, and he dug out his pipe and put it between his teeth again as if to control that.

  “Your ingresso isn’t a particularly tidy one. It tends to leave a path of destruction in its wake,” he countered. “Are you sure you want to be counting on that? I mean, just look at what’s happened here.”

  Norman lost it. He pounded on the desk with both fists. “That’s not me! That’s you! It’s you who wrecked it here! You came and took over the house! It’s you who won’t do anything about the poacher!”

  A satisfied smile crept across Todd’s face. “But who brought him here? Who started this whole mess?”

  Norman had no answer. He was right. The poacher had escaped from the New York of The Magpie mystery.

  Todd smiled his smug smile and started again reassuringly, satisfied that he’d put Norman on the back foot. “Now, let’s not worry about who caused what and let’s look at how to sort things out here. I’m happy that you’ve retrieved the Mustelid map. It’s an important piece of stoat heritage, and I wouldn’t dream of keeping it, but I would like to borrow it for a short while to study it. Perhaps I could accompany you back to Lochwarren and we could all examine it together there.”

  Norman couldn’t forget what Jerome had shown him. The map wasn’t made in Undergrowth at all. “You only want to study it. Why?” he asked suspiciously.

  Todd appeared to think about this for a moment before answering. “Let’s just say that I think it’s a rather unique artifact.”

  Norman knew that. The map was a great mystery. It was definitely a map of Undergrowth, but it was on paper from the real world. Did that make it special? Did that give it some power over the bookweird?

  “What about George?” Norman asked, not letting on what he knew.

  “What about Kelmsworth? Are you going to fix things here?” Malcolm asked.

  Todd furrowed his brow and placed his palms together in mock concern. “I’m afraid that’s not in my control. I’m perfectly happy to stay in residence here and ensure that no harm comes to the boy, but I’m afraid this poacher of yours is stuck here, very much like certain wolves that ended up in the wrong story, too.” He looked at Norman pointedly.

  Norman shivered, remembering the wolves. He stared back at Todd with hatred in his eyes. The wolves had escaped from Undergrowth, just as the poacher had escaped from The Magpie. They had nearly killed two girls in one of Dora’s horsey books. There’d been no way to send them back, either. They’d had to shoot them. Would they have to kill the poacher to save George’s book? Norman considered it for a moment, but he knew he didn’t have it in him. Now that he knew Wentz wasn’t the murderer, he felt sort of sorry for him. It was confusing being ripped from one world and dropped into another. Norman knew that.

  Malcolm stood on the desk. His glinting eyes never left Todd’s face, but he could sense his friend’s indecision, and the stoat king had learned a few things about negotiation in his time on the throne.

  “Where’s George?” he asked, barking it out like an order. “We’ll have to talk to the young master first.”

  George, Gordon and Pippa were huddled around a table in the old nursery.

  “You’re back!” Gordon cried. “Have you brought reinforcements?”

  “We are the reinforcements,” Malcolm told him with a wink.

  The Intrepids hurriedly explained what had happened, how they had lost the war with the poacher. The Rook had held out for four days, but the poacher had worn them down. After being on the wrong side of too many cricket-ball bombardments, he’d realized that the Intrepids had an ammunition problem. They had only one bushel of cricket balls. It was enough to beat back one attack, but they had to retrieve all the balls again before the next attack.

  The poacher had figured this out eventually. He’d learned how to provoke them into firing while he stayed out of range, scooping up the cricket balls before the Intrepids could collect them themselves. A few days of this tactic had depleted their ammunition, and the Intrepids had had to abandon the Rook and retreat to Kelmsworth Hall.

  “I don’t like it,” Malcolm declared. He stood on the windowsill staring pensively at the rain-soaked backyard.

  The four children turned to him, surprised.

  “What?” Pippa asked. “What don’t you like?”

  “The defensive situation, here in the hall,” the stoat king explained. “It’s too big.”

  “What do you mean?” Gordon asked deferentially.

  George replied for him. “He means it’s too hard to defend. We can’t watch all the entrances. I’ve been worried about that
, too.”

  He and Malcolm exchanged a worried glance as they separately considered the strategic difficulties.

  “There are five doors and thirty-two windows on the first floor,” George continued. “The poacher could easily break in. We wouldn’t know it until he was right on us.”

  There was a long silence as each of the children let the thought run through his imagination.

  “Then why hasn’t he done it?” Pippa asked. “We’ve been here three days now. He could have snuck in at any time.”

  “Maybe it’s Mr. Todd,” Gordon suggested. “Maybe he’s afraid of Mr. Todd.”

  “Or maybe he’s in league with him,” George intoned in a low voice. “Maybe he’s Todd’s lackey.”

  Norman hadn’t contributed much so far. He had hoped that Malcolm and the Intrepids would come up with a solution. He was just a reader, after all. They were the real adventurers. But the conversation became more and more resigned to failure.

  “I think we should call the police,” Norman offered finally.

  George didn’t even turn to face him. “We can’t.”

  “Of course we can,” Norman insisted. “He attacked us all. He broke into your house. Those are real crimes. The police can arrest him. You don’t have to defeat every criminal yourself, you know.”

  “No, we can’t call the police,” Pippa explained. “The telephone wire was cut last night.”

  Malcolm gave Norman a searching look, as if to say, “What’s a telephone wire?”

  A sudden crashing noise below interrupted Norman’s explanation.

  The four children and the stoat stared at each other. Each wanted to imagine another explanation for the crash, but they all knew what it meant.

  Malcolm was the first to react. He bounded from the window-sill to the floor, drawing his bow from behind his back. George was quickly on his feet. He gripped the door handle and clenched his teeth with determination.

  Pippa and Gordon were not far behind. Pippa had grabbed her own bow. Gordon slapped the palm of his hand with the cricket bat, his eyes screwed up in a mask of ridiculous determination. Norman just stared. This wasn’t a good idea.