Bookweirder

by Paul Glennon

  “I really think we should go to the police,” Norman urged. The Intrepids looked at him as if they didn’t understand a word he was saying, but he kept trying. “If the poacher is here in the house, now’s the time to get the police,” he argued. “He’s not out there to catch you, and if the police can get here in time, they’ll catch him red-handed.”

  For once, the Intrepids actually stopped for a moment to consider one of Norman’s suggestions.

  “These police,” Malcolm asked, “they are your allies? Reinforcements?” He thought about that for a second, then made a decision. “He’s right. Now’s the time to go. Lady Pippa, will you and Squire Gordon take this mission?”

  The Cooks nodded their red heads in unison. They’d been against it when it was Norman’s idea, but they would do anything the stoat king asked.

  George, Malcolm and Norman watched from the study window as Gordon and Pippa slipped out the tradesman’s door and dashed down the gravel road towards Kestleton. Gordon had left his cricket bat with Norman. He twirled it nervously in his hands.

  “I think we should hide now. This place is big enough. We should be able to stay out of sight until the police arrive.”

  But Malcolm was already bounding down the hall, motioning them to follow. George was after him immediately. After a pause, Norman followed, too.

  They descended from the nursery by the back steps and followed Malcolm’s lead. The stoat slinked noiselessly along the carpet. George and Norman did their best to be quiet, but it was an old house and every step caused a creak or a squeak in the floorboards. At the end of the hallway, at the entrance to the grand foyer, Malcolm hid himself behind the thick wooden moulding and motioned for them to wait.

  The two boys crouched in the shadows while the stoat surveyed the foyer. They watched him dart ahead, leaping nimbly from chair to chest to banister. He scampered halfway up the banister and then paused to listen. After a moment he waved to the boys, pointing to the hallway across the foyer.

  Malcolm reached the doorway before them and beckoned them forward with a wave of his bow. They could hear the low murmur of voices now.

  “That’s either the library or the dining room,” George whispered.

  “It will be the library, for sure.” Norman didn’t know why, but it had to be. This house was like a big game of Clue, and knowing the bookweird, it was likely to end with Ernie Wentz in the library with a shotgun.

  As they snuck down the hallway, the voices became louder and clearer—two voices, one louder than the other. By the time they’d reached the door they could recognize them.

  “I tell you there’s no such thing as a time machine. If I had one, I would gladly let you use it.” That was Todd, of course. Even with a criminal like Wentz he’d adopted that same grating, superior tone.

  “No such thing as a time machine, huh?” the American voice bellowed. “Explain the kid, then. How’d the kid get here?”

  “What kid would that be?” Todd asked. He didn’t sound even remotely curious.

  “The kid with the Rams shirt, wiseguy!” Wentz blustered. “How’d he get here if not by time machine?”

  “Well, I imagine he walked or rode his bicycle, if you are talking about one of George Kelmsworth’s friends. Their name is Cook. The boy is Gordon.”

  “Not the red-headed punk with the cricket bat,” Wentz growled. “The American kid, the one with the talking weasel.”

  “Talking weasel, you say?” Fuchs asked skeptically.

  “Yes, a talking weasel!” Wentz’s voice became gruffer and louder as this continued. “And don’t you talk to me like I’m crazy. I know what I saw.”

  Wisely, Todd chose not to contradict him. “And what makes you think that this boy has use of a time machine?”

  “This!” Wentz bellowed. There was a rustle of paper. “This is what makes me think it. This headline here: ‘Doughboys Arrive in England. Wilson’s Warning to the Kaiser,’ ” he read slowly. “And here’s the date: June 1917.”

  “Yes,” Todd acknowledged, “and like all Englishmen, I’m grateful that your fine country has finally committed to this grand endeavour.”

  “I’ll give you grand endeavour,” the criminal fumed. “What do you say to this?”

  The boys huddled close to the door. Without seeing, they couldn’t know what Wentz was now showing Todd.

  “Well, there does seem to be an error in your identification,” Todd admitted, breaking the short silence. “The date of birth does appear as 1968. Errors do happen.”

  There was a loud thud as Wentz struck a table or a desk with something. “It’s not a mistake. It’s when I was born—the future. It’s where the kid comes from, too. What about the kid’s sweatshirt—St. Louis Rams? The Rams only just moved from L.A. I dunno know where they were in 1917, but I know damn well they weren’t in St. Louis.”

  Todd bit his tongue, but it didn’t stop another burst of anger from Wentz. There was the sound of glass and crashing.

  Outside the door, the boys stood frozen. Neither of them wanted to go in there with Wentz raging that way, but surely if they didn’t do something, he was going to lose control completely.

  “Is there another way in?” Malcolm asked in the lowest of stoat whispers. George motioned to a back passageway.

  Malcolm peered down the dark hallway. The boys could see nothing, but Malcolm’s sharp stoat eyes took it all in. “Count to sixty, then come in quietly,” he ordered. “Don’t startle him. I just want his attention on you.”

  Malcolm disappeared down the corridor that led around to the library’s back entrance. George and Norman counted silently in their heads. Norman was still counting when George grasped the door handle firmly and glanced at him for confirmation. Norman had to give it to him—he had guts. They waited just another second, then George gave the knob a good turn and pushed the door open.

  There was a sound of scuffling feet. As the door creaked open, they heard a small, girlish shriek. The door opened to reveal Wentz standing on the other side of a large book-covered desk. Wentz had backed up against the bookshelf. He held Todd in front of him. The poacher’s thick brown arm snaked across the lawyer’s neck. In the other hand he wielded the shotgun menacingly. He’d sawed off the end, to make it easier to carry. He waved it at them now and warned them off.

  “Don’t come any farther, kids. I don’t want to have to hurt anyone.” He spoke like a villain from a cheap thriller, because he was a villain from a cheap thriller.

  Norman stayed rooted to the spot and raised his palms defensively. George scowled but went no farther.

  Todd looked terrified as he squirmed in Wentz’s grip. His face was as pale as paper and his eyes bugged out like a crazy man’s. “Help!” he managed to squawk, before Wentz tightened the grip on his neck. Norman gulped and swallowed as he watched.

  “Tell him to take me to the time machine,” Wentz commanded, waving the shotgun menacingly.

  Neither boy answered. They’d both spotted the stealthy movements of Malcolm at the top of a bookshelf to Wentz’s right.

  “You know where it is, kid!” Growling, Wentz pointed the shotgun at Norman. “Take me to the machine or the professor here gets it.”

  Norman’s mouth had completely dried up. “I …” he croaked. No other sound came from his mouth because he had no idea what to say.

  “He can’t,” George said, more calmly than Norman could ever have imagined. Wentz turned to face the other boy. “The time machine’s broken.”

  “Whaddya mean?” the poacher growled.

  “It’s broken. Norman’s stuck here.” He didn’t say it meanly or vindictively. He said it quietly, as though he were trying to calm down a screaming kid or an excited dog. “He can’t get back.” He turned back to Norman, widening his eyes conspiratorially, encouraging him to play along.

  Wentz stared at Norman, daring him to repeat it. Norman still couldn’t find his voice. He just nodded.

  “You’re stuck here, too,” George continued, his voice
still unnaturally calm. “You have to face it.”

  “No!” the poacher howled. “You’re lying!” He lunged across the desk towards the boy, sending books and a glass paperweight crashing to the floor. George jumped back out of reach. The poacher looked ready to shove Todd aside and leap across the obstacle to get at George, but another voice stopped him.

  “Hold!” Malcolm commanded.

  The stoat’s voice wasn’t loud, but it had that authority in it that made even Wentz pause. He shrank back, pulled the lawyer close to him again and turned to discover his new attacker. Up on the bookshelf to his right was Malcolm. Partially concealed behind a marble bust of Shakespeare, the stoat was braced on one knee and his bow was drawn. His sharp eye took a bead on Wentz.

  “I can take your eye out from here,” the stoat king warned. “Do you have any idea how much blood comes out of your eyes?”

  Wentz backed towards the bookshelf again, pulling Todd across him as a shield. He put the muzzle of the gun to the lawyer’s head.

  “I warned you,” the poacher blustered. “The professor here’s going to get it.”

  “Go ahead,” George replied. “He doesn’t mean anything to us.”

  “What?” Wentz cried incredulously.

  “It’s true,” George repeated more firmly. The corner of his mouth curled mischievously. “He’s actually a crook, too. Shoot him. Once you’ve dealt with him, the police will deal with you.”

  Wentz’s eyes blinked and flicked wildly between George and Norman, trying to see if they were bluffing. “But he’s your uncle,” he insisted. “I heard you say it.”

  “I lied,” Norman told him. He was surprised by how calm his voice sounded. “I only said that to get into the house. It’s like George says. Fuchs—” Norman gulped and corrected himself. “Todd is just a crook like you. Why don’t you look after him for us?”

  Todd squirmed but could not loosen his captor’s grasp. “No, Norman, it’s true,” the lawyer croaked. “I am your uncle.” His eyes reached out desperately to Norman. They weren’t yellow like a fox’s anymore. They were grey-blue, like his own.

  Norman shook his head. “He’s lying,” he whispered, but there was something in the way that Todd had said it.

  “Shut up!” Wentz roared. He waved the shotgun around again. “Just take me to the time machine.”

  “It won’t matter,” George repeated, gaining confidence. “The machine is broken.”

  “Well, fix it!” Wentz howled like a spoiled child. “The professor here will just have to fix it.”

  “He can’t,” Malcolm chimed in from his perch behind the marble Shakespeare. “He doesn’t know a thing about it. George’s father built the time machine. Only he can fix it.” They were all making this up as they went along.

  “Where’s your father? Take me to your father,” Wentz insisted, getting ever more frantic.

  “We can’t,” George replied firmly.

  “He’s in jail,” Norman added.

  There was a long moment of nervous silence as Wentz scrutinized each of their faces, trying to find evidence of their lie, but Norman could tell he believed them.

  Todd looked as though he’d given up. He slumped down dejectedly, his head on his chin. His eyes rose slowly to Norman’s and he whimpered, “Norman, please help me. I’m your uncle Kit. Meg wouldn’t want this.”

  Norman stared at him for a long moment, then blinked. Suddenly he knew it was true. He glanced around at his companions, but they were focused on the poacher.

  George stepped closer to the desk. Wentz could have reached over and grabbed him, but George stood there fearlessly.

  “Put the gun down now,” he commanded. “Give yourself up before someone gets hurt.”

  Wentz shook his bald head. Backing into the corner, he waved the gun in front of him. “I can’t go to jail,” he raged. “Not even here. I can’t go back inside. If I can’t go home, I’d rather die.” He raised the gun in the air, shaking it frantically.

  Norman wondered if he was about to shoot himself. To his surprise, he found the idea horrible. After all Wentz had done, he didn’t want him to die. He might have been a crook, but he wasn’t a killer. He didn’t deserve to die.

  “Don’t!” he heard himself shout. “Don’t shoot. There’s another way.”

  They all turned to him expectantly. Only Malcolm kept his aim, the arrow still trained on Wentz. George raised his head questioningly. Todd’s eyes seem to plead from beneath Wentz’s burly arm. Wentz just looked tired—tired and desperate.

  Was there another way? Norman had said it just to buy some time. He hadn’t thought it through. He found himself staring at Fuchs or Todd, or … his uncle Kit, he supposed. It made so much sense—the mysterious uncle they never saw; the old, unmentioned argument between Norman’s mother and her brother; something about the bookweird.

  “What, Norman?” George interrupted his reverie. “What other way?”

  Norman looked up. As if woken up from a daydream in class, he took a moment to understand the question. Another way, something other than the police, to get Wentz out of here, and Todd, too. Uncle Kit or not, Norman had to get him to leave the world of the Intrepids.

  His eyes darted around the room, just as if he’d been caught out in class, looking round for a clue to the answer.

  “There’s only one way out of this,” Wentz groaned, losing his patience if not his mind. He put the gun to Todd’s head. “I guess I’ll see how much blood comes out of the eye, huh?” he said, glancing at Malcolm’s arrow. A crazed look had come over his face. “Or I guess I won’t see.” He laughed manically.

  “Help me!” Todd snivelled pathetically.

  Norman’s eye fell on the newspaper on the desk in front of them. He read the headline to himself: “Doughboys Arrive in England. Wilson’s Warning to the Kaiser.”

  “The war,” he blurted. “You could join the army.”

  Confusion spread across Wentz’s face, resolving into a sort of sadness. “They won’t let me join, because of my record.”

  It was Norman’s turn to be confused. “What record?”

  “My criminal record,” Wentz mumbled, averting his eyes. “They don’t take criminals in the U.S. Army. They kicked me out once already.”

  Norman looked from Wentz to George and back to Wentz. Didn’t someone else have an idea? He could tell, just by looking at Wentz—at his slouched shoulders, his crestfallen eyes—that it might have worked. If there was anything that Wentz wanted more than to get out of the book, it was to get into the army.

  “No, the boy’s right,” Todd squeaked desperately. “You can join up. It’s 1917. You don’t have a record here.”

  The criminal looked up. “You’d say anything to get out of this. They won’t take me.” But his eyes brightened like a child’s, betraying his hope.

  “They’ll take anyone who can speak English and fire a gun,” Todd affirmed eagerly. “They’ll probably make you an officer.”

  Wentz face took on a wistful, nostalgic look. “My mom would be so proud. My dad was in the marines. My grandpa, too.”

  They all stood still and silent, unsure what to do next. Wentz had not lowered the gun. His other arm still held Todd firmly.

  “You need to leave, too,” Norman told Todd sternly. “You have to leave here. Not just Kelmsworth. You have to leave the whole place.” He fixed Todd with a stare, making sure he understood that he meant the book. He had to leave the book.

  “Of course, of course,” Todd assented contritely, but his shifty eyes glinted with something of that old, golden, foxy glimmer.

  “You leave George alone,” Norman insisted. “You let Mrs. Cook and Mr. Hepplewaithe come back, and you put George’s old lawyer, Montague, on his father’s case.”

  “Of course,” Todd conceded, his wily confidence returning.

  “Or the Undergrowth map goes in the fire back at the Shrubberies,” Norman continued, unconvinced by the lawyer’s promise. “My mother will be happy to burn it.”


  Todd’s eyes narrowed. He paused for a moment and then nodded in agreement.

  Wentz lowered the gun but kept a firm grip on Todd. He looked hopeful. He didn’t want to shoot anyone either, but he wasn’t sure whether to believe them. Suddenly the doorbell rang. It was the most elaborate doorbell Norman had ever heard. It chimed like a church bell.

  Wentz jumped when he heard it. “Who’s that?” he asked, raising his gun again.

  “That’ll be the police,” George said coolly. “Shall I tell them to take you to the American base at Norwin Woods?” He paused, waiting for an answer. “Or shall I let them storm in here?”

  Wentz finally put the shotgun down on the desk and relaxed his grip on Todd’s throat. The imposter lawyer wobbled on unsteady legs and slumped to the floor. He managed to crawl to an armchair in the corner, where he sat with his head between his knees, breathing deeply.

  George nodded approvingly at Wentz, keeping his eyes on the intruder until he had picked up the shotgun and handed it to Norman. Norman held it gingerly. He had accidentally fired the last gun he was given to hold. The moment George left to answer the door, Norman put the shotgun down on a side table between a china vase and a bronze statue.

  The Intrepid Five

  A week later, the Intrepid Three and friends leapt from a crowded London omnibus and marched defiantly up the marble steps of the lawyer’s office. Before the imposing brass doors, George halted and turned to review their instructions.

  “All right,” said George, taking his usual tone of command, “just like last time, I’ll go up first. Wait for a few moments, then follow me.” He reached his hand to the big brass door.

  “Just promise me,” Norman entreated, “that when it’s over, you’ll tell everyone it’s ventriloquism. Like we said, we don’t want to expose Malcolm.”

  “For certs, old chap,” George assured him. “His secret’s safe with us.” With that, he pulled open the door and let them all into the lobby.

  While George strode up the stairs into the office, Norman and Malcolm waited with the Cooks in the lobby. Pippa bit her lip, her eyes wandering distractedly to the shape squirming inside Norman’s borrowed school blazer. Gordon furrowed his brow and listened intently at the door. They could hear only little bits of the conversation—George saying something about a gamekeeper, a crackling old voice lecturing George on the dangers of going into the woods alone.