Charlie Bone and the Wilderness Wolf Read online

  "Why? Who says?"

  "It's something one just knows," Emma said firmly.

  Olivia flung herself back onto the cushions. "Well, I'm going to do it."

  "NO, Liv. Please don't. You might..."

  But the fabulous bird was already taking shape. As Olivia looked over her shoulder, a cloud of multicolored feathers materialized in the air behind her head. And Emma watched helplessly as the feathers began to find their places within the form of a beautiful creature. It had wide wings, a graceful sweeping fan for a tail, eyes like bright jewels, and a sharp orange beak.

  Not content with the shape of the bird, Olivia made it utter a long cooing sound as it swept through the curtained doorway and into the shop beyond.

  At the very same moment the shop bell tinkled, the door opened, and a tall woman appeared on the threshold.

  Miss Ingledew, labeling books on the counter, looked up from her task in confusion. Two things struck her. One, that she had forgotten to lock the shop door on a Sunday and two, that an extraordinary bird had escaped from the zoo and found its way into her shop. The situation was made even more confusing when Emma ran into the room, crying, "Oh, no!" Upon which, the bird vanished into thin air.

  "Ah," said the stranger. "An illusion. How very interesting."

  There was no mistaking the unwelcome visitor. With her jet-black hair and high, arched eyebrows, Emma would have known Charlie's great-aunt Venetia anywhere. But what a change had come over her. Gone were the dirty skirt and ill-fitting coat that she'd been wearing recently. This woman was dressed in a smart lilac-colored suit with a fur collar and matching fur-cuffed boots.

  "I am recently married," said the woman, descending the three steps into the shop. "I am now Mrs. Venetia Shellhorn. I am about to take a honeymoon."

  "Yes?" said Miss Ingledew, not in the least enlightened.

  Yes. And I have brought my..." Venetia looked over her shoulder. "Where are they?" she said irritably.

  The door opened very slowly.

  "My children." Venetia waved her gloved hand at the door.

  Standing on the top step were two of the most pathetic-looking children Emma had ever seen.

  6

  FEROMEL'S KETTLE

  Venetia beckoned the children and they shuffled forward, the girl leading the way, the boy hardly moving at all.

  "This is Miranda." Venetia grabbed the girl's hand and pulled her to her side. "She's small for seven, isn't she? But Eric, well, my goodness, look at him. You'd never think he was six, would you?" She lunged at the boy and tried to grasp his hand, but he backed away and stood against the bookshelves.

  "Have it your way, silly boy," Venetia said testily. She turned to Miss Ingledew. "I'm told that my great-nephew calls here on Sundays."

  Miss Ingledew said sharply, "Not always."

  "No matter." Venetia looked at Emma. "I expect you'll be seeing him today, won't you, Ella - or whatever your name is?"

  "Well... ," Emma began.

  You can pass them over when you see him," Venetia told her.

  "Pass them ..." Emma hesitated. "Do you mean your children?"

  "Well, of course. Who do you think?" Venetia gave Miranda a little push toward Emma.

  "You can't leave them here," Miss Ingledew said indignantly.

  Venetia marched up the steps, the tap of her high-heeled boots resounding like gunshots. "There was no one at number nine. Paton was probably in, but he never answers the door. So I'll have to leave the children here. My sister Eustacia will pick them up at five. I'm told you make very good sandwiches, Miss Ingledew."

  "This is a bookstore, not a nursery." Miss Ingledew was so annoyed she slammed a very valuable book onto the counter.

  "I can't take them on my honeymoon, can I?" Venetia sang as she sailed out into the street. "Toodle-oo kids, be good."

  The door tinkled shut, leaving Miss Ingledew with a stunned expression, staring over Miranda's head at Emma.

  "Well!" Miss Ingledew said at last. She would like to have said a great deal more, but the two children looked so woebegone, she realized it would only make things worse if she were to complain. Venetia had relied on her good nature.

  The two children had moved together now. They stood holding hands in the center of the shop, staring helplessly, first at Emma, then at Miss Ingledew. They were, indeed, very small for their ages. Miranda had long, mouse-brown hair and gray eyes. She wore jeans and a red coat that appeared to have shrunk several sizes. The cuffs didn't even cover her bird-thin wrists. Eric's tangled hair was darker. It obviously hadn't been cut for some time and straggled to his shoulders in untidy wisps. He wore green corduroy trousers, very dirty at the knees, and a black jacket missing several buttons.

  Emma's heart went out to them. She couldn't bear to see anything small in distress. "Come and meet my friend." She held out her hand. "We're drawing birds. Do you like drawing? I'm Emma, by the way."

  Miranda said, "Can we get our dog?"

  "Dog?" Miss Ingledew frowned. "Where is it?"

  "We had to leave her in the house. She's all alone. She hates being alone." Miranda's eyes began to fill with tears.

  Olivia chose that moment to pop her head around the curtain. "Oh!" she squeaked, seeing the children. "I didn't know anyone was here. I was lying low, in case someone saw the bird."

  "What bird?" Eric brightened up.

  "Oh, just a bird," Olivia said casually. "Who are you?"

  The children stared at Olivia, saying nothing.

  "This is Miranda and Eric," Emma said in an overly cheerful voice. "They're Charlie Bone's new, er, step-cousins, I suppose."

  Olivia rolled her eyes. "You poor things. I wouldn't like to be connected to THAT family. I'm Olivia."

  "Olivia!" Miss Ingledew said sharply. "Please don't speak of Charlie's family like that."

  "Oops." Olivia withdrew her head.

  "Please can we get our dog?" Miranda persisted.

  Miss Ingledew rubbed her head. "I don't know, dear. I mean, how will you get into the house. Did your stepmother leave you a key?"

  Miranda shook her head.

  Miss Ingledew sighed. "Give me a moment. I'll have to call a friend for advice." She took her phone from a pocket and began to dial a number.

  Emma coaxed the two children into the back room while her aunt phoned Paton Yewbeam. Miranda and Eric gazed doubtfully around the book-filled room and eventually chose to sit, side by side, on the sofa.

  "Will your aunt be long?" asked Miranda. "Chattypatra will whine and whine until we get back to her."

  "Great name," Olivia remarked. "Where did it come from?"

  "It was really Cleopatra," Miranda told her. "But she chats so much. You know, barks and growls and stuff. So Mom ..." She stopped and looked at Eric. He drew in his lower lip but didn't cry. "So Mom," Miranda continued, "Mom called her Chattypatra."

  "Brilliant," Olivia said approvingly.

  Miss Ingledew looked into the room and told them that when Mr. Yewbeam had found a key to Venetia's house, he would send Charlie over to the bookstore with it.

  "Will it take a long time?" Miranda's red-rimmed eyes looked imploringly at Miss Ingledew.

  "I shouldn't think so, dear. Now, would you like to help Emma make some sandwiches?"

  "Of course you would," said Olivia. "Come on, let's make some honey and banana, or how about cheese and raisins, or grapefruit and peanut butter, or we could do sausage and orange?"

  To Miss Ingledew's relief, Mranda, wearing a dazed expression, followed Olivia into the kitchen, with Eric only a few steps behind.

  As soon as Miss Ingledew had returned to the shop, Paton Yewbeam called with the news that Grandma Bone had gone out, locking her door behind her, and now there was no possibility of searching her room for a key.

  "Oh, Paton, I don't know what I'm going to do," said Miss Ingledew. "Those poor children. They look so miserable. I thought the dog might cheer them up."

  "What was my ghastly sister thinking of," said Paton, "leavin
g them in your shop? Look, Julia, I don't know if it will help, but I'm pretty sure Venetia leaves her door key under a gruesome-looking troll on her top step."

  "A troll?" said Miss Ingledew, never having visited Venetia's house.

  "Awful-looking creature. Stone. Big ears. Long nose. Beard. Squat thing. Huge feet."

  "I know what a troll is," Miss Ingledew said quickly. "I was just questioning the wisdom of leaving one's door key underneath one."

  "It's not alive, Julia, dearest."

  "I know it's not alive." Julia gave a huge sigh.

  Sometimes it seemed that Paton didn't live in the same world as everyone else. "I just mean that someone could find the key and break in."

  "Who on earth would want to break in?" said Paton. "Venetia's only valuables consist of large amounts of bewitching ingredients that only she would know how to use."

  Miss Ingledew gave up. "Thank you, Paton. We'll think about it."

  For his part, Paton wondered what Julia was going to think about. He loved her dearly but there were times when they just didn't seem to be on the same wavelength. As soon as Charlie and his friends got home, he would tell them to run up to Venetia's house to see if there was a key under the troll. "No, on second thought, I'd better let them have their lunch first," Paton said to himself.

  Charlie, Billy, and Benjamin were walking slowly down Piminy Street. They still hadn't found the Kettle Shop and were beginning to think it didn't exist. Piminy

  Street was full of odd little shops, all closed, of course, it being Sunday. There were cheesemakers, candle-makers, shoemakers, carpenters, several bakeries, flower shops, and even a stone shop.

  "The Stone Shop," murmured Charlie, peering into the dark window. "What does THAT mean?"

  "They sell things made of stone?" Benjamin suggested.

  Charlie suddenly became aware of a tall figure, just inside the window. He looked closer. "A statue," he said. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, the interior of the shop gradually came into focus. Now he could see other figures: There was a group of life-size statues of Roman soldiers; beside them stood three fierce-looking women carrying clubs and axes and, farther back, a man that looked more ogre than human. At the far end, beneath a skylight, there was a mounted knight, wielding a lance. The knight's horse wore a feathered headdress, and beneath the saddle its body was covered in a kind of blanket patterned with leaves.

  "He's jousting," said Benjamin knowledgeably.

  "Imagine if they were alive," Billy said, almost in a whisper.

  Charlie took a step back from the window. It was quite possible that there were people in the city who could bring statues to life.

  "I smell fish," said Benjamin. "So does Runner."

  Runner Bean had reached a shop farther down the road. He was standing in the middle of the sidewalk, barking furiously.

  "Is he doing that because he likes fish?" asked Charlie, as they ran toward the yellow dog.

  "Hates it," panted Benjamin, grabbing Runner Bean's collar.

  But the window his dog was barking at was completely empty. A sign above the window said, "FISH." It had been printed on a white background in untidy blue letters and looked as if it had been hurriedly painted over something else. In fact, if you looked closer, you could just make out the word "BUTCHER" beneath the white paint.

  "Do you know what it smells like to me?" said Billy.

  "Dagbert," said Charlie.

  They stared at the empty shop and then at the window above it, wondering if it could be the very place where Dagbert was staying. And if it was, what sort of people owned a shop that was empty and hurriedly painted?

  "Very odd people, indeed," said someone who seemed to have read their minds.

  They turned to see a woman standing outside a house three doors away. Her copper-colored hair was so smooth it looked like a helmet, and her padded black coat so shiny it could have been made of steel. She was very wide and her broad shoulders gave the impression of immense strength.

  "I've been waiting for you, my dears," said the woman. "I'm Mrs. Kettle, Cook's friend. Got a little animal just dying to see you."

  "Rembrandt!" cried Billy, rushing up to her.

  "You're Billy, aren't you?" said Mrs. Kettle. "And you must be Benjamin, because of the dog, and you're Charlie. Come in my dears, it's perishing cold out here." Mrs. Kettle went into her shop, which couldn't have been more different from the deserted fish shop down the road.

  Everything in Mrs. Kettle's shop appeared to shine. It was only when Charlie's eyes had become accustomed to the bright twinkling all about him that he realized every item was a kettle. They came in all shapes and sizes and every color. They jostled together on shelves, displayed themselves on tables, or sat singly and proudly on pedestals. The pride of the place was the biggest copper kettle Charlie had ever seen. It stood in the center of the window, surrounded by other, lesser kettles, and you could see a strange, slanting copper-tinted version of the whole shop reflected in its bright, shiny side.

  "That's just for show, my dear," said Mrs. Kettle, following Charlie's gaze. "My best kettle is behind the scenes. Come with me." She went through an archway at the back of the shop and beckoned them into yet another kettle-filled room, only this one had a few more spaces in it. Four chairs with cushions, not kettles, on their seats, clustered around a small table.

  Billy wasn't interested in any of it. Unable to contain his impatience, he burst out, "Where is he? Where's my rat?"

  "Well, now, I wonder," teased Mrs. Kettle. "Did you think I'd forgotten, my dear?"

  "No. Yes," Billy blurted. "No. Please, is he here?"

  "Of course he is!" Mrs. Kettle plunged her hand into one of her kettles and brought out a glossy black rat.

  Billy snatched the rat from her, crying, "Rembrandt!"

  Rembrandt, equally pleased to see Billy, squeaked delightedly.

  "He loves that kettle," said Mrs. Kettle. "He's tried them all, but that's his favorite."

  Benjamin looked worried. "Urn, do you sell your kettles?"

  "Don't worry, my dear," said Mrs. Kettle. "I wash them inside out. Rats can be untidy creatures, can't they?"

  Charlie became aware of a drumming sound coming from somewhere behind him. Runner Bean was so excited to see Rembrandt, his big, happy tail was beating a rhythm on two enamel kettles.

  "Rembrandt doesn't want to play," said Billy, boldly ing his rat very close.

  At a command from Benjamin, Runner Bean reluctantly stopped wagging, but the drumming was immediately replaced by a fierce whistle that came from a kettle on the stove.

  Mrs. Kettle took off her coat and told the boys to do the same. The temperature seemed to have risen by twenty degrees at least, and Charlie took off his sweater as well as his jacket.

  The boys sat down and Mrs. Kettle poured four cups of rather strong tea. Benjamin didn't like tea but he realized that he was unlikely to get anything else in a place full of kettles. As a matter of fact it was very good tea indeed and, after a few sips, they felt very buoyant, even Benjamin. It was like gulping down air that made you feel exceptionally lightweight and bouncy.

  While they drank their tea Mrs. Kettle told them about the fish shop up the street, even though they hadn't gotten around to asking her.

  "There was a butcher there," said Mrs. Kettle. "A very nice man - gave me lots of free cuts. Well, he just upped and went, overnight. Never said a thing about moving."

  "Perhaps he had an offer he couldn't refuse," Charlie suggested.

  "Must've," agreed Mrs. Kettle. "But you'd think someone who'd paid over the odds for a place would put something in it. And I've never seen so much as a fin in that window."

  "But there is a smell of fish," Benjamin pointed out.

  "Exactly." Mrs. Kettle leaned forward. "And do you know what? I think they wrote 'FISH' over the shop window, just to explain the smell of it, if you get me. And not because they're selling the stuff."

  "Oh," said Charlie, when he'd grasped what Mrs. Kettl
e had implied. "If you mean that someone in there smells of fish, we might know who it is."

  "Really?" Mrs. Kettle's coppery eyes became as round as oranges.

  "He's called Dagbert Endless," Charlie told her. "Wherever he goes, the smell of fish follows him. He says he drowns people. His father is Lord Grimwald, and..."

  "We knew it!" Mrs. Kettle exclaimed. "Or rather we guessed it. Cook suspected, but she wasn't sure. Oh, my poor friend, I hope she's not in trouble. I've already warned her not to come here again, and we're such good friends."

  Charlie said, "But it was such a long time ago when Lord Grimwald did those terrible things..."

  "And he must have married someone else," Billy added, "so he won't be bothering Cook again."

  "All the same." Mrs. Kettle drained her cup. The tea didn't appear to have had a bouncy effect on her at all. In fact, she looked quite dejected. "Cook's such a good friend," she repeated, shaking her head.

  To cheer her up, Benjamin asked if she had any electric kettles.

  Mrs. Kettle looked quite indignant. "Do you call them kettles? I certainly don't. A kettle boils when a hot stove tells it to, not when a button is pressed."

  Benjamin gave an apologetic smile. "Sorry."

  Charlie decided it was time to leave. They had come for Rembrandt and they had got him. He stood up and thanked Mrs. Kettle for the tea.

  "You're very welcome, Charlie Bone," said Mrs. Kettle. "You'll come again, won't you?"

  Charlie said, "Yes, of course."

  Mrs. Kettle led the way back into the shop but, just as he was about to pass through the archway, Charlie stopped. He felt something to the left of him, tugging in an extraordinary way. He had to steady himself against the wall, and an odd tickle in his throat made him cough. He turned his head, very slowly, and saw on a round shadowy table, a dark, lumpish thing. Looking closer, he saw that it was an ancient kettle, blackened by smoke.

  "I told you my best kettle was behind the scenes," Mrs. Kettle said softly.

  "THAT'S your best kettle?" Charlie moved closer to the blackened thing.

  "Oh, yes, by far." Mrs. Kettle spoke so quietly Charlie could barely hear her, and yet he sensed her excitement. "It was made by my ancestor Feromel more than five hundred years ago. Feromel was a blacksmith and a magician. He made many magical iron pots. Goodness knows where they are now." She came and stood directly behind Charlie. "You're a traveler, aren't you, Charlie? I wondered if you would feel it."