Charlie Bone and the Invisible Boy

It did.

  The pupils in Bloor’s Academy were about to go out for their afternoon break when a cloud passed over the sun. And then another, and another. The sky was filled with a lurid purple glow. It darkened to deep indigo, which gradually turned black. Pitch black.

  A crowd of children gathered around the garden door, reluctant to be the first to step into the eerie darkness.

  “For goodness’ sake, you ninnies,” sneered Zelda Dobinski. “Get out! Go on! You’re not afraid of a few clouds, are you?”

  To show her contempt for the younger children, she pushed through the crowd and took several steps into the dark garden.

  A toad fell on her head. And then another. When the first toad plunked onto Zelda’s head, she opened her mouth. When the second one came, she gave a loud shriek and leaped back into the crowd.

  Then it began to rain frogs.

  Some of the children screamed and retreated into the hall. Others put out their hands to catch the frogs, but the slimy creatures were falling with such force, there were cries of “Ouch!” “Help!” “Ow!” and hands were quickly withdrawn.

  In the distance, they could hear police sirens, ambulances, and fire engines wailing around the city.

  Standing at the back of the crowd, Charlie’s heart sank. Where was Skarpo? How on earth could he be caught and taken back to where he belonged?

  It was obviously too dangerous to play outside in complete darkness. The lights came on in the building, and the children were sent back to their classrooms. In Charlie’s case, this was Mr. Carp’s English room. Mr. Carp was broad and red-faced. He kept a slim, wicked-looking cane propped beside his desk and had been known, accidentally, of course, to flick children on the ears when he was irritated. Charlie had become rather good at ducking these attacks, but he could tell from the malicious gleam in Mr. Carp’s small eyes that he was determined to get Charlie one day. Charlie thought it might be today.

  From the desk beside Charlie’s, Fidelio whispered, “What’s he going to do next, Charlie? Got any ideas?”

  Charlie shook his head.

  In a high-pitched screech, Mr. Carp cried, “You’ve got half an hour to study your Wordsworth before the test.”

  Mindful of their ears, twenty children got out their Wordsworths and silently bent their heads.

  Outside, the dark clouds lifted and the sun came out. Mr. Weedon and several seniors could soon be observed collecting frogs in nets, boxes, and bags. Charlie wondered if frogs had fallen all over the city, or had Bloor’s been singled out for the favor? Through the window, he saw Manfred wiping his slimy hands on his pants, and he smiled to himself. His smile didn’t last long.

  Nobody thought it unusual when the cathedral bells began to ring. But when the bells in five smaller churches joined in, people began to worry. Soon the sound of pealing bells resounded throughout the city. And they didn’t stop. On and on and on they went. Priests and bell ringers rushed into the churches to find the bell ropes mysteriously rising and falling, all by themselves.

  Fidelio looked at Charlie. Charlie rolled his eyes and shrugged. And then one of the girls in the front row put up her hand. When Mr. Carp, who had his hands over his ears, took no notice, the girl — Rosie Stubbs — shouted, “Excuse me, sir, but there’s an elephant in the garden.”

  Everyone turned to look. There was.

  Mr. Carp, a livid glow spreading over his cheeks, lifted his cane. Rosie put her hands over her ears.

  The noise from the bells increased.

  “SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP, ALL OF YOU!” screeched Mr. Carp, although the class was completely silent. “I can’t stand this. Who is doing it? They should be shot!”

  Everyone gasped.

  Remembering himself, Mr. Carp shouted, “Put away your books. It’s no good. We can’t continue. Class dismissed.”

  The class gratefully slipped their books into their desks and filed out of the classroom into the hall. Other classrooms were emptying. Harassed-looking teachers were rushing down the hall to the staff room, black capes flapping, papers flying, books tumbling out of their arms.

  The children who had gathered in the hall, finding it almost impossible to observe the rule of silence, whispered and muttered their way down to the cafeterias where an early lunch was hoped for.

  Charlie and Fidelio had just managed to grab a cookie and a glass of orange juice when Billy Raven rushed up to Charlie, saying, “You’re wanted in Dr. Bloor’s study.”

  “Me?” said Charlie, turning pale.

  “All of us. You too, Gabriel.”

  “All of us?” said Gabriel. “That’s unusual. What on earth’s going on?”

  Charlie had never been to Dr. Bloor’s study. Nervous as he was, he couldn’t help feeling curious.

  “I’ve been there,” said Gabriel as the two boys followed Billy up to the hall. “It was when I first came here. I had to go and explain about my clothes problem. It’s the sort of room that makes you feel as though you’ve done something wrong; I don’t know why.”

  Manfred and Zelda were waiting for them in the hall, and gradually the other endowed children began to arrive: Dorcas and Belle, with Asa close behind, wearing a silly smile; Tancred, whose hair was crackling with nervous electricity, and Emma with a pencil behind her ear.

  “Take that out!” barked Zelda. “Tidy yourself up, girl. What do you think you look like?”

  Emma seemed bewildered, until Charlie pointed to the pencil, which she pulled out and stuck in her pocket, smoothing her blonde hair as best she could.

  “Ah, here comes the great sculptor!” Manfred announced as Lysander slouched gloomily into the hall. “Cheer up, boy! What’s the trouble, eh?”

  “You know very well,” Lysander said grimly.

  Dorcas giggled, and Belle’s awful eyes turned from blue, through gray, to violet. Manfred look momentarily uneasy, and then said, “Billy, lead the way. You know where it is.”

  “Yes, Manfred.” Billy crossed the hall to the door into the west wing. The old door creaked open, and Charlie, close behind Billy, found himself in the dark, musty passage that led to the music tower.

  They reached the round room at the base of the tower and were about to ascend the staircase up to the first floor when they saw Mr. Pilgrim sitting on the second step.

  “Excuse me, sir,” said Billy, but Mr. Pilgrim didn’t move. He appeared not to have heard Billy.

  “We’ve got to go to Dr. Bloor’s study, sir,” said Charlie.

  Mr. Pilgrim stared at Charlie with a puzzled expression. “So many bells,” he said. “Why so many? Who died? Was it — me?”

  Charlie was about to reply when Manfred suddenly pushed past him and, glaring down at the music teacher, said, “Please move, Mr. Pilgrim. Now. We’re in a hurry!”

  Mr. Pilgrim pushed a thick lock of black hair away from his eyes. “Is that so?” he said in a surprisingly stubborn voice.

  “Yes, it is. Move!” Manfred demanded rudely. “Come on. NOW!” His narrow eyes took on an intense, chilling look as he stared at Mr. Pilgrim.

  Charlie glanced at Manfred’s coal-black eyes and remembered how it felt to be hypnotized. He longed to warn Mr. Pilgrim, to make him fight that horrible disabling stare. It was possible to resist Manfred’s power. Charlie, himself, had done it once.

  But it seemed that Mr. Pilgrim had neither the strength, nor the will, to oppose Manfred. With a groan of dismay the music teacher stood and whirled away, up the narrow, curving steps. His footsteps could be heard clattering to the top of the tower as Manfred led the way to the first floor.

  They went through a low door and into a thickly carpeted corridor, where Manfred stopped outside another door, this one paneled in dark oak. He knocked twice, and a deep voice said, “Enter.”

  Manfred opened the door and herded the others into the room.

  Behind a large, highly polished desk sat Dr. Bloor, his broad, grayish face illuminated by a green desk lamp. The curtains behind him had been drawn against the sunlight, and the boo
k-lined room was plunged in gloomy shadows. Dr. Bloor beckoned, and the children shuffled forward until they stood in a row before his desk.

  The headmaster scanned their faces with steely gray eyes, and then his gaze came to rest on Charlie. “I want to know who is responsible,” he demanded in a cold voice.

  Charlie’s legs felt weak. He hated the way Dr. Bloor could do this to him. He knew the headmaster wasn’t endowed, but he gave the impression that he had enormous power, that he could do anything he wanted, and that his will was so strong he could overcome anything, or anyone.

  “Children of the Red King,” Dr. Bloor sneered. “Look at you! Freaks! That’s what you are.”

  Manfred shifted uncomfortably and Charlie wondered how it felt to have your father calling you a freak.

  “All of you!” shouted Dr. Bloor, and then, glancing at Belle, he muttered, “Almost all of you.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” said Zelda, rather boldly. “But do you mean who’s responsible for the bells and the frogs et cetera? Because it certainly wasn’t me. I got one on the head. Actually, it was a toad and there were two.”

  Charlie knew he was in serious trouble but he still had an urge to giggle.

  “I didn’t think it was you, Zelda,” the headmaster said coldly. “I’m well aware that that kind of thing is quite beyond you.”

  Zelda reddened. She glared down at the line of younger children and said, “I think it’s Tancred, sir.”

  “I do storms,” Tancred retorted angrily. “Weather.”

  “Wind can make bells ring, skies darken, frogs rain,” said Manfred.

  “Not elephants!” cried Tancred, whose hair crackled violently. His green cape lifted and a blast of cold air blew a pile of papers off the desk.

  “CONTROL YOURSELF!” roared Dr. Bloor.

  Tancred gritted his teeth, and Dorcas Loom began to gather the papers, putting them, one by one, onto the desk.

  “I know who is capable and who is not,” said Dr. Bloor. “But I want a confession. Do you understand my position?” He got up and began to pace behind his desk. “The people of this city know that I harbor children with unusual, and in some cases” — he glanced at Asa Pike — “undesirable talents. They tolerate you because they respect me. We are the oldest family in this city. We can trace our ancestry back for nearly a thousand years.” He gestured toward the bookcases. “These walls have witnessed alchemy, hypnotism, divination, metamorphosis, magic of unimaginable splendor, shape-shifting, and even” — he coughed and lowered his voice — “apparitions.”

  All at once Dr. Bloor stopped pacing and swung around to face his victims. “But never, never, never” — he raised his voice — “NEVER have the events in this building impinged upon the city. Never have the citizens had to suffer for our — peculiarities. But now,” he banged his fist on the desk and bellowed, “all at once day has turned to night, bulls have run rampant, bells have gone berserk. Can you imagine what it’s like out there, in the city?” He flung a hand toward the window. “The danger, the chaos. There have been more traffic accidents in ten minutes than in a whole year. The mayor was on the phone to me immediately. Oh, he knows very well where the trouble is coming from.”

  “I think we know too, sir,” said a voice.

  Everyone turned to look at Belle. She gave a wide smile and her eyes changed to a brilliant emerald green. She said, “It’s Charlie Bone. Isn’t it, Charlie?”

  Charlie’s mouth went dry. He felt slightly queasy. “I don’t know,” he mumbled.

  “Liar,” said Manfred.

  “Coward,” hissed Zelda.

  Asa gave an unpleasant snort.

  “You can go,” said Dr. Bloor, dismissing them all with a wave of his hand.

  Surprised by the sudden turn of events, the eleven children turned to the door, but before Charlie could reach it, the headmaster added, “Not you, Charlie Bone.”

  Gabriel threw Charlie a look of sympathy as Manfred pushed him through the door after the others. And then Charlie was alone with Dr. Bloor. The headmaster paced again, finally sinking into his large leather chair and clasping his hands together on a sheaf of papers lying on the desk. He gave a sigh of exasperation and declared, “You are very stupid, Charlie Bone. I had my doubts, but when I saw you all, standing there, it didn’t take me long to identify the culprit. I gave you a chance to confess. You should have taken it.”

  “Yes, well … but I didn’t …” began Charlie.

  “You idiot!” roared Dr. Bloor. “Do you think I don’t know what you can do? I’m well aware of the painting you can — enter. I know about the ‘person’ whom you have so carelessly let out. Who else could cause this mayhem? There’s obviously a sorcerer on the loose, and I want to know what you intend to do about it!”

  “Um — find him?” Charlie suggested.

  “And how are you going to do that?”

  “Er — look for him?” said Charlie.

  “Oh, brilliant!” said Dr. Bloor sarcastically. “Well done!” He raised his voice. “If this nonsense hasn’t stopped by nine o’clock tomorrow, then it will be very much the worse for you.”

  “In what way, sir?” asked Charlie, clearing his throat.

  “I’ll let you know,” said the headmaster. “Your famous relations assured me that you would be an asset to this school, but so far you’ve been nothing but trouble. They’re very disappointed and I’m sure they’ll approve of any punishment I choose — even if they have to lose you forever.”

  Charlie shuddered. He thought of his father, permanently lost, unreachable, unknown. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Can I go now and start looking?”

  “You’d better. You haven’t got long,” came the grim reply.

  Charlie whisked himself through the door as speedily as he could. Once in the corridor, however, he decided not to return the way he had come but to walk farther into the Bloors’ intriguing quarters. Eventually, he hoped, he would find a staircase leading to the attics. For that was surely where Skarpo must be hiding, among the cobwebs and eerie, empty rooms.

  Charlie trod softly over the rich carpeting in the corridor. He passed dark oak-paneled doors, portraits in gilt frames (these he avoided looking at), shelves crammed with dusty books, a collection of small skeletons in a glass case, and the head of a bear mounted on a wooden shield. “Gruesome,” Charlie muttered and hastened on, beneath the stuffed birds and bunches of dried herbs suspended from hooks in the ceiling.

  He reached the end of the corridor and climbed a narrow stairway to the second floor. Here, a brief glimpse showed him a shadowy passage where, in the distance, something horrible like a coffin stood upright against the wall.

  Charlie hurried up the next staircase, this one uncarpeted and creaky. At the top he found himself entering the airless, gaslit passage that he and Emma had passed through on their way to find Ollie. The steps to the attic were halfway down, he remembered.

  A sound drifted toward him: music. Not Mr. Pilgrim’s fine piano-playing but a brass band, accompanied by a harsh, quavering voice. Charlie stopped and listened. There was no mistaking the voice. Old Ezekiel obviously lived in this gloomy region of the house.

  Charlie cautiously crept forward until he reached the stairs that led to the attic. He had climbed several steps when something made him glance upward. There, at the top, something gleamed: a coil of thick, silvery-blue rope. But, of course, it wasn’t rope. Charlie could now make out a faint pattern of scales.

  Sensing Charlie’s presence, a head lifted from the coil, a flattish triangle with black eyes and strange markings across the top. Strangest of all were the thin blue feathers sprouting from its neck. All at once a hiss, like a gas explosion, erupted from the creature’s wide mouth.

  Charlie backed away, missed his footing, and tumbled down into the passage, landing on all fours. As the hissing snake began to glide down the steps, Charlie picked himself up and tore to the end of the passage. He had just begun to descend to the second floor when Ezekiel’s shrill voice called,
“Who’s there? Who’s upset my treasure? You’d better watch out, whoever you are, or you’ll be DUST!”

  “Dust?” Charlie murmured under his breath as he leaped down spirally steps and creaking stairways. “Nothingness, more like. Zero. Zilch. No more Charlie.”

  He had just reached the landing above the entrance hall when he ran straight into Mr. Weedon.

  “What are you doing in the west wing?” grunted the handyman. “It’s out-of-bounds.”

  “I was given permission,” Charlie panted.

  Mr. Weedon raised his eyebrows. “Oh? And who gave you permission?”

  “Dr. Bloor,” said Charlie. After all, Dr. Bloor had commanded him to find Skarpo. “I’m looking for someone. I suppose you haven’t seen him? He’s got kind of silvery hair and a beard and he’s wearing a dark robe and a little cap on …”

  “It’s you. Of course. You little squirt. You’re responsible for all the mess outside that I’ve got to clear up. Not to mention the elephant. Darn near killed me when I tried to move it.”

  “What happened to it?” asked Charlie, who couldn’t help being curious.

  “Vanished, didn’t it — but its dung didn’t vanish — nor its blasted footprints on my lawn. If I do see that wretched sorcerer, I’ll darn well wring his neck.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t try to …” began Charlie.

  “Get out of my way,” growled Mr. Weedon. “I’m sick of the lot of you. Endowed, my foot.” And he marched off toward the west wing, leaving Charlie anxious and relieved all at the same time.

  Below him, the hall began to fill with children heading for the garden door. The afternoon break had begun and Charlie decided to continue his search outside.

  “What happened to you?” said Fidelio as Charlie ran up to his friends.

  Charlie explained. “I’ve got to find the sorcerer before nine o’clock tomorrow or I’m dead meat. Worse than dead meat — I’m …” He ran his hand across his throat.

  Fidelio and Gabriel offered to help.

  “The woods,” suggested Gabriel.

  They waded through the thick undergrowth beneath the trees that surrounded the grounds. But the deeper they went, the harder it was to know if the dark forms sliding around the tree trunks were solid or merely shadows of moving branches. So many resembled a tall man in a long robe.