This was the home of Dagbert Endless, if you could call it a home. The window above the sign was dark and grimy. The curtains were threadbare, and all that could be seen of the shop beyond the window was an empty counter in a room with walls of cracked white tiles and a floor of mildewed slate. Charlie wrinkled his nose and walked on. By the time he had reached the Kettle Shop, Billy was inside, making his way through the kettles displayed on stands and tables all around the room.
Charlie closed the store door, which squeaked loudly on its somewhat rusty hinges, and he followed Billy through an archway into yet another room filled with kettles. But here there were four chairs, grouped around an empty table, where customers could sit and examine the ancient kettles. On a stove behind the table, a copper kettle whistled merrily.
"I knew I'd see you today, my dears." The store's owner lifted the whistling kettle and poured boiling water into a large brown teapot.
"Because of my rat," said Billy, eyeing the plate of cookies that Mrs. Kettle now placed on the table.
"Because of your rat, my dear." Mrs. Kettle was a very large, muscular woman, with a crown of smooth, copper-colored hair. She wore dark-blue coveralls and thick leather boots spotted with oil, for Mrs.
Kettle was a blacksmith first and foremost; kettle selling was merely a hobby, a front for her secret profession.
"Where is he?" Billy gazed around, hoping for a black rat to come bounding toward him.
"Guess!" said Mrs. Kettle.
"I can't, I can't," said Billy impatiently. "There are too many places for him to hide."
The blacksmith walked first one way and then another, tapping kettles as she went. She hesitated, then set off again, stopped, and pondered, rubbing her chin. "I do believe I've lost him," she said.
"No-o-o!" cried Billy.
The lid of a huge iron kettle lifted slightly and then slid to the floor with a loud clang. They waited expectantly, but no black rat leaped out. Instead, the head of a blue snake appeared. It bobbed from side to side, and the beautiful blue feathers adorning its head fluttered like silken banners in the wind.
"Oh, I forgot the boa was here." Billy went toward the swaying head.
"He's a lovely fellow. I've gotten really attached to him," said Mrs. Kettle. "I call him Solomon; he's so wise."
Upon seeing Billy, the blue boa came slithering out of the kettle, slipped to the ground, and began to coil itself around Billy's legs. But Billy lifted the creature and gently curled it across his shoulders, all the while hissing and humming to it. The boa replied with a soft chirruping sound, like a small bird.
"It's OK," said Billy when the boa had settled. "He won't make me invisible."
"It's wonderful how you can do that, Billy, my dear," said Mrs. Kettle. "Solomon was very active before he took that little nap. Spiders, flies, beetles, even a mouse; he's been wrapping them up in his long blue coils and disappearing them all over the place."
Charlie felt something on his foot. Before his very eyes the lace on his sneaker began to disappear. "Billy, I think I've found Rembrandt. He's eating my shoelace." Charlie lifted his foot and kicked it toward Billy.
There was a loud squeak and Billy's white hair was suddenly tugged over his face. Billy put up his hands and clasped them around what appeared to be empty air. But he could feel whiskers and fur and a long skinny tail.
"Solomon's done it to Rembrandt," said Billy, pleased to have found his rat but worried by his invisibility.
"I expect you can soon put that right," said Mrs. Kettle. "That boa would do anything for you."
Billy put the unseen rat on the floor and began to twitter at the boa on his shoulders. But Rembrandt was obviously enjoying his invisibility. Charlie felt him run over his foot, then a table shook and a kettle fell to the floor. They all followed the tiny patterings and excited squeaks through the doorway and into the store. Mrs. Kettle dropped to her knees and began to crawl among the kettle displays; the boys followed her example and the boa joined in, slithering across the floor with a purposeful look on his scaly face. Mrs. Kettle began to laugh. Charlie couldn't stop himself from giggling, and now even Billy began to see the funny side of things; he lay on the floor convulsing with laughter.
No one noticed the store door opening just a fraction, not enough to make it squeak. No one heard soft footsteps crossing the floor, and no one saw Eric Shellhorn slip into the store and run to the big metal door leading to Mrs. Kettle's workshop.
It all happened in less than a minute, and then the blue boa was curling itself into a knot. There was a very loud squeal, and a black rat jumped free of Solomon's shiny coils and ran to Billy.
"Thanks, Solomon." Billy picked up the trembling rat, gave him a stroke, and slipped him into his pocket.
"A nice cup of tea is called for, my dears," said Mrs. Kettle, getting to her feet, "and maybe a cookie or two."
The boys followed her back to the table, and
Solomon slithered across the floor beside them. When Billy sat down, the boa lifted his head and began to sway. Charlie sensed that it was anxious, even fearful. It looked up at Billy and hissed.
Billy answered the boa with a light hum. "Solomon says someone came into the shop," he told the others.
"Well, there's no one here except us," said Mrs. Kettle. "Did your snake say who it was?"
"I asked him, but he didn't know."
Charlie watched the boa slide back to his home inside the big iron kettle. He felt uneasy. The boa had no reason to lie. It was a wise and gentle snake, not a trickster.
Something made Charlie ask, "You've got the stone troll here, Mrs. Kettle, haven't you?"
"You bet I have, Charlie," Mrs. Kettle assured him. "It's been chained up in my workshop ever since it attacked that poor little girl and her father. That troll had a venom all its own, once Eric had brought it to life."
The stone troll used to stand outside Charlie's great-aunt Venetia's house. On a day Charlie would never forget, the troll had attacked Venetia's new husband and his daughter, Miranda. The poor man had been bewitched into marriage, but once he'd come to his senses, he'd left the city and taken his daughter with him. Eric had remained with his stepmother. Venetia had her own unpleasant endowment - she could bewitch her victims by treating their clothes with a magic poison. But she dreamed of using Eric's talent to further her craving for power.
"I think I met it," Charlie said slowly, "when it was real. It was named Oddthumb."
"Met it, Charlie? The troll?" Mrs. Kettle stopped stirring her tea and fixed her amber-colored eyes on Charlie. "Would you mean - on your travels?"
"Yes," Charlie replied, and he recounted his adventure in Badlock.
The blacksmith sat in rapt attention. Only once did she lift her teacup, very slowly, to take a sip of her rapidly cooling tea. And when Charlie had finished, she could only shake her head for a while, in mute dismay.
In the unfamiliar silence, Charlie felt a coldness pervade the shop. Was it his imagination or did the bright kettles suddenly lose some of their luster?
"The shadow's trying to come back again," Mrs. Kettle spoke almost to herself. "Lock your cellar door, Charlie, and throw away the key, before that painting captures you again."
"But Runner Bean!" Billy protested.
"You'll forget him, Billy, if you're wise," said Mrs. Kettle.
She must know that we can't do that, thought Charlie. But Mrs. Kettle looked so solemn, so weighed down with some secret trouble, he realized that her warning was in deadly earnest.
"The Stone Shop is occupied again," Mrs. Kettle said at last. "For years it has been vacant - half-finished carvings in the yard, the statues in the store covered in cobwebs. But two days ago I heard a hammering. Chink! Chink! Chink! Metal on stone. I left my workshop and walked down the alley behind the stores. I looked into the stonemason's yard and there he was: a fierce-looking man with a yellow mustache and a cowboy hat. Melmott, he said his name was. But that was all he'd tell me. I fear he's the first of many."
&
nbsp; "The first of many what?" asked Charlie.
"Magicians, my dear, for want of a better word. Once the whole street was full of them, but by the time I'd inherited this place from my grandpa, they were all gone. And now ..." Mrs. Kettle collected the cups and took them to the sink beside the stove.
"And now what?" prompted Billy.
"And now the wickedness is coming back," said Mrs. Kettle. "It's not just Eric, it's those children at Bloor's: the drowner, the magnet, the poisoner, the hypnotist, and then there's that witch, Mrs. Tilpin. They're all getting stronger, my dears. And people like us have got to watch out for one another. I'm the only one left on this street, boys.
The only one who can stop them, that is. And I have a strong feeling they're going to do something about it. Don't know what. But I'm on my guard."
"Mrs. Kettle, can I have a look at the troll?" asked Charlie.
"Now, do you really want to?" Mrs. Kettle glanced at the metal door, reluctant to let Charlie into her workshop.
"I just want to make sure that Oddthumb's still in there." Charlie's anxiety was growing.
Mrs. Kettle sighed, wiped her wet hands on her coveralls, and opened the metal door. Charlie stepped in. It looked very much the same as the last time he'd been there. Bare brick walls, a dusty stone floor, and an assortment of tools hanging from a beam. The anvil stood in the center of the room, and the hum of flames could be heard behind a small iron door at the base of the chimney.
In a dark corner stood a squat stone figure. A double chain encircled its thick waist, the two ends fixed to large iron hoops fastened to the wall. Charlie stared at the troll, his eyes gradually adjusting to the dark. Now he could see the wide fleshy nose, the thin scribble mouth, and the small gimlet eyes.
"Satisfied, Charlie?" called Mrs. Kettle.
"Yes." Charlie was about to step back when he saw a glint in the troll's left eye. Was that a blink? Mesmerized by the blink, and terrified of what it might mean, Charlie felt behind him for the door.
He was too late. There was an earsplitting crack as the troll broke free of the wall and came flying at Charlie. He ducked, with a scream, and Oddthumb sailed through the open door and into the shop.
His whole body shaking with terror, Charlie forced himself to follow the troll. He saw it making straight for Mrs. Kettle. The blacksmith didn't stand a chance. Oddthumb slammed into her head, and she sank to the floor with a groan.
Not satisfied with this, the troll began to crash against the furniture, sending kettles tumbling to the floor. Billy crawled under a table, his arms folded tight over his bent head. "No, no, no," he moaned.
"Shhh!" whispered Charlie, creeping toward Billy.
The silence that followed his whisper was so complete Charlie could almost feel the troll thinking. What would he do next? Could he see them? Could a stone troll hear or smell? And where was he now? Charlie held his breath.
A violent crash gave away the troll's whereabouts. He had gone through the doorway into the store, and now he proceeded to crush, dent, break, and shatter every kettle in the place. The sound of iron and copper, steel, enamel, and even clay breaking apart was like nothing Charlie could ever have imagined. He wondered if the wounded blacksmith could hear the terrible destruction of her beloved kettles, and if her breaking heart might be part of the dreadful and tragic noise.
When he's broken everything he can see, he'll come back for us, thought Charlie. He quickly crawled beneath the table where Billy was hiding. "Our only chance is to get to the workshop and lock ourselves in," he whispered. "But we'll have to take Mrs. Kettle with us.
Quick, Billy! We'd better move now while he's still busy in the store."
But Billy wouldn't move. He remained in his tightly curled huddle. Not a sound escaped him.
"Billy!" Charlie shook a clenched arm.
"Mmmm!" moaned Billy.
"Billy, we must..."
But Charlie never finished his sentence. Above the troll's noise, he distinctly heard the loud squeak of the store door. Someone was coming in.
There was a heavy thump, as though the troll had landed from a great height. And then silence.
CHAPTER 9
PURR SPELLS
T he noise made by the troll could be heard from one end of Piminy Street to the other. Yet none of the residents had appeared at their doors. Aren't they curious? Tancred wondered. As he approached the Kettle Shop, the noise increased. He looked through the window and saw a gray lumpen thing slamming ferociously into piles of ancient kettles. The speed of the creature's lethal work filled Tancred with an overpowering rage. He marched into the store and the troll whizzed around to face him.
From the corner of his eye Tancred saw a movement in the room beyond the door, but his gaze remained fixed on the troll. A burst of fury from the creature almost took Tancred's breath away. Using his own rage, he summoned up the wind that was always at his fingertips. Thunder rolled across the roof and a streak of lightning lit the troll's ugly features. And then came the wind. The strength of his own power surprised Tancred. It seemed to come from a deeper place within him, a power that coursed through his body, almost as though it were drawn toward the vile creature before him. The troll's hatred was palpable, its desire for his destruction intense, for it knew that it had met a strength equal to its own.
Tancred's storm swept around the troll, sending broken kettles flying to the back of the shop. Not content, the storm boy stepped up the force of his tempest until the troll became the only thing that he could see between the curtains of his hair, caught in the wind that howled around them. And in this narrow frame the stone figure began to change. His breastplate took on the look of dull metal, his pants a straw color, his face an unhealthy sepia, and his eyes a gleaming steel gray. As Tancred fought to keep his gaze on this terrifying transformation, the image of a helmet appeared on the troll's bald head, and the hand, with a huge deformed thumb, reached for the knife wedged into his belt.
Tancred filled the wind with bolts of ice, and the hand stopped where it was. Seconds passed. The boy and the troll were now locked in an invisible battle. When Tancred felt the troll's strength weakening, he seized his chance and aimed a rod of energy, hard as iron, straight at the troll's heart.
The troll rocked, its gray eyes flashed, and it fell to the floor. For a moment, nothing moved. The storm died to a light breeze and a curious silence filled the kettle shop. After the uproar, it was almost painful. Tancred moved cautiously toward the fallen troll. It appeared to be lifeless, drained of color.
"Tancred!" Charlie peered through the doorway. "You've finished him off!"
"Can't be sure." Tancred stepped over the broken kettles. And then he saw Mrs. Kettle, lying in the shadows. "Oh, no! Is she dead?"
"No, I can hear her breathing," Charlie said quickly.
As Tancred reached the doorway, a sound made him turn. Charlie, following his gaze, saw the troll rock back onto its feet and shoot straight through the window. It was only then that they became aware of the small boy creeping along beside the wall.
"Hey!" shouted Tancred.
Eric Shellhorn darted him a look of smug satisfaction, reached for the door, and ran out.
"He'll go to the Stone Shop," said Charlie.
"Better wait for reinforcements before we go there," muttered Tancred. He went and knelt beside Mrs. Kettle. "I'll phone for an ambulance."
"Mrs. Kettle was afraid that something would happen to her," said Charlie. "It made me think of the stone troll. But I never saw Eric come in."
Tancred pulled out his newest cell phone. It was sleek and silver with a turquoise keyboard. He was just beginning to dial a number when his hand was caught in an iron grip and his phone snatched away.
"NO!" commanded the blacksmith.
"Mrs. Kettle! You're... you're ..." Charlie dropped to his knees beside her.
"Conscious," she said. "Barely."
"I'm sorry. I seem to have made a horrible mess." Tancred looked at the wreckage surrounding them.
"I was trying to blast that awful thing out of existence."
"You saved the day, Tancred Torsson." Mrs. Kettle patted his hand. "It could have been a lot worse."
"You need to see a doctor." Tancred reached for his phone. "Please, Mrs. Kettle, let me call someone."
"No." She clutched the phone to her chest and sat up.
"That troll gave you an awful bash," Charlie remarked, staring at the purple lump on her forehead.
Mrs. Kettle tapped it with her fist. "Ouch! I'll live. But look, no ambulance, no police."
"But... ," Charlie began.
"No arguments. How would I explain? A stone troll banged me on the head and wrecked my store.
The police couldn't deal with that sort of information, could they?"
Mrs. Kettle had a point. But her shop was destroyed, her window was broken, and when she rose, unsteadily, to her feet, Charlie noticed that she had to support herself against a table. They couldn't possibly leave her in this state.
"We'll sort out the kettles for you; they're not all broken." Charlie lifted a big iron kettle onto its stand.
"Don't you worry, Charlie. I'm not without friends. They'll be here soon, if I'm not mistaken." She tapped some numbers into Tancred's phone and handed it back to him. "Put that away, storm boy, and let's have no more talk of doctors and police. Now then." She bent over, with a small grunt, and looked under the table. "You can come out now, Billy Raven. It's all over."
Billy crawled out with Rembrandt's head peeking above his collar. "I wanted to make sure it had gone." He stood up and, pulling his rat out of his sweater, began to pet his head. "Rembrandt was more scared than me," he said. "Did you finish it off, Tanc? That stone thing?"
""Fraid not. It's on the loose somewhere, and Eric Shellhorn's not far behind it. Together they're lethal."
Mrs. Kettle insisted that the boys leave her and her friends to put the shop back in order. "My friends will be here soon," she said, "but I'd like to know where that troll has gone. Don't put yourselves in danger, my dears. Make sure Eric's not with it. Just let me know what you find out."