Читать книгу Charlie Bone and the Time Twister - Jenny Nimmo - Страница 9

A tree falls

The temperature dropped several degrees during the night. On Monday morning, an icy wind sent clouds of sleet whipping down Filbert Street, blinding anyone brave enough to venture out.

‘I can’t believe I’ve got to go to school in this,’ Charlie muttered as he struggled through the wind.

‘You’d better believe it, Charlie, there’s the bus! Good luck!’ Amy Bone blew Charlie a kiss then turned into a sidestreet and made her way towards the greengrocer’s. Charlie ran up to the top of Filbert Street where a blue bus was waiting to collect Music students for Bloor’s Academy.

Charlie’d been put in Music only because his father had been in it. His friend, Fidelio, on the other hand was brilliant. Fidelio had saved a seat for Charlie on the bus, and as soon as Charlie saw his friend’s bright mop of hair and beaming face, he felt better.

‘This term’s going to seem very boring,’ sighed Fidelio, ‘after all that excitement.’

‘I don’t think I mind a bit of boringness,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m certainly not going in the ruined castle again.’

The bus parked at one end of a cobbled square with a fountain of stone swans in the centre. As the children left the bus, they noticed that icicles hung from the swans’ beaks and their wings were laced with frost. They appeared to be swimming on a frozen pool.

‘Look at that,’ Charlie exclaimed as he passed the fountain.

‘The dormitory’s going to be like a fridge,’ Fidelio said grimly.

Charlie wished he’d packed a hot water bottle.

Another bus had pulled up in the square. This one was purple and a crowd of children in purple capes came leaping down the steps.

‘Here she comes!’ said Fidelio, as a girl with indigo-coloured hair came flying towards them.

‘Hi, Olivia!’ called Charlie.

Olivia Vertigo clutched Charlie’s arm. ‘Charlie, good to see you alive. You too, Fido!’

‘It’s good to be alive,’ said Fidelio. ‘What’s with the Fido?’

‘I decided to change your name,’ said Olivia. ‘Fidelio’s such a mouthful and Fido’s really cool. Don’t you like it?’

‘It’s a dog’s name,’ said Fidelio. ‘But I’ll think about it.’

Children in green capes had now joined the crowd. The Art pupils were not as noisy as the Drama students and not so flamboyant, and yet when their green capes flew open, a glimpse of a sequinned scarf, or gold threaded into a black sweater, made one suspect that more serious rules would be broken by these quiet children than by those wearing blue or purple.

The tall grey walls of Bloor’s Academy now loomed before them. On either side of the imposing arched entrance, there was a tower with a pointed roof and, as Charlie approached the wide steps up to the arch, he found his gaze drawn to the window at the top of one of the towers. His mother said she had felt someone watching her from that window, and now Charlie had the same sensation. He shivered slightly and hurried to catch up with his friends.

They had crossed a paved courtyard and were now climbing another flight of steps. At the top, two massive bronze-studded doors stood open to receive the throng of children.

Charlie’s stomach gave a lurch as he passed through the doors. He had enemies in Bloor’s Academy and, as yet, he wasn’t quite sure why. Why were they trying to get rid of him? Permanently.

A door beneath two crossed trumpets led to the Music department. Olivia waved and disappeared through a door under two masks, while the children in green made their way to the end of the hall where a pencil crossed with a paintbrush indicated the Art department.

Charlie and Fidelio went first to the blue cloakroom and then on to the assembly room.

As one of the smallest boys, Charlie had to stand in the front row beside the smallest of all, a white-haired albino called Billy Raven. Charlie asked him if he had enjoyed Christmas but Billy ignored him. He was an orphan and Charlie hoped he hadn’t had to spend his holiday at Bloor’s. A fate worse than death in Charlie’s opinion. He noticed that Billy was wearing a pair of smart fur-lined boots. A Christmas present, no doubt.

They were only halfway through the first hymn when there was a shout from the stage.

‘Stop!’

The orchestra ground to a halt. The singing died.

Dr Saltweather, head of Music, paced across the stage, arms folded across his chest. He was a big man with a lot of white, wiry hair. The row of music teachers standing behind him looked apprehensive. Dr Saltweather was just as likely to shout at them as the children.

‘Do you call that singing?’ roared Dr Saltweather. ‘It’s a horrible moan. It’s a disgraceful whine. You’re musicians, for goodness sake. Sing in tune, give it some life! Now – back to the beginning, please!’ He nodded to the small orchestra at the side of the stage and raised his baton.

Charlie cleared his throat. He couldn’t sing at the best of times, but today the assembly room was so cold he couldn’t stop his jaw from shaking. The temperature had affected the other children as well, even the best singers were hunched and shivering under their blue capes.

They started up again, and this time Dr Saltweather couldn’t complain. The old panelled walls vibrated with sound. Even the teachers were doing their best. Merry Mr O’Connor threw back his head and sang heartily, Miss Chrystal and Mrs Dance smiled and swayed, while old Mr Paltry frowned with concentration. The piano teacher, Mr Pilgrim, however, did not even open his mouth.

Charlie realised that Mr Pilgrim was not standing up. He was next to Mrs Dance, who was extremely small, and being very tall himself, it was not immediately apparent that he was still sitting down. What was wrong with him? He never looked you in the eye, never spoke, never walked in the grounds like other teachers. He seemed to be completely unaware of his surroundings, and his pale face never showed the slightest flicker of emotion.

Until now.

Mr Pilgrim was staring at Charlie and Charlie had the oddest sensation that the teacher knew him, not as a student, but someone else. It was as if the dark, silent man was trying to recognise him.

There was a sudden, violent crack from beyond the window. It was so loud they could hear it above their boisterous singing. Even Dr Saltweather paused in his conducting. Another crack resounded over the snow outside, and then a tremendous thump shook the walls and windows.

Dr Saltweather put down his baton and strode to one of the long windows. When some of the children followed he didn’t bother to stop them.

‘Good lord!’ exclaimed Dr Saltweather. ‘Snow’s done for the old cedar!’

The huge tree now lay halfway across the garden; its branches broken and its tangled roots pulled clear of the ground. There was another crack as a long branch supporting the crown of the tree finally broke and, with a dreadful groan, the trunk sank into the snow.

So many games had been played under its sweeping branches, so many whispered secrets kept safe by its wide shadow. Now it was gone, and in its place there was only a wide expanse of snow and an unbroken view to the ramparts of the ruined castle. Snow encrusted the top of the walls and clung to the uneven surfaces, but the blood red of the great stones stood out ominously in the white landscape.

As Charlie stared at the castle walls, something happened. It could have been a trick of the light, but he was sure another tree, smaller than the cedar, appeared in the arched entrance to the castle. Its leaves were red and gold and yet other trees had lost their autumn colours.

‘Did you see that?’ Charlie whispered to Fidelio.

‘What?’

‘A tree moved,’ said Charlie. ‘Look, now it’s standing by the castle wall. Can’t you see it?’

Fidelio frowned and shook his head.

Charlie tried to blink the tree away. But when he looked again, it was still there. No one else appeared to have seen it. Charlie had a familiar fluttery feeling in his stomach. It always happened when he heard the voices, but this time there had been no voices.

A bang from the stage made him look back. Mr Pilgrim had got to his feet, very suddenly, knocking over his chair. He gazed over the heads of the children, into the garden beyond the window. He could have been looking at the fallen tree, but Charlie was sure he was staring past to the red walls of the castle. Had he seen the strange, moving tree?

Dr Saltweather swung away from the window. ‘Next hymn, children,’ he said as he marched back to the stage. ‘You’ll never get to your classes at this rate.’

After assembly, Charlie had his lesson with Mr Paltry – Wind. Mr Paltry was an impatient, elderly flautist. Teaching Charlie Bone to play the recorder was like trying to fill a bucket with a hole in it, he complained. The old man sighed frequently, polished his glasses, and wasn’t above whacking the recorder while Charlie was in mid-blow. Charlie reckoned that if Mr Paltry continued attacking him in this way, he would eventually lose his teeth and then perhaps he would be released from his horrible music lessons.

‘Go, Bone, go!’ Mr Paltry grunted after forty minutes of mutual torture.

Charlie went, very happily. Next it was on with the wellingtons and out into the snowy garden. In cold weather the children were allowed to wear their capes outside; in summer, capes had to be left in the cloakroom.

Fidelio was late arriving from his violin lesson, so when the two boys finally ran outside, the snow had already been trampled by three hundred children. Snowmen were being built, snowball fights were in progress, and Mr Weedon, the gardener, was trying to shoo children away from the fallen tree.

‘I want to see something by the castle,’ Charlie told Fidelio.

‘You said you didn’t want to go near it,’ his friend reminded him.

‘No, but . . . it’s like I said, I saw something. I want to know if there are any footprints.’

‘OK.’ Fidelio gave a good-natured shrug.

As they ran past the fallen cedar, Billy Raven called out, ‘Where are you going, you two?’

Almost without thinking, Charlie shouted, ‘None of your business.’

The albino scowled and shrank against the dark branches of the tree. His ruby-coloured eyes flashed behind the thick lenses of his glasses.

‘Why did you say that?’ Fidelio asked as they hurried on.

‘I couldn’t help it,’ said Charlie. ‘There’s something wrong with Billy Raven. I don’t trust him.’

They had reached the entrance to the ruined castle. The snow beneath the huge arch was clear and smooth. No one had been in or out of the ruin.

Charlie frowned. ‘I saw it,’ he murmured.

‘Let’s go in,’ said Fidelio.

Charlie hesitated.

‘It doesn’t look so bad in daylight,’ said Fidelio, peering through the arch. He bounded in and Charlie followed. They tramped across a courtyard and took one of the five passages that led deeper into the ruin.

After several minutes of shuffling through the dark, they emerged into another courtyard. That’s where they saw the blood. Or something like it. A few deep red flecks lay in the snow besidea patch of red-gold leaves.

‘The beast!’ cried Charlie. ‘Let’s get out.’

It was only when they were standing safely outside the walls again that Fidelio said, ‘It might not have been the beast.’

‘There was blood,’ said Charlie. ‘And it was the beast. It’s killed something. Or wounded it.’

‘But there were no other marks, Charlie. No sign of a fight, or footprints . . . or . . .’

Charlie didn’t wait to hear the rest of his friend’s very reasonable doubts. He raced away from the ruin as if he were re-living the long night when a yellow-eyed beast had chased him through the endless passages and cold echoing chambers. When he reached the fallen tree, he waited for Fidelio to catch up with him.

‘Clear off, you!’ said a deep voice behind him.

Already nervous, Charlie jumped and swung round. Mr Weedon’s red face appeared through the mesh of broken branches. He was wearing a shiny black helmet and Charlie caught the glint of a saw, held in the big man’s black gauntlet.

‘This tree’s dangerous,’ said Mr Weedon. ‘I’ve told you kids not to play here.’

‘I wasn’t playing,’ said Charlie. Fidelio had caught up with him and he felt a little more confident.

‘Oh, no. Not you, Charlie Bone. You never play, do ya? A very serious boy, aren’t cha?’

‘You don’t know anything about me,’ Charlie said angrily. ‘You can’t . . .’

There was a loud roar followed by a grinding noise as Mr Weedon made his way through the tangle of branches towards Charlie. Twigs flew in all directions as the saw bit through wood and foliage.

‘Come on!’ Fidelio pulled at Charlie’s cape. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

‘That man’s dangerous,’ Charlie muttered as they ran away from the tree. ‘How does he know who I am?’

‘You’re famous,’ said Fidelio breathlessly. They were now far enough from Mr Weedon to take a rest. ‘Getting lost in that old ruin last term was quite an event. Everyone knows who you are.’

Charlie wished it wasn’t so.

The sound of a hunting horn rang out across the grounds, a signal for the end of break.

The temperature was still falling. After supper, the twelve endowed children went, as usual, to the King’s room, to do their homework. It was there that a very nasty row broke out between two great friends: Tancred Torsson and Lysander, the African.

Lysander was feeling the cold more than most, but being a good-humoured person his complaints were made in a friendly, almost jokey, way. What he actually said to Tancred was, ‘Tanc, what have you done to the weather?’

‘Not you too!’ Tancred jumped up and stamped his foot. ‘I can’t change the temperature. Storms are my thing, but I don’t use my talent frivolously. I thought that you, of all people, would know better.’

Before Lysander could reply, Manfred Bloor spoke up. ‘Come on, Tancred! Spare a thought for our African friend here. You’re freezing him to death.’

‘I’m not!’ screeched Tancred, tearing at his crackling hair.

‘He’s only joking, Tanc,’ said Lysander with a smile.

By this time some of the children were beginning to feel uncomfortable. Charlie was particularly concerned. Lysander and Tancred had saved him from the ruin. Together they were a powerful force against the darker powers that lurked in Bloor’s Academy. He couldn’t bear to see them quarrelling.

‘Are you on his side now?’ Tancred demanded, glaring at his old ally.

‘Everyone’s on my side,’ sniggered Manfred.

Lysander silently shook his head, but unfortunately Zelda Dobinski chose that moment to show off her particularly nasty gift for moving things. She was staring at a huge reference book on the shelves behind Tancred. The book launched itself across the room and caught Tancred in the back just as he whirled towards the door.

‘Owww!’ roared Tancred.

Six children burst into wild laughter, while five looked on in horror.

Tancred didn’t notice the sympathetic faces. He was only aware of the mocking laughter. Wind rushed furiously round the room as the stormy boy swept through the door, leaving it banging violently against the wall.

Charlie couldn’t stop himself. ‘Wait!’ he cried, leaping after Tancred.

‘And where do you think you’re going, Bone?’ said Manfred.

‘I’ve left my pens in the cloakroom,’ lied Charlie.

A scrawny, red-haired boy looked up and sneered, ‘Always forgetting things, aren’t you, Bone?’

‘Not always, Asa.’ Charlie was scared of Asa Pike. He was Manfred’s sidekick and could change his shape at dusk.

‘Close the door,’ said Asa, as Charlie stepped outside.

Charlie pulled the door shut behind him. The passage outside was deserted. Charlie decided to try the hall.

As he descended the wide staircase, a blast of arctic air almost rocked him off his feet. He stepped down into the stone-flagged hall and stood very still. Something was happening to his eyes. He was seeing things that should not be there. A cloud of sparkling particles swirled in the very centre of the long room. Was it an ice storm?

Gradually the pale fragments grew more vivid. Now they were forming a blurred shape, blue with a touch of black beneath it. Before Charlie’s astonished gaze, a figure in a blue hooded cape was materialising.

Charlie had no doubt that he was seeing a ghost. But when the figure turned to face him, he found, to his horror, that he was looking at . . . himself?