Charlie Bone and the Shadow of Badlock

The two boys ran on while the girls stood making up their minds. Eventually, Emma decided she couldn’t leave her Auntie Julia alone with Mr Bloor. She carried on up the street with her pet duck, Nancy, while Olivia hastened after the boys with her white rabbit, George.

It was a tricky time for Uncle Paton. He had emerged into the High Street, where lights blazed in every shop window. Paton pulled the brim of his black hat well down over his face, trying vainly not to glance at the windows. But today was Saturday and the High Street teemed with shoppers. Leaden clouds had covered the sun and raindrops were beginning to fall, softly at first, and then with a vengeance. Umbrellas were hastily put up and, being so tall, Paton was immediately at risk. ‘Watch it!’ he gasped, as he nearly lost an eye. Leaning sideways, he found himself looking into a window full of prancing mannequins.

‘BANG!’ The plate glass window shattered.

Amid screams of shock and disbelief, Paton hurried on. He failed to notice a red light as he sailed over the crossing, and a blue Volvo almost ran him down. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ called Uncle Paton, glancing at the car’s side-lights. This time the explosion was quieter, a mere pop. The driver didn’t even notice, and Uncle Paton was able to reach the kerb undetected.

Unfortunately, another car, unable to brake fast enough, had crashed into the back of the Volvo. Both drivers leapt out and ugly words rose into the damp air.

Suspecting that Uncle Paton might have something to do with the cracked window, the two boys pushed their way through the crowd and were just in time to see Paton, bent almost double, running away from the scene of his latest ‘accident’. He had nearly reached number nine, Filbert Street, by the time they caught up with him.

‘Was that you, Mr Yewbeam?’ asked Benjamin. ‘The window thing, I mean.’

‘’Fraid so, Benjamin. I’d be grateful for your silence in the matter.’

‘Course, Mr Yewbeam.’

They ascended the steps of number nine, Uncle Paton leading the way. As he opened the door, he raised a finger to his lips and whispered harshly, ‘Not a sound. My sister may be at home.’

‘She is,’ Benjamin whispered back.

There was a shriek from the street and Olivia came flying up to them, the basket swinging wildly from her hand. ‘Wait for me!’ she called.

‘Ssssh!’ hissed the boys.

‘Sorry,’ said Olivia, catching her breath. ‘Is the demented grandma about?’

Benjamin nodded. Olivia scrambled up the steps and hopped into the hall with the others. Uncle Paton quietly closed the door, and Olivia plonked her basket beside the coat-stand.

They tiptoed into the kitchen, where Maisie was waiting anxiously. ‘Nothing’s happened,’ she said. ‘Not a sign. I keep taking a look, but the wretched picture just sits there, looking back at me. D’you know what? I can feel a kind of smugness coming from it.’

‘We’ll take a look.’ Uncle Paton removed his hat.

Benjamin’s stomach gave a loud bleat.

‘Goodness,’ Maisie exclaimed. ‘I’ve even forgotten lunch. That’s a first. I’ll get a bit ready while you lot go down into the cellar.’

Uncle Paton thought it unnecessary for them all to visit the cellar. Telling Fidelio and Olivia to wait in the kitchen, he chose just Benjamin to accompany him. Benjamin had, after all, seen Runner Bean vanish, and he could tell if the painting had changed at all.

Paton lit three candles in a tall candelabrum that stood on the dresser. ‘Don’t, whatever you do, turn the light on in the cellar,’ he told Benjamin.

‘Course not, Mr Yewbeam,’ Benjamin said emphatically.

Paton descended the steps backwards with the candelabrum in his right hand. Benjamin followed.

‘Ye gods, what a grim place!’ Paton declared as the flickering candlelight played over the surface of the painting.

Benjamin shuddered. Badlock had looked sinister before. In candlelight it looked terrifying. He could hardly bear to think what might have become of Runner Bean in such an awful place. And then he saw it. At the bottom of the painting, peeping round the corner of one of the towers, was a dog. Runner Bean. His mouth was open in a silent howl.

Benjamin screamed.

‘What the –’ Uncle Paton almost dropped the candelabrum.

‘Look, look, Mr Yewbeam!’ Benjamin pointed a shaking finger at Runner Bean.

Paton bent closer to the dog’s head.

Benjamin’s scream had brought the others rushing to the cellar door.

‘What is it? What’s happened?’ Maisie demanded.

‘Can I come down, please?’ begged Olivia. ‘I can’t stand not knowing.’

‘Runner’s h-h-here . . .’ Benjamin quavered.

‘Here?’ said Fidelio.

‘Here . . . but, not here. There,’ moaned Benjamin.

‘In the painting.’ Uncle Paton’s tone gave the already tense atmosphere an edge of menace. This was too much for Olivia, who began to scramble down the steps. She was stopped by a shout from the hall.

‘RABBIT!’ screamed Grandma Bone.

Grandma Bone was scared of most animals, but harmless rabbits were her bêtes noires.

Olivia reluctantly climbed back, while Fidelio said calmly, ‘It’s all right, Mrs Bone. It won’t hurt you.’

‘It’s EVIL,’ shrilled Grandma Bone, and then she saw Olivia. ‘What are you doing here, you harpy?’

Olivia had never been called a harpy before. She was rather pleased. Her rabbit, George, had escaped from his basket and was now halfway up the stairs, happily grazing the carpet. Grandma Bone was standing at the top; one of her small black eyes was screwed shut, the other watched the rabbit’s progress in horror.

Olivia leapt up the stairs, grabbed her rabbit and carried him back to his basket. ‘He honestly wouldn’t hurt a fly,’ she said, fastening the basket lid.

‘I asked you what you were doing here.’ Feeling safer, Grandma Bone slowly descended the stairs.

Before Olivia could think of a reply, Uncle Paton emerged from the cellar and said, ‘I think it’s about time you answered a few of my questions, Grizelda.’

‘Such as?’ Grandma Bone tossed her head imperiously.

‘Such as – what is that painting doing in the cellar, and where has it come from?’

‘None of your business.’ With a wary glance at George’s basket, Grandma Bone swept down the stairs and crossed the hall into the sitting room. Uncle Paton followed her and the three children trooped after him. Maisie, however, sank on to the hall chair with a baffled sigh.

‘It is my business,’ Uncle Paton insisted.

Grandma Bone settled herself in an armchair and picked up a newspaper.

‘Are you listening to me, Grizelda?’ roared Uncle Paton, and then, to the concern of the three children hovering by the door, he said, ‘Your grandson has vanished into that painting.’

Benjamin muttered, ‘We’re not supposed to tell . . .’

Grandma Bone lowered her newspaper. Her long, grumpy face was momentarily transformed by a look of pure delight. ‘But that’s what he does,’ she said.

In the giant’s tower, Charlie gave Runner Bean a brief wave, before being lowered to the floor by Otus.

‘A dog?’ said Otus. ‘Their like is ne’er seen in Badlock.’

‘We must rescue him before those awful troll-things come back,’ said Charlie, making for the door.

‘Boy, wait!’ commanded Otus. ‘This is not as simple as it seems.’

‘Nothing here is simple.’ Charlie began to run down the stone spiral.

‘STOP!’ The giant’s huge roar echoed down the stairwell and Charlie was forced to obey. ‘It is most likely a trick, Charlie, to force you into the open. Come back, I beg you.’

Charlie reluctantly trudged back to the giant’s room. The situation would be hopeless, he realised, if both he and Runner Bean were caught. ‘I feel so guilty,’ he told the giant, ‘leaving him out there all alone, specially now he’s seen me.’

‘I know, I know.’ Otus lit a candle and set it on the table. ‘But all about us there are towers and watchers. Soon the darkness will come, a darkness like no other, Charlie. No stars shine in Badlock and moonlight is – scarce. So we will creep down our tower and rescue the poor dog then.’

The giant stirred the pot hanging over his stove. ‘I had a dog once, in the world we come from. It was a fine dog and we were scarce parted. Here in Badlock there are no dogs or cats. There are only bugs and slimy, creeping, cold-blooded things called durgles. And the birds fly on bony featherless wings, and they have long, fearful beaks.’

Charlie climbed on to the giant’s bed. ‘Why are there no dogs or cats?’

‘The shadow and his people consider a creature’s use is solely for the food it can provide, or for the pelt that can become a cloak, a jerkin, or even shoes. Every warm-blooded creature has been hunted, almost to extinction. Only squirras survive; they breed like demons, that is the reason, perhaps.’

‘What about blancavamps?’ asked Charlie.

‘Aha, the blancabats.’ Otus smiled. ‘They dare not touch the blancavamps, for they are ghosties.’ He ladled several dollops of steamy stew into two wooden bowls. ‘Come to the table, Charlie-my-descendent, and eat your supper.’

Charlie hauled himself off the bed and on to the tall chair, while the giant tore a round loaf in two and placed a piece beside each bowl. He then half-sat on the table and began to swish the bread into the stew, using it as a kind of spoon. Charlie did the same. Squirra stew was surprisingly good, but then Charlie was very hungry.

They ate in silence for a while. Charlie kept thinking of the dog outside the tower. How frightened he must be. And then the warm stew settled in his stomach and he could only think how comforting it was. Occasionally he glanced at his ancestor’s face. He could see no resemblance between the Yewbeams he knew and the giant. Grandma Bone and her sisters had tiny black eyes and thin lips, while Otus had grey eyes, and a wide, generous mouth. But, of course, many generations had come between them.

‘Tell me about your life,’ said the giant, scraping the last morsel from his bowl.

Charlie licked his fingers until every delicious trace of the stew was gone, and then he began. He told the giant how his father had been hypnotised by Manfred Bloor, and lived for ten long years in the school called Bloor’s Academy, while no one knew he was there. He went on to say how he, Charlie, had discovered his talent for travelling into pictures. He described Grandma Bone and her terrible sisters, and his friends, the normal boys like Fidelio and Benjamin. ‘Only Fidelio isn’t really normal,’ Charlie added. ‘He’s a musical prodigy and one day he’ll be famous.’

And then Charlie recounted some of his adventures with those other children, the endowed, descendants of the Red King, like himself. Emma, who could fly, Billy, who understood animals, Lysander, who could call up his spirit ancestors, Tancred the storm-bringer, Gabriel the clairvoyant, ‘And there’s Olivia.’ Charlie gave a chuckle. ‘She’s an illusionist, but the Bloors don’t know about her. She’s kind of our secret weapon.’

‘So this ancient man, Ezekiel, keeps you prisoner in his Academy for the . . . the?’ The giant looked at Charlie questioningly.

‘Gifted, I suppose you’d call it,’ said Charlie. ‘And we’re not really prisoners.’

‘But under his control.’

‘Sometimes we disobey.’

‘Good! Good!’ cried Otus, clapping his hands. He glanced up at the window. ‘Darkness has come. The dog can be rescued.’

‘Runner Bean!’ Charlie had almost forgotten poor Runner Bean while he’d been talking to the giant.

Otus led the way down the tower. He held the candle in an iron dish. It smelled like burning fat and cast huge leaping shadows on the stone walls. When they reached the outer door, the giant stopped and listened. Charlie waited beside him, scarcely able to breathe.

Otus had barely opened the door, before Charlie rushed out. He was met by such an overpowering blackness, he felt he might have been blinded. And through the terrible dark came the winds, first from one side, then another, driving him against the wall of the tower, dragging his legs, howling in his head.

‘RUNNER!’ Charlie screamed into the wind.

He waited for an answering bark. But nothing could be heard above the winds.

‘Best return, boy,’ called Otus. ‘He has been taken.’

‘No!’ Charlie ran blindly forward. Suddenly, he was falling. He landed with a groan on to hard, rocky ground. Putting out a hand, he felt a damp wall. Something scuttled over his fingers and he screamed again.

There came a deep, throaty bark and, even in his dangerous position, Charlie felt a surge of joy. ‘Runner!’ he called.

The giant’s voice drifted above the wind. ‘Cursed giant that I am. I should have warned you of the pits. Where are you, boy?’

‘Here!’ cried Charlie. He heard the thud of boots. A giant hand touched his, and then he was being hauled up the side of the pit. As he reached the top, a shaft of weak, ragged moonlight showed him a large yellow dog perched on the rim. ‘Runner!’ he shouted.

Runner Bean barked delightedly as the giant bundled boy and dog towards the tower. ‘Hush, dog!’ he said, pushing them both through the door.

Charlie grabbed the excited dog’s collar, while Otus closed the door and drew two heavy bolts across it.

‘Faith, that dog will have us all in chains before night has passed,’ the giant muttered.

‘Did someone hear us?’ Charlie stroked Runner Bean’s head, calming him down.

‘I fear my neighbour,’ Otus admitted, as he ascended the stone staircase. ‘His tower is close, and he is not a kind man.’

Now that Runner Bean had found Charlie, he seemed reluctant to climb the shadowy steps. Charlie had to coax him up with strokes and promises of bones, though he had no idea if any would be found once they reached the giant’s room.

The giant had thought ahead. By the time Charlie had enticed the nervous dog to the top of the stairs, Otus had fished two bones out of the cooking pot. Flinging them across the floor, he chuckled, ‘Chew on those, brave dog.’

‘I don’t think he feels very brave,’ Charlie remarked as he watched Runner Bean ravenously gnawing the bones.

‘Charlie, you must flee from here,’ Otus said gravely. ‘We cannot hope to hide that dog. Soon my neighbour will alert Oddthumb and his crew. You will hear the horn, and then you must be gone.’

‘But how?’ Charlie gazed round the giant’s room. ‘I can’t,’ he said in a strangled voice. ‘I don’t know how I got here. When I travel I have a wand . . .’

‘A wand?’ The giant’s eyes widened. ‘Truly, you are a magician, then?’

‘No, no.’ Charlie shook his head. ‘It’s just something that I inherited from my other ancestor, a Welsh wizard. It’d take too long to explain.’

Too long, indeed, for, at that moment, the eerie sound of a wailing horn echoed round the giant’s tower.

‘Oh, mercy, what’s to be done?’ The giant strode round and round, clenching his fists and glaring at the high window. ‘I shall defend you with my last breath, Charlie. But I am only one. I cannot prevail. Oddthumb will take you. Oh, poor boy, what is to become of you?’

The giant’s mournful voice was too much for Runner Bean. He leapt up with a dreadful howl – and something astonishing happened. From inside one of the dog’s ears, a white moth fluttered out. She came to rest on Charlie’s arm.

‘Claerwen,’ breathed Charlie. ‘My wand.’

‘In my day, we called such things moths,’ said the baffled giant.

‘Yes, yes. She is a moth, but she was once a wand,’ Charlie told the giant. ‘Mr Yewbeam, Otus – we can go now. Thank you, thank you . . .’

‘Then go,’ said Otus, ‘for I can hear troll feet. Swiftly, swiftly, Charlie Bone.’

‘Maybe I could take you with me, Otus?’

The giant sadly shook his head. ‘An impossibility. Go now, Charlie.’

Charlie flung his arm round Runner Bean. ‘I’ll came back, Otus, I promise. I’ll find a way to get you out of Badlock.’ Gazing at the moth, he cried, ‘Claerwen, take me home.’

The room about him began to jerk and jolt. Defying gravity, the table, chair and bed tumbled sideways, then became airborne. Charlie was treading air. Now he was upside down. His ears were bombarded with a thousand sounds. He felt Runner’s coarse hair melting under his fingers and tried to grip it tighter, but something, or someone, was trying to tear the dog from his grasp. And then his hand was empty and he was whirling away.

Charlie caught one last glimpse of his ancestor’s kind, incredulous face before he was thrust through time, through a sparkling, shifting web of sounds, smells and sensations.

He landed with a light bump on the cold cellar floor of number nine, Filbert Street. The painting of Badlock stood against the wall behind him. Giving it one brief glance, Charlie ran to the steps and climbed up to the hall. He could hear voices arguing above him.

‘Mercy on us!’ yelled Maisie, jumping out of her chair. ‘Charlie’s back!’

There was a sudden silence in the sitting room. Uncle Paton stepped out, followed by Fidelio, Benjamin and Olivia.

‘Charlie!’ cried Benjamin. ‘Have you got Runner?’

Charlie still felt unsteady. Grasping the banister for support, he said, ‘Bit of a problem there, Ben.’

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