Bookweirder

  Copyright © 2010 Paul Glennon

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication, reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system without the prior written consent of the publisher—or in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, license from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency—is an infringement of the copyright law.

  Doubleday Canada and colophon are registered trademarks.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Glennon, Paul, 1968–

  Bookweirder / Paul Glennon.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-37453-0

  I. Title.

  PS8563.L46B67 2010 jC813′.6 C2010-902518-0

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in Canada by Doubleday Canada,

  a division of Random House of Canada Limited

  Visit Random House of Canada Limited’s website: www.randomhouse.ca

  v3.1

  For Kate

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  PROLOGUE

  THE FOLLY

  NORMAN, IN THE LIBRARY, WITH A BOOK

  INTREPID AMONGST THE GYPSIES

  THE ROOK AND THE POACHER

  THE INTREPIDS GO TO LONDON

  A MORNING CONVERSATION

  IN THE CAGE

  MR. TODD, SOLICITOR

  FLASHLIGHTS

  THE RAID

  HOME AWAY FROM HOME

  ALL-NEW INTREPIDS!

  THE NEW MASTER OF KELMSWORTH

  THE PURLOINED LETTER

  THE SIEGE OF FOLLY

  A DEAL WITH THE FOX

  MY FAVOURITE BOOK IN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD

  A SECRET IN THE LIBRARY

  MORE SECRETS IN THE LIBRARY

  MALCOLM ALONE

  THE CHAMBERS OF HUGH MONTCLAIR

  ESCAPE FROM THE CRUSADES

  THE POACHER POACHED

  THE INTREPID FIVE

  Prologue

  It could have been a forest back home. There was nothing different about the trees or the flowers or the animal paths worn into the mud. He recognized several prints: bank voles, red squirrels, foxes. Only the sounds of the forest were foreign. It wasn’t just a different dialect. Malcolm couldn’t make out a single word.

  For three days now he had been wandering these woods. The abbot had told him that Norman would be nearby, but Malcolm had seen no sign of him—and Norman was hard to miss. He was more and more sure that the abbot had made a mistake. There was something wrong with this forest.

  His few meetings with the forest dwellers reinforced this feeling that this was entirely the wrong forest. They seemed so shocked to see him—terrified, even. They scurried away down their holes or up their trees the moment they saw him. It wasn’t just the voles and the mice. It was the larger animals, too. The badger Malcolm had met along the path yesterday morning had no reason to fear him. Malcolm had just opened his mouth to say hello, but the big thing went berserk. He bared his teeth, let out that horrible warning growl that badgers have when cornered and backed away down the trail. Malcolm had called after it, telling the poor brute that he meant no harm. He’d even taken a few steps after him, but Malcolm was too smart to chase an angry badger on his home turf.

  “Mad creature, like the rest of them,” Malcolm had mumbled to himself as he watched the badger disappear.

  So when Malcolm spotted the hare in the clearing as he prepared to make his camp for the third night, he was more cautious. His family had always gotten along with the hares. There was hardly a smarter animal in the woods. Surely this fellow would be more reasonable than the terrified mice and the befuddled old badger. Only, like the mice and the badger and every other creature he’d spied in this strange forest, the hare wore no clothes. Was this forest inhabited entirely by primitive tribes that spoke strange languages and did not have the decency to cover themselves up?

  “ ‘Scuse me,” Malcolm said finally. He spoke in his calmest voice, not wanting to startle the hare. “My name is Malcolm of Lochwarren. I’m a stranger here in these lands, and I seek the home of Norman Strong Arm.”

  The hare just froze on its hind legs and stared glassily at Malcolm as if it had never heard a stoat speak before.

  “There’s no need to fear. Look, I’ll put down my weapons.” Malcolm slipped the bow and quiver from his shoulders and laid them down on the ground. He held his paws out wide and tried to smile without showing a fang. “Could you spare a stranger some directions?”

  The hare didn’t move. It just stood there, its muscles tense, ready to bolt. What did you have to do to make a creature trust you in this place?

  “You’ve got to be kiddin’ me.” The voice was too big to have come from the hare and was from entirely the wrong direction.

  Malcolm turned towards the voice. There, at the opposite side of the clearing, stood a man. He was much, much bigger than Norman, but unmistakably a man. You could not miss one, their skin so pale and their fur so patchy. This one’s head was as bare as a newborn squirrel’s.

  Malcolm glanced back towards the hare, but the creature had fled. Never mind, Malcolm thought, surely this man-creature would be more useful. He introduced himself again.

  “Good even’, good sir. I am Malcolm. I have come from the highlands in search of my friend, one of your kind. We call him Strong Arm, but he is Norman of the family Jespers and Vilnius.”

  “I’ve freakin’ lost my mind now,” the big man mumbled. He ran one of his gigantic paws across his bald head. “Freakin’ talkin’ weasels.” He shook his head back and forth in disbelief.

  “I’ve no desire to trouble you, sir,” Malcolm continued in a calm voice. Clearly this was a simple peasant, perhaps some village idiot. “Are the Jespers-Vilniuses known to you? Is their castle nearby?”

  “Castle?” the big brute repeated. “Can’t believe I’m giving directions to a talkin’ weasel, but yea, there’s some sorta big castle thing over near Kestleton.”

  “Excellent news. Excellent.” This was Malcolm’s first bit of luck since he’d arrived. He picked up his bow and arrow and stepped lightly towards the hulking man. “Can you tell me how to get there? In what direction ought I to go?”

  A glint appeared in the big man’s eye, as if he had just realized or understood something.

  “Sure, sure.” The brute spoke more softly now. “I can take you there myself.”

  Malcolm put the man’s change in tone down to the mention of the Jespers-Vilniuses. They must be an important family in these parts. The big lout likely expected a reward for guiding their lost visitor.

  It was too far for them to reach before nightfall. Malcolm, who had spent enough nights in this weird forest, was all for pushing on, but the big man insisted they camp for the night. As Malcolm followed him through the woods, he saw why. The man’s night vision was terrible. He stumbled over every root and struck every low-hanging branch with his battering-ram-like forehead. Malcolm was glad that he wasn’t riding on his shoulder, as he would have with his friend Norman. He would have had to duck for every branch. Instead the stoat bounced from tree to tree, easily keeping up with the man’s slow, stumbling progress through the woods.

  The camp was just a single green tent and a strung-up tarpaulin, but it still made Malcolm dizzy to look at. The tent was about as large as the chapel back at Lochwarren. The tarpaulin could have covered half the town square of Edgeweir.

  The vegetable soup that he was
offered was watery and burnt, but it was the only warm food he’d had in days, and Malcolm didn’t want to complain. He sat on a crate across from the big peasant’s cot under the green canvas of the tent and tried to learn more about this forest, but the man was no help.

  “I’m from the city,” the big creature said, explaining his ignorance. Malcolm imagined some gigantic version of Cuaderno or one of the other Great Cites of Undergrowth.

  After soup, the man poured himself a cup of some clear liquid from a blue bottle and took a swig before offering some to Malcolm. The drink was powerful. Malcolm could tell that from just sniffing it, but it would have been churlish to refuse the man’s hospitality now. The first sip made his eyes water. It was much stronger than any ale served in the taverns of Edgeweir. The big man saw it and chuckled to himself as he took another swig. Malcolm nodded politely and took another gulp of the fiery liquid. It was even worse than the grog that the river pirates favoured, but he smiled politely and drank.

  Malcolm had once been knocked unconscious by a raven’s battle torpedo, but his head had never hurt as much as it did when he woke up the next morning. He didn’t remember saying his goodnights or being offered a bed. By the feel of his back and the hard surface beneath him, he’d fallen asleep right there on the crate. Perhaps it hadn’t been so smart to drink the peasant’s firewater on a nearly empty stomach. The stoat groaned as he drew himself up to his feet. He head throbbed and he needed a drink of water. He squinted into the morning light and cursed at what he saw.

  He was a fool. How could he have let himself be tricked like this? It was embarrassing. The big man was a peasant, a dumb, stumbling oaf. Malcolm leaned himself against the bars of his cage. They were strong all right. It would take more than a few nights to chew his way out of this. He cast around the cage to see what he could use to get himself out of here. It was empty except for a cup, mercifully full of water. Out on the crate beside the sleeping peasant were his hunting bow and quiver of arrows.

  The blankets on the cot moved now, like a rock formation slowly shaking and coming to life. The giant man turned and opened his eyes, staring greedily at Malcolm.

  “Gotcha,” he growled, smiling wide to bare a mouth full of ugly, blunt teeth. “You think I’m going to let a talkin’ weasel walk away just like that? You could be my ticket outta here.”

  The Folly

  Norman had imagined that this summer in England would be a great adventure. He had expected fortresses and Roman ruins. Norman’s England was the England of knights and castles, battles and conspiracies. That’s what you got for reading books. The real England was altogether different, more like one long museum trip. He had stopped getting his hopes up every time the family piled into the tiny car and set out on one of their excursions—one more church, one more cemetery, or worse, like today, one more stately home.

  At least this one was close. The drive had been less than an hour. Norman stood on the balcony of the hall’s second storey looking out at the grey sky and the rain. His mother, torn reluctantly from gilt-framed paintings and the ornate furniture of the roped-off room behind them, stood at Norman’s side and pointed out what could be seen from this high vantage point on the hill.

  “We’re actually not far from our house. That over there is Summerside.” Meg Jespers-Vilnius pointed to a smudge of brown in the green countryside. “The Shrubberies is just behind that bit of dark woods there. If you could walk it in a straight line, you’d probably be home in twenty minutes.”

  “I wish.” Norman dropped his chin to rest on the stone balustrade and stared out sullenly at the gathering clouds. The Shrubberies was their home for the summer. The English were weird about many things, like naming their houses.

  “Don’t be like that,” his mother admonished. “Try to find something that captures your imagination. It’s not every summer you spend in England.”

  Norman might have had a smartass answer for that, too, but his eyes had dropped to the back lawn and settled on a pile of grey stones and moss.

  “Is that…?” he began breathlessly. His voice trailed off, unwilling to finish the question.

  “Yes, you remember—it’s called a folly,” Meg replied, gratified that something had caught the boy’s imagination. “Some sort of half-ruined chapel or something. You remember the tour guide at the other place told us that they built them like that, fake ruins. It’s like a garden decoration, an eighteenth-century aristocrat’s version of a garden gnome.”

  This wasn’t the first folly Norman had seen on their summer tour. In Cheshire he’d seen a pyramid the size of a garden shed. In Derbyshire there’d been a miniature Greek temple and fake castle ruin. But this one was different. This one Norman had seen before.

  “We’ll get a closer look when we do the garden tour,” his mother promised, and she returned to the dark room inside.

  Norman was never going to wait that long. While his mother and father studied the paintings and the furniture intently, he slipped back down the stairs and scraped through the low hedge onto the lawn.

  From the lawn, the folly was even more real. It brought everything back, everything he wanted to remember and could not believe was true. He had seen this ruined church before. He had been inside it. He had ducked through the arched doorway. He had steadied himself on these rough, worn columns. He had even rested his head on the soft moss carpet that covered the cracked slate floor. Or at least, he had dreamed it. But if it was here now, didn’t that mean it wasn’t a dream after all?

  He didn’t recall crossing the wet lawn or passing any fence. He didn’t recall opening any gate that said “Off Limits to Visitors.” He just found himself inside the church, dry and out of the rain. It was like being back in Undergrowth again, back in the ruined church at Tintern outside the village of Edgeweir, a place inhabited by badgers, foxes, hares and stoats. Here in the folly it all felt true again. In Undergrowth he had fallen asleep under the arches of this ruined church. That strange fox abbot had sheltered him here.

  Norman lay down on the moss inside the folly and stared up at the rafters. The church at Tintern Abbey had been built by foxes, but they had never completed it. A war with some other animal kingdom had stopped the construction. Its roof had half caved in. Norman stared up at the clouds that moved across the hole now. One hand reached out to touch the curtain of dark green ivy that covered the wall, while the other felt the thick carpet of moss that covered the flagstone floor. A tingle went up his spine as he touched it. This was exactly how it had felt last time.

  But that was just a story. Undergrowth was a place in books. In real life foxes didn’t build churches. Norman had been obsessed with the Undergrowth series, especially that book about Malcolm—The Brothers of Lochwarren. He’d lived and died by the fortunes of the stoat princes of Undergrowth. It had once seemed so real to him, as real as this.

  Norman used to imagine that he lived in Undergrowth, and that his best friend was Malcolm, a young stoat prince. Together they had fought and defeated an evil wolf empire to restore the stoats’ highland kingdom. That was when he was a kid, almost a year ago. When he was younger he used to confuse fantasy with reality. He’d imagined a magical force called the bookweird that could put you inside a book you loved. For the longest time, Norman would “remember” having been there. He didn’t think about it as much anymore. Norman had run out of Undergrowth books to read, and the bookweird seemed more and more impossible. He was pretty much convinced he’d imagined it all.

  Inside the folly again, it all rushed back to him. How could it not be real if he remembered it so vividly? How could his friend Malcolm have been imaginary? You can forget a lot of things that happen to you, or start to believe that you just imagined them, but you can’t forget a really true friendship, and Norman would always remember his brave friend Malcolm.

  As he lay there on the grass, he could imagine the feel of Malcolm sleeping next to him. He was a tiny creature. He’d often slept in the crook of Norman’s arm, especially when they’
d first met and the little stoat was recovering from his battle wounds. The stoat’s slender rib cage would rise and fall with each breath. Sometimes he’d smack his chops and lick his little white fangs while he slept, as if he was eating some dreamed-of delicacy. Norman had saved the tiny creature’s life, and had sworn to protect him. It made it all the more amazing when you saw him fit and well, fearlessly brandishing his needle-like sword in the face of an enormous wolf.

  Norman’s thoughts continued to drift to those days. He was struggling to stay in the dream, to keep himself imagining the little stoat there in the crook of his arm, but once you start trying, you’re already falling out of the dream.

  It would have been easier if he’d been alone. The other voices were distracting him.

  “No, Ambrose, it is not safe,” one stern voice was saying.

  “But, Brother Timothy, since the days of the pilgrimage we have celebrated St. Peter’s Eve here at the abbey.”

  “It isn’t safe anymore, not with all the two-footers about these days.”

  “Not at night. The two-footers stay away at night. Please, Brother Timothy, the whole warren is looking forward to it.”

  Another, more familiar voice disrupted this strange conversation.

  “Have you any idea how long we’ve been looking for you?” It was his dad’s voice.

  Norman was speechless. He really had no idea how long he’d lain there on the moss. It didn’t seem that long. Maybe he had fallen asleep. He stared at the two silhouettes framed by the arched back doorway of the church. They looked for all the world like rabbits, but they wore hooded cloaks. One leaned on a crooked stick, but both were perfectly still.

  “Norman, get up. You’re not supposed to be in there.” His father’s voice called him again from the other direction.

  Norman turned and met his father’s eye. His father sighed and shook his head wearily. Norman tried to look contrite and started to rise to his feet. When he glanced back towards the doorway the rabbit silhouettes had vanished.