Bookweirder Page 8

  Feeling the need to be as specific as possible, Norman wrote the full address, the postal code and the date of their arrival. He did not stop writing until he had described the house and his family completely. He did his best to remember details of the house—the crack in the sand-coloured masonry above the back kitchen door; the one wall that was covered with glossy, dark green ivy; the five matching and one mismatched chairs in the dining room; the way that the big oak door of his bedroom caught on the jamb and honked to the entire house that he was leaving his room.

  He described his family: Dora as kindly as he could with her nine years of accumulated experience annoying him; his distracted professor father, obsessed with coffee and books; his unnaturally cheerful mother, whose habit and job of motivational coaching was infuriating and yet made him strangely proud. It comforted Norman to write these things. He had to think about his reality in order to describe it. He was not used to thinking about his family. He was used to living with them.

  It must have taken him more than an hour to fill the page. He made it as vivid and as accurate as he could. Once he was done, he read it over to himself to make sure that it felt right. His eyes grew hot and itchy as he read the description. He wasn’t at all sure that ingresso still worked, but there was not much more he could do. He folded the paper in four and tucked it in his back pocket and lay down on the couch again. Perhaps the evening’s exertions had just caught up to him, but he finally felt tired enough to sleep. It was easier to sleep, too, with the thought that he had an escape plan in his back pocket.

  The Raid

  They crept towards the poacher’s encampment, through the thickest part of Kelmsworth Wood, where slim new alder filled the ground between the gnarled old beech trees. They took the long way around so they could approach from upwind. Norman had been pretty sure that the poacher wasn’t about to smell their approach, but George had insisted on carrying out this raid like “Red Indians.” He’d also insisted on saying “Red Indians,” no matter how many times Norman had tried to correct him with “Native Americans.”

  George wasn’t used to being corrected. The expressions on the Cook children’s faces told the story. Pippa gave Norman a perplexed, curious look, wrinkling her nose and forehead as if watching something unexpected and very peculiar. Hero-worshipping Gordon’s reaction was a comic double take, as if he could not imagine that anyone could be so stupid as to question the wisdom of the incomparable George Kelmsworth.

  Gordon had taken the “Red Indian” part of the plan so seriously that he had wanted them to wear war paint and feathers in headbands. George had vetoed the idea, not because it was crazy but because they did not have time to find feathers and war paint.

  They had spent the last two days scouting the poacher. From the Rook they had seen him skulking around the lodge, peering in the windows and checking the latches. Norman shivered as he watched, thankful that he was hidden in the tower rather than lying on the couch in the lodge. A pane of glass wasn’t going to stop a criminal mastermind from The Magpie‘s New York.

  In the daylight, they followed the trail of snapped branches and trodden plants to this small clearing in the woods. In the middle of the clearing was a wide, blackened circle of grass made by the poacher’s campfire. A faded green canvas tent was backed up against an escarpment.

  “Red Indians wouldn’t do that. They always make a very small, tidy fire to avoid detection,” Gordon told them knowingly. Norman rolled his eyes.

  The four children lay on top of the escarpment looking down at the clearing. The poacher was nowhere in sight. Earlier they had watched him go off on his rounds to check his traps, but they were still wary. There was nothing to say that he hadn’t protected his camp with booby traps.

  George finally made a move. “Right,” he commanded. “Gordon, you stay here and keep watch from above.” The younger boy’s head snapped in a dutiful military nod. “Norman, you check the tent. I expect that’s where your weasel will be. Pippa and I will guard the front of the camp and gather whatever evidence we can.”

  George slipped over the edge of the escarpment, sending a shower of loose gravel down the cliff. He landed confidently at the bottom, brushed the dust from his shirt and waited to give the others a hand down. Norman scrambled down last, eager to get this done. George was waiting for him when he landed. There was that look in his eye again. Norman had seen it a few times now, a look of quiet surprise at meeting someone who didn’t need his help. It was as if he knew something weird was going on, something that Norman understood but that George could only sense. Then they both remembered that this was a raid.

  Norman rushed towards the tent and grabbed the rough canvas flap to open it, but something made him pause there. What if they were wrong? What if the poacher had snuck back unseen and was sleeping on the other side of this flimsy canvas barrier?

  The image of his friend Malcolm lying sick or hurt in the cage flashed through his mind and energized his body. His fingers worked at the knots on the tent flap. He wanted to call out. He wanted to whisper, “Malcolm, are you in there?” but George had ordered complete silence. Norman yanked the last knot apart and pushed through the canvas flap into the dark space behind.

  “Took your time about it, Strong Arm! I’ve nearly gnawed through this cage on my own while you dawdled.”

  Norman’s eyes adjusted to the dark and focused on the small cage at the far end of the tent. It was the same old Malcolm grinning there. Without his clothes, the white fur of his belly stood out in the dim light of the cave. He looked like any ordinary woodland animal, but Norman would have recognized him anywhere. How can you forget a friend?

  “I thought you were dying,” he said, relieved to see the tiny russet-brown creature standing defiantly in his cage, apparently unharmed.

  “Good job I wasn’t, with the time it takes you to organize a rescue. What? Have you been seeing the sights?” It was the same old Malcolm, cheerful and quick-witted, even in a crisis.

  “Just tell me where the key is,” Norman said.

  “I don’t happen to have the key on me,” Malcolm replied. “But give this bar a good tug and I bet it’ll come loose.”

  Norman grasped the bar tightly and yanked on it. It came away suddenly with a light snap at the bottom where Malcolm had bitten tidily around the edge.

  “Nicely done, Norman Strong Arm. I’ll knight you for that,” Malcolm declared as he leapt free. “But for the Maker’s sake could you fetch me my clothes? I’m as naked as a kit in the nest here.” He pointed to the corner of the tent, where a small nylon gym bag lay. The words “Vito’s Gym, Brooklyn” were written in white along its side.

  Unzipping it, Norman found a hooded sweatshirt and some gym shoes. Reaching in deeper he uncovered a pile of loose cards and a metal dog tag at the bottom of the bag. The dog tag said “Bernie Wentz,” but the credit cards and ID cards were all in other names. There was a shiny gold card with a hologram for somebody called Martin Philips, a hospital ID belonging to Dr. Newhouse, a driver’s licence for Chen Xiu. None of the pictures looked anything like the man he’d fought with the other night. Stolen, Norman thought to himself.

  “Hurry up, man,” Malcolm urged. “I’m a king now. I can’t walk out of here like this.”

  Norman moved a pair of gym socks out of his way and uncovered Malcolm’s fine hunting hose and jerkin. He tossed them to the ever-cheerful stoat.

  “Ta very much,” Malcolm thanked him, smiling as he jumped spryly into his clothes. “There ought to be a sword in there, too, and my best hunting bow.”

  Norman rooted around and discovered the scabbard, bow and quiver of arrows. Grasping the weapons in one hand, he beckoned his old friend onto his shoulder with the other. “Anything else you’d like, Your Highness? Shall I fetch your pipe and summon your minstrels?” he asked. He couldn’t have described his relief to see Malcolm well and in his usual cheerful humour.

  The stoat leapt nimbly from the top of the cage to that familiar spot beside his giant f
riend’s ear. Boy and stoat ducked and turned towards the front of the tent, ready to make good their escape.

  Framed in the triangle of light made by the open flap was a human figure. Norman blinked into the sudden rush of sunlight. It was Pippa. She stood there, silent, frozen in a look of utter amazement, her mouth actually gaping open as she stared at the tiny figure of Malcolm on Norman’s shoulder.

  “It’s lovely,” Pippa gushed, repeating it for the umpteenth time since they’d returned to Kelmsworth Lodge with the rescued Malcolm. The King of the Stoats himself was preoccupied with the tin of biscuits that had been laid out for him.

  “Does it work on steam?” Gordon asked, with the serious frown of a schoolboy trying to solve a riddle.

  “Of course I don’t work on steam,” Malcolm scoffed, spitting out shortbread crumbs as he did so. “Do you?”

  Gordon blinked but had no reply.

  “Can I talk to it?” Pippa asked, her voice still awash with wonder. “Will it talk to me?”

  Gordon continued to try to fathom the mystery of how the little animal was made to move and speak. “It’ll be magnets, then. Has it got magnets in it?”

  Malcolm took a bite of another biscuit, not dignifying Gordon’s question with an answer. “These Jaffa Cakes,” he said, cheeks full of the stuff, “are fantastic, almost as good as my baker’s lingonberry pies.”

  “Can I hold him, do you think?” Pippa pressed her hands together as she asked.

  Between the Cooks’ questions and Malcolm’s enthusiastic appreciation for English biscuitry, it was impossible to have any serious discussion of what had happened and why Malcolm was here. Only George was silent. He sat frowning on the couch some distance off, sipping tea methodically and looking uncomfortable.

  George regarded Malcolm warily out of the corner of his eye. Each time the little animal spoke, the young master of Kelmsworth cringed ever so slightly. Gordon might be fascinated with Malcolm and Pippa besotted, but George was distrustful. Deep down he knows, Norman thought. He knows that this is his story, and that a talking stoat spoils it.

  Norman had hoped to keep Malcolm’s powers of speech secret. His plan had been to rescue Malcolm and disappear out of this story as quickly as possible. Pippa’s entry into the tent had made that impossible. He’d had no time to explain, and there was no stopping the stoat king from talking now.

  Norman did his best to make up a story that wasn’t too out of place in the world of the Intrepids. “He’s not mechanical. He doesn’t have magnets or clockwork inside. He’s a real animal.” Norman caught the stoat’s eye with a look he hoped conveyed the idea that he should play along. “He came with me from America. I found him in the forest when he was very young. He’d fallen out of his nest and needed to be taken care of. The Native Americans have lots of stories about talking animals. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself.” Norman spoke very quickly, lest Malcolm intervene and contradict him, but the stoat king just kept chewing his biscuits.

  “He must be worth a mint.” Gordon whistled appreciatively.

  Norman snapped round to glare at the red-headed boy. “Except he’s not for sale,” he scolded. “He’s like a person. You can’t sell a person.”

  George interrupted Gordon’s mumbled apology. “No, but our poacher would,” he intoned, rising from the couch. “Now I see why he went to Dodgeworth. If you were planning to sell a talking weasel, that’s definitely where you’d go.”

  Malcolm, who was raising a jam-filled biscuit to his mouth at this time, paused to correct him. “While my family is related to the broader race of weasels, we prefer the term ‘stoat.’ ” He sounded very regal as he did so.

  George, who was nothing if not polite, apologized and made a little mental note to himself.

  Gordon carried on blithely. “You really ought to have let Dodgeworth buy you, you know. He would have looked after you.”

  Malcolm sniffed. “I’d already made the mistake of trusting one human. Your Dodgeworth didn’t look any different. I saw all those creatures in your Dodgeworth’s prison.”

  Pippa broke the awkward silence with a little common sense:. “We ought to report this to the constabulary as soon as possible.”

  “No!” Norman blurted, more hastily than he’d wanted to. “We can’t do that. If news gets out about Malcolm everyone will want to see him. It’ll be a circus,” he protested. “We have to keep it secret.”

  George stroked his chin pensively. “Yes, I suppose that’s true. Every sideshow and travelling circus in England would be after him.”

  “Will you take him back to America, then?” Pippa asked, a little hopelessly.

  “As soon as I can,” Norman replied.

  “Well, as much as it saddens me to say it,” George said, “I think you ought to do so as quickly as possible. You’ve seen what that ruffian poacher can do. I don’t think we can protect you here.”

  “What about that castle I saw on the way here?” Malcolm asked, brushing biscuit crumbs from his whiskers. “It looked as sturdy as any in the highlands. I daresay we could defend that keep for months with the five of us alone. Can anyone else here shoot a bow?”

  Pippa brightened. “I’m actually quite good. I took the girls’ archery ribbon at St. Edward’s games day.”

  Norman shot Malcolm a recriminating look.

  “We’re probably safe enough in the lodge during the day. The poacher wouldn’t dare show his face here in the daylight. Nelson’s out there to give the alarm.” Unsettled by the talking stoat, the dog had been banished outdoors. “But perhaps we should spend our nights in the Rook.” The prospect of a medieval siege appealed momentarily to George Kelmsworth.

  “I don’t think we need to,” Norman protested. “At least, not yet. I’ll take Malcolm home with me tomorrow.”

  Everyone but Norman seemed disappointed that they weren’t going to take up arms and defend Malcolm from the battlements of the Kelmsworth Folly.

  That evening the Cooks returned reluctantly to the main house. Both would have loved to stay and fawn over Malcolm, and the stoat king would have been happy to soak it all up. But Norman was relieved to see them go. Once Malcolm got talking, there would have been no stopping him. It wouldn’t have been long before he let slip that he was the King of the Stoats, or regaled them with stories of Norman and his escapes from the wolves of Undergrowth. No, the less contact Malcolm had with the Intrepids the better. Their book was already changed irrevocably by the introduction of a vicious American criminal and a talking stoat. It didn’t need to know about a whole medieval kingdom of woodland creatures.

  When George had retired to his room for the night, Norman and Malcolm were finally able to talk properly. Norman made his bed on the couch, pulling the blankets up around him. Malcolm curled up comfortably on the pillow beside him.

  Norman turned his head and regarded the little stoat. It was hard to think of him as the king of anywhere. To Norman, he was still just his friend, the person he’d shared his most exciting adventure with, and the friend he’d so missed for nearly a year now. He could no longer contain his curiosity.

  “What happened? How did you get here?” he asked across the pillow.

  Malcolm propped himself up on his elbow. “I came looking for you.”

  “For me? How? Why?” Norman asked.

  “I need that map my father gave you,” Malcolm said, more urgently. “Do you have it with you?”

  Norman recalled the ancient map that Malcolm’s father, Duncan, had given him after the Battle of Scalded Rock. It was supposed to have helped him get to safety and to find Lochwarren, but it had never been much use.

  “I don’t have it. It’s not here. I don’t live here.”

  Malcolm didn’t notice the quiver of doubt in Norman’s voice. The answer was simple to him. “Well, let’s go to your house tomorrow, then.”

  Norman didn’t know how to explain that it wasn’t just not here in George’s cottage. It wasn’t here in this book. It wasn’t even
there back in real life. He’d lost it months before they’d come to England. He would have to deal with that later. First he needed to determine exactly what his old friend understood. Did Malcolm even know he was in another book?

  “How did you get here?” he asked, keeping the “here” deliberately ambiguous.

  Malcolm propped himself up further, anxious to tell the story. “The Abbot of Tintern helped me.”

  “Fuchs?” Norman whispered the question.

  Malcolm cocked his head, perplexed at the reaction. “You remember the abbot. He presided over my investiture at St. Sleekyn. He is teaching me about the bookweird.”

  Norman’s thoughts rushed off in a dozen different directions. Why would Fuchs teach Malcolm about the bookweird? Why would you even mention the word to a character in a book? More practically, though, why hadn’t he said anything when they’d met in London? What game was he playing here?

  All he said was “So the abbot knows you’re here?”

  “Yes,” Malcolm repeated. “He brought me here.”

  “He brought you exactly here?” Norman asked cryptically.

  Malcolm’s little stoat brow furrowed as if trying to discern what was meant by “exactly here.” “Well, to the woods near this house. The abbot said you’d be near. I asked the first person I met … turned out to be that treacherous villain with the neckerchief.”

  Norman tried to put it all together. Why hadn’t Fuchs brought Malcolm directly to the real world? Why had he brought him to the Intrepid book? Could characters in books not come into reality? Maybe Fuchs had arranged this meeting here. Maybe it was Fuchs who had brought Norman. It was just like Fuchs to make a complicated plan and not tell him.

  “You said that the Abbot of Tintern was teaching you about the bookweird. What did he tell you?”

  “Well, I don’t pretend to understand it. I’m no adept, like you. I don’t have a whole ingresso named after me,” Malcolm teased. “But he told me St. Augustine’s basic concept: ‘The World is a book, and those who do not travel read only a page.’ ”