Charlie Bone and the Wilderness Wolf. Jenny Nimmo
Charlie had hoped he would never see her again.
‘She’s still got a key,’ Maisie told them. ‘She marched in, dumped her bag in the hall and said, “I’m back!” “Why?” I asked. Well, that was wrong for a start. “Anyone would think you were sorry,” she said. “I am,” I said. “I thought you’d gone for good.”’
Charlie began to giggle.
Paton asked, ‘But what is her reason, Maisie? Why has she returned?’
‘A wedding!’ said Maisie.
‘Whose?’ begged Paton.
‘Your youngest sister, Venetia. She’s getting married next week.’
Charlie choked on his soup. ‘Great Aunt Venetia? Who on earth would want to marry her?’
‘Who indeed, Charlie love,’ said Maisie. ‘But some poor man is soon going to rue the day.’
‘How extraordinary.’ Paton stared at Maisie in disbelief.
‘Grandma Bone is very put out,’ Maisie went on, ‘but her sisters are all for it apparently.’
‘Phew.’ Paton blew on his soup, which couldn’t have been that hot because he’d already swallowed several spoonfuls without a murmur. He was trying not to show it but anyone could see that he was utterly baffled and extremely shocked.
Uncle Paton’s four sisters were all as bad as each other. They loathed their only brother and spent their lives tormenting him, just because he didn’t agree with their morals and made very sure they knew it. All four of them were mean, spiteful, arrogant, dishonest and greedy. In fact, Charlie couldn’t find enough words to describe how horrible they were. None of them had ever given Charlie a kind word, let alone a birthday present, not even Grandma Bone.
Maisie had saved the best part of her announcement till last. ‘The worst of it is, he’s got children,’ she said dramatically. ‘What do you think of that?’
‘Children!’ Charlie shuddered. ‘Poor things. Imagine Great Aunt Venetia being your mother!’
‘Impossible.’ Paton suddenly looked up.
Charlie had his back to the door and failed to see Grandma Bone walking up behind him.
‘I’m glad I’m not your mother,’ said Grandma Bone testily. She marched over to the fridge and opened it. ‘There’s nothing in here,’ she complained. ‘Nothing but cheese and old bones. No pâté, no mayonnaise and not even a sniff of salmon.’
Maisie gave a huge sigh. ‘How was I to know you’d come hunting in here, with your fussy stomach and your dainty mouth? Sit down, Grizelda, and I’ll give you some mushroom soup.’
‘No thank you.’ Grandma Bone plonked herself in the rocker by the stove.
Paton frowned. He had been meaning to get rid of the rocker. No one else ever used it. It had been a constant reminder of Grandma Bone’s gloomy presence. If only he’d thought ahead and chopped it up for firewood a day earlier.
Creak! Creak! Creak! There she went, with her eyes closed and her head nestled into her chin. Rock! Rock! Rock! The sound was enough to curdle the soup.
‘So,’ Paton found a voice at last. ‘I hear you’ve fallen out with your sisters, Grizelda.’
‘They’re your sisters too,’ she snorted. ‘Marriage indeed! I never heard of such rubbish. Venetia’s fifty-two. She should’ve given up that sort of thing years ago.’
‘What sort of thing?’ asked Charlie.
‘Don’t be insolent,’ his grandmother replied.
Charlie finished his soup and stood up. ‘I bet you’ll leave when my dad comes back,’ he said.
‘Oh, but you’re all going to live in that cosy little Diamond Corner.’ She gave Charlie one of her chilly stares. ‘But then whale-watching can be very dangerous. He may never –’
Charlie didn’t wait to hear what his grandmother might say next. ‘I’m going to see Ben,’ he cried, rushing into the hall and flinging on his jacket.
Maisie called, ‘Charlie, it’s dark, love. Don’t pay any attention to Grandma Bone. She didn’t mean anything by it.’
‘She did,’ muttered Charlie. He left the house, ran across the road to number twelve and rang the bell. Filbert Street was always quiet at this time on a Sunday. There were very few cars about and the pavements were deserted. And yet Charlie felt a prickling at the back of his neck that told him someone was watching him.
‘Come on, come on.’ Charlie pressed the bell a second time.
Benjamin Brown opened the door. He was a few months younger than Charlie and a lot smaller. His scruffy yellow hair was exactly the same colour as the large dog that stood beside him, wagging its tail.
‘Can I come in?’ asked Charlie. ‘Grandma Bone’s back.’
Benjamin understood immediately. ‘What a disaster! I’m just taking Runner Bean for a walk. Want to come?’
Anything was better than spending the evening in the same house as Grandma Bone. Charlie fell into step beside Benjamin as he headed towards the park. With joyful barks, Runner Bean ran circles round the boys then darted down the dark street. Benjamin didn’t like to lose sight of his dog. He knew he worried unnecessarily. His parents were always telling him to lighten up, but Benjamin couldn’t help being the way he was. Besides, a mist was beginning to creep into the street; an unusual, salty sort of mist.
Charlie hunched his shoulders. There it was again. That odd prickling feeling under his collar. He stopped and looked back.
‘What is it, Charlie?’ asked Benjamin.
Charlie told his friend about the not-quite-humans that he’d seen near Diamond Corner.
‘Nothing’s normal tonight,’ Benjamin said shakily. ‘I never tasted salt in the mist before.’
And then they heard the howl; it was very distant, but a howl nevertheless. A sound that was almost human, and yet not quite. For the first time since his parents had left, Charlie wished they hadn’t gone whale-watching.
Runner Bean came racing back to the boys. His coarse hair was standing up like a hedgehog’s.
‘It’s the howling,’ said Benjamin. ‘I’ve heard it before. It makes Runner nervous, though he’s never usually scared of anything.’
It wasn’t until much later that Charlie made the connection between the distant howling and the not-quite-humans that seemed to be following him.
As for the salty mist, that was another thing entirely.
Strangers from the sea
Two strangers had entered the city on that chilly Sunday afternoon. They came on the river. Leaving their boat moored beneath a bridge, they climbed the steep bank up to the road. They moved with an odd, swaying motion as though they were balancing on the deck of a ship. A mist accompanied them: a cloying, salty mist that silenced the birds and gave passers-by unexpectedly chesty coughs.
The smaller of the two strangers was a boy of eleven with aquamarine eyes, like an iceberg underwater. His shoulder-length hair was a dull, greenish brown with a slight crinkle. He was tall for his age and very pale, his lips almost bloodless. He lurched across the cobbles with an expression of grim determination on his thin face.
The boy’s father had the same cold eyes, but his long hair was streaked with white. His name was Lord Grimwald.
When