Building A Mystery
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“The only thing we know for sure,” said Dr. Biscuit, “is that the building has been here since at least the seventeenth century.”
We were standing in a room of stained-glass windows on the third floor of St. Pancras Old Church. The church was built by Henry VIII and is now one of the most important buildings in London.
It’s an old stone cathedral with high ceilings and a huge Gothic nave—it has been used as a film location many times, including in the Harry Potter movies. But what interested us wasn’t so much this ancient church but rather the empty vaulted space below it.
This second-story gallery had always struck me as being very odd. I’d never seen anything like it before. There were no walls or doors to close off this space: you could walk straight through from the nave into this open area, which was covered by a wooden roof supported by tall columns.
But there were no stairs leading down into the gallery: instead, a narrow passage led deeper inside the church toward a set of steps that descended into the crypt below.
I couldn’t imagine why anyone would have built such a strange room. And yet during my first visit to St. Pancras Old Church, I had actually found myself walking through this gallery space without really noticing it. In fact, I spent several minutes exploring the gallery before finally realizing I was looking at something unusual!
So I knew the building well enough to realize how weird this gallery was—but until we stepped inside, none of us had realized just how bizarre the place was going to be. As soon as our group entered the gallery, we saw why this chamber had been left open and unroofed.
What was once a large open room was now full of cobwebs—and not just any cobwebs, but enormous webs that covered everything in sight.
At first glance they didn’t look particularly dangerous—just a bunch of strands hanging from the ceiling and dangling from the walls. But as I looked closer, I began to notice that some of these webs were very thin, while others were thick and sticky. A few even trailed across the floor to create a trail of filmy white droplets wherever they went.
There were hundreds if not thousands of spider webs. Some hung from the rafters overhead; others were suspended between the pillars lining the room’s walls. In fact, so many spiders’ webs appeared to drape over the entire wall opposite us that it was hard to see where the actual stones ended and the webbing began.
We walked slowly forward, trying not to step on any of these delicate threads. But as I moved deeper into the room, I came upon something even more disturbing—something that made me think again about just how strange this building was.
My eyes stopped on a small object lying on the floor near one of the columns. It was a tiny silver figurine, perhaps two inches long, and it was shaped like a little man holding up his right hand. He wore a pointed hat and a pointy beard and he had a big smile.
His name was Rupert, and I thought the statue must belong to one of the boys in our group. But when I bent down to pick it up, the statue suddenly fell out of the cracks along a corner of the column. It rolled across the stone floor, leaving a trail of glittering dust behind.
Trying my best to keep calm (as I’d learned from Dr. Biscuit), I knelt down to examine the tiny figure. But then something else caught my eye—a pattern of raised dots on the back of the figurine’s head. My heart skipped a beat. This was definitely not a toy, and it certainly didn’t belong to anyone in our group. Was this a clue? Or just another mystery of the church?
As I tried to take a closer look at the mark, the silver man toppled to the ground. With a thud, he landed on his bottom. Then, with a glint of light, the silver man’s eyes opened wide and a pair of gleaming yellow fangs burst forth from his mouth.
As he spoke, the silver man’s voice echoed around the room. “Why, hello there, new friend. So sorry to see you here. How did you get in?”
“What?” I asked.
But the silver man seemed to ignore me. Instead, he continued speaking to himself. “Oh dear, oh dear. I’m afraid I’ve lost my way. I seem to have wandered away from home. Don’t worry though, I’ll find my way back soon. You should probably go now though. Take care of yourselves until I come back.”
And with that, the silver man closed his eyes and vanished.
At that moment, all of us gasped in surprise—even the adults who were helping us. We stared for a long time at those empty eyes—which stood open and staring at nothing, just like the figurine I’d just found.
A short while later, we walked out of the church’s gallery. The children in my group kept looking back as if they expected the silver man to reappear at any moment. Finally, we got moving.
The other boys and girls were still too young to understand what had happened—so I told them only that the silver man had gone missing. All of them nodded their heads in agreement as if they understood exactly what I meant.
Later that day, I showed the statue to Dr. Biscuit. She agreed that it looked like Rupert. But she also thought that something terrible had happened to the little boy. Perhaps the silver man had somehow gotten loose and was now wandering the church’s galleries.
Dr. Biscuit explained that I needed to watch out for the silver man. If he should happen to come close, I should stay far away. As for the figurine, she said I should put it back where I’d found it. Then I could tell everyone that Rupert had been safely returned to his family.
***
There are times when it feels like the world is full of secrets. Every single thing has a different meaning. And the more you try to unravel these meanings, the more complex everything seems to become.
I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing. After all, it would be boring if things were simple. At least I hope not!
I remember being quite scared in those first few days in London. But then I started to meet people and learn more about this city. It helped me to feel better.
But one of the most important things I learned was that there were some mysteries that no one could ever solve.
One morning, after breakfast, I went down to the basement of our hostel. There was an old bookcase in the corner, and I’d seen that many of the books in the library downstairs were written in Latin. These were thick, heavy-looking volumes, so I wasn’t sure how much use they might be.
But there was one slim, slightly tattered volume that caught my attention. It was called The Book of Lost Things. When I saw the cover, I immediately felt drawn to it. The cover was made up of a series of images: a castle tower, a wolf, a spiny tree, a crow, and a woman standing alone in a forest. I loved the way the stories in the illustrations came together to form a picture.
When I looked closely, I noticed that the title of the story was written in a flowing script, which took me a while to decipher. The book was called The Book of Lost Things by John Connolly. It sounded interesting. I decided to take it home with me.
My friends were excited to hear that I’d found a new book. They wanted to read it, too. But I knew that I needed to study it a bit before sharing it with anyone.
After school, I spent two hours reading through The Book of Lost Things. It didn’t take me long to figure out that the story was set in the same land as The Little Prince. The characters in both stories were living on Asteroid B-612—the same place I’d met the fox, the rose, and the prince.
I’d also heard that the king in The Book of Lost Things was the same man who ruled the kingdom in The Little Prince. The stories even shared some of the same illustrations.
Although I enjoyed The Book of Lost Things, it didn’t seem very exciting. I wondered why I’d taken it home. Did I really want to share it? Because I couldn’t help thinking that there must be another story I’d enjoy more.
That night, I tried to fall asleep quickly. I knew it might take a long time to finish the book. But I finally managed to doze off. I dreamed of a dark forest, full of strange creatures and mysterious voices. No one around me could see these creatures or understand what they were saying. Only I could hear the language of the animals and birds.
The next day, after lunch, I went to the basement of the hostel again. This time, I found a book that was similar to The Book of Lost Things. The title was a bit longer than the others. It said The Book of Forgotten Beasts by Peter Dickinson.
As soon as I picked it up, I knew that this would be the story that I should share with my friends. So I began to read it aloud.
The first chapter introduced several interesting characters. I particularly liked the beautiful woman who was trying to find her son and the handsome man who seemed to know a lot about gardens. Soon I was completely involved in their story.
It was late afternoon when we finished reading The Book of Forgotten Beasts.
“This is a good story,” said Robin. “Did you notice that the author writes in a way that’s quite like the way you write?”
“Yes!” I agreed. “He does! He’s even got the word ‘fairy’ in the story.”
We spent a few minutes talking about fairies. Robin asked me if I thought there really were fairy folk, like the ones in the stories. I told him I didn’t know for sure. But I did think that The Book of Forgotten Beasts was definitely a great story.
Robin nodded his head. “So do I. So will everyone else. That’s why I’m going to talk to Mrs. Figg. She’ll put The Book of Forgotten Beasts in the front display case of the library. Then it won’t get lost anymore.”
“Thank goodness!” I replied.
Robin left to go to the library. I turned back to The Book of Forgotten Beasts and continued reading, hoping that the rest of the story would be just as wonderful.
The End