What did Meggie want? He had only to look at her to know the answer. Of course. She wanted to stay because of the boy, but he was not the only reason. Resa wanted to stay too, in spite of the dungeon where they had put her, in spite of all the pain and darkness. What was it about Fenoglio’s world that filled the heart with longing? Didn’t he feel it himself? Like sweet poison that worked on you only too quickly …
‘What do you say, Mo?’ Meggie took his hand. How tall she had grown.
‘What do I say?’ He listened as though, if he concentrated hard, he could hear the words whispering in the walls of the gallery, or in the weave of the blanket under which the Black Prince slept. But all he heard was his own voice. ‘How would you like it if I said: show me the fairies, Meggie? And the water-nymphs. And that illuminator in Ombra castle. Let’s find out how fine those brushes really are.’
Dangerous words. But Meggie hugged him harder than she had since she was a little girl.
74
Farid’s Hope
And now he was dead, his soul fled down to the Sunless Country and his body lying cold in the cold mud, somewhere in the city’s wake.
Philip Reeve,
Mortal Engines
When the men on guard raised the alarm for the second time, just before sunset, the Black Prince ordered everyone to climb deep down into the mine, where there was water in the narrow passages and you thought you could hear the earth breathing. But one man did not join them: Fenoglio. When the Prince gave the all-clear, and Meggie climbed up again with the others, her feet wet and her heart still full of fear, Fenoglio came towards her and drew her aside. Luckily Mo happened to be talking to Resa and didn’t notice.
‘Here you are. But I’m not guaranteeing anything,’ Fenoglio whispered to her as he gave her the notebook back. ‘This is very likely another mistake in black and white just like the others, but I’m too tired to worry about it. Feed this damned story, feed it with new words, I’m not going to listen. I’m going to lie down and sleep. That was the last thing I will ever write in my life.’
Feed it.
Farid suggested that Meggie should read Fenoglio’s words in the place where he and Dustfinger had slept. Dustfinger’s rucksack was still lying beside his blanket, and the two martens had curled up to the right and left of it. Farid crouched down between them and hugged the rucksack to him as if Dustfinger’s heart were beating inside. He looked expectantly at Meggie, but she remained silent. She looked at the words and said nothing. Fenoglio’s writing swam before her eyes as if, for the first time, it did not want her to read it.
‘Meggie?’ Farid was still looking at her. There was such sadness in his eyes, such despair. For him, she thought. Just for him. And she knelt down on the blanket where Dustfinger used to sleep.
Even as she read the first few words, she sensed that Fenoglio had done his work well yet again. She felt it like breath on her face. The letters on the page were alive, the story was alive. It wanted to take those words and grow. That was what it wanted. Had Fenoglio felt the same when he wrote them?
‘One day, when Death had taken much prey again,’ began Meggie, and it was almost as if she were reading a familiar book that she had only just laid aside, ‘Fenoglio the great poet decided to write no more. He was tired of words and their seductive power. He had had enough of the way they cheated and scorned him, and kept silent when they should have spoken. So he called on another, younger man, Orpheus by name – skilled in letters, even if he could not yet handle them with the mastery of Fenoglio himself – and decided to instruct him in his art, as every master does at some time. For a while Orpheus should play with words in his place, seduce and lie with them, create and destroy, banish and restore – while Fenoglio waited for his weariness to pass, for his pleasure in words to reawaken, and then he would send Orpheus back to the world from which he had summoned him, to keep his story alive with new words never used before.’
Meggie’s voice died away. It echoed underground as if it had a shadow. And just as silence was spreading around them, they heard footsteps.
Footsteps on the damp stone.
75
Alone Again
Hope is the thing with feathers.
Emily Dickinson,
‘Hope’,
The Poems of Emily Dickinson
Orpheus disappeared right in front of Elinor’s eyes. She was standing only a few steps from him, holding the bottle of wine he had demanded, when he simply vanished into thin air – into less than thin air, into nothing – as if he had never been there at all, as if she had only dreamed him. The bottle slipped from her hand, fell on the wooden floorboards of the library, and broke among the books that Orpheus had left open there.
The dog began to howl so horribly that Darius came racing out of the kitchen. The wardrobe-man didn’t bar his way. He was simply staring at the place where Orpheus had been standing a moment ago. His voice trembling, he had been reading from a sheet of paper lying on one of Elinor’s glass display cases right in front of him, and clutching Inkheart to his breast, as if he could force the book to accept him at last in that way. Elinor had stopped as if turned to stone when she realized what he was trying to do for the hundredth, even the thousandth time. Perhaps they’ll come back out of the book to replace him, she had thought, or at least one of them: Meggie, Resa, Mortimer. Each of the three names tasted so bitter on her tongue, as bitter as all that is lost. But now Orpheus had gone, and none of the three had come back. Only the damned dog refused to stop howling.
‘He’s done it,’ whispered Elinor. ‘Darius, he’s done it! He’s over there … they’re all over there. All except for us!’
For a moment she felt infinitely sorry for herself. Here she was, Elinor Loredan, among all her books, and they wouldn’t let her in, not one of them would let her in. Closed doors enticing her, filling her heart with longing, and then letting her go no further than the doorway. Accursed, blasted, heartless things! Full of empty promises, full of false lures, always making you hungry, never satisfying you, never!
But you once saw it quite differently, Elinor! she reminded herself, wiping the tears from her eyes. So what? Wasn’t she old enough to change her mind, to bury an old love that had betrayed her miserably? They had not let her in. All the others were between their pages now, but she wasn’t. Poor Elinor, poor, lonely Elinor! She sobbed so loudly that she had to put her hand over her mouth.
Darius cast her a sympathetic glance and hesitantly came to her side. Well, at least he was still with her, that was one good thing. And of course he could read her thoughts in her face, as always. But he couldn’t help her either.
I want to be with them, she thought despairingly. They’re my family: Resa and Meggie and Mortimer. I want to see the Wayless Wood and feel a fairy settle on my hand again, I want to meet the Black Prince even if it means smelling his bear, I want to hear Dustfinger talking to fire even if I still can’t stand the man! I want, I want, I want …
‘Oh, Darius!’ sobbed Elinor. ‘Why didn’t the wretched fellow take me too?’ But Darius just looked at her with his wise, owl-like eyes.
‘Hey, where did he go? That bastard still owed me money!’ Sugar went to the place where Orpheus had disappeared and looked all round him, as if Orpheus might be stuck among the bookshelves somewhere. ‘Damn it, what does he think he’s doing, just vanishing like that?’ He bent down and picked up a sheet of paper.
The sheet of paper that Orpheus had been reading from! Had he taken the book with him, but left behind the words that had opened the door for him? If so, then all was not lost after all … With determination, Elinor snatched the sheet of paper from Sugar’s hand. ‘Give me that!’ she demanded, clutching it to her breast just as Orpheus had clutched the book. The wardrobe-man’s face darkened.
Two very different feelings seemed to be struggling with each other on his face: anger at Elinor’s boldness, and fear of the written words that she was pressing to her breast so passionately. For a moment Elinor was
n’t sure which would get the upper hand. Darius came up behind her, as if he seriously intended to defend her if necessary, but luckily Sugar’s face cleared again, and he began to laugh.
‘Well, fancy that!’ he mocked her. ‘What do you want that scrap of paper for? Do you want to disappear into thin air too, like Orpheus and the Magpie and your two friends? Feel free, but first I want the wages Orpheus and the old woman still owe me!’ And he looked around Elinor’s library as if he might see something in it that would do instead of payment.
‘Your wages, yes, of course, I understand!’ said Elinor quickly, leading him to the door. ‘I still have some money hidden in my room. Darius, you know where it is. Give it to him, all that’s left, just so long as he goes away.’
Darius did not look very enthusiastic, but Sugar gave such a broad smile that you could see every one of his bad teeth. ‘Well, that sounds like sense at last!’ he grunted, and stomped after Darius who, resigned to this development, led him to Elinor’s room.
But Elinor stayed behind in the library.
How quiet it suddenly was there. Orpheus had indeed sent all the characters he had read out of their books back into them again. Only his dog was still there, tail drooping as it sniffed the spot where its master had been standing only a few minutes before.
‘So empty!’ Elinor murmured. ‘So empty.’ She felt desolate. Almost more so than on the day when the Magpie had taken Mortimer and Resa away. The book into which they had all disappeared was gone. What happened to a book that disappeared into its own story?
Oh, forget the book, Elinor! she thought as a tear ran down her nose. How are you ever going to find them again now?
Orpheus’s words. They swam before her eyes as she looked at the paper. Yes, they must have taken him over there, what else? Carefully, she opened the glass case on which the paper had been lying before Orpheus disappeared and took out the book inside it – a wonderfully illustrated edition of Hans Andersen’s fairy-tales signed by the author himself – and put the sheet of paper in its place.
76
A New Poet
The joy of writing
The power of preserving,
Revenge of a mortal hand.
Wislawa Szymborska,
‘The joy of writing’,
View with a Grain of Sand
At first Orpheus could hardly be seen in the shadows filling the gallery like black breath. He stepped hesitantly into the light of the oil lamp by whose light Meggie had been reading. She thought she saw him put something under his jacket, but she couldn’t make out what it was. Perhaps a book.
‘Orpheus!’ Farid ran to him, still holding Dustfinger’s rucksack in his arms.
So he was really here. Orpheus. Meggie had imagined him very differently … as much more impressive. This was just a man who was rather too stout, still very young, in an ill-fitting suit, and he looked as out of place in the Inkworld as a polar bear or a whale. In addition, he seemed to have lost his tongue. He stood there in a daze, looking at Meggie, at the dark gallery down which he had come, and finally at Farid, who had obviously entirely forgotten that the man he now greeted with such a radiant smile had stolen from him and betrayed him to Basta at their last meeting. Orpheus didn’t even seem to recognize Farid, but when he finally did it brought his voice back.
‘Dustfinger’s boy! How did you get here?’ he faltered. And yes, Meggie had to admit that his voice was impressive, much more impressive than his face. ‘Well, never mind that. This must be the Inkworld!’ he went on, taking no more notice of Farid. ‘I knew I could do it! I knew I could!’ A self-satisfied smile spread over his face. Gwin leaped up, hissing, as he almost trod on his tail, but Orpheus didn’t even notice the marten. ‘Fantastic!’ he murmured as he ran the palm of his hand over the gallery walls. ‘I suppose this is one of the passages that lead to the princely tombs under the castle of Ombra.’
‘No, it’s not,’ said Meggie coldly. Orpheus – in league with Mortola – a magic-tongued deceiver. How empty his round face looked! No wonder, she thought with great dislike, as she rose from the place where Dustfinger had slept. He has no conscience, no sympathy, no heart. Why had she brought him here? As if there weren’t enough of his sort in the Inkworld. I did it for Farid, replied her heart, for Farid …
‘How are Elinor and Darius? If you’ve done anything to them …’ Meggie didn’t finish her sentence. If he had, then what?
Orpheus turned, with as much surprise as if he hadn’t seen her at all before. ‘Elinor and Darius? Oh, are you that girl who apparently read herself here?’ His eyes became watchful. Obviously he remembered what he had done to her parents.
‘My father almost died because of you!’ Meggie was angry with herself for the way her voice shook.
Orpheus blushed childishly red, whether in annoyance or embarrassment Meggie couldn’t have said, but whichever it was he quickly recovered. ‘Well, how can I help it if Mortola had a score to settle with him?’ he replied. ‘And from what you say I take it that he’s still alive, so there’s nothing to get upset about, is there?’ Shrugging, he turned his back to Meggie. ‘Strange!’ he murmured, glancing at the rubble at the end of the gallery, the narrow ladders and the props supporting the roof. ‘Will someone explain exactly where I am? This looks almost like a mine, but I didn’t read anything about a mine …’
‘Never mind what you read. I’m the one who brought you here.’
Meggie’s voice was so sharp that Farid cast her a glance of alarm.
‘You?’ Orpheus turned and examined her so condescendingly that the blood rushed to Meggie’s face. ‘You obviously don’t know who you’re talking to. But why am I bothering with you anyway? I’m tired of looking at this unattractive mine. Where are the fairies? The men-at-arms? The strolling players?’ He roughly pushed Meggie aside and went to the ladder, but Farid barred his way.
‘You stay where you are, Cheeseface!’ he snapped. ‘Do you want to know why you’re here? Because of Dustfinger.’
‘Oh yes?’ There was derision in Orpheus’s laughter. ‘Haven’t you found him yet? Well, perhaps he doesn’t want to be found, or not by a persistent fellow like you …’
‘He’s dead,’ Farid interrupted brusquely. ‘Dustfinger is dead, and the only reason why Meggie read you here is for you to write him back!’
‘She – did – not – read – me – here! How many more times do I have to tell you?’ Orpheus made for the ladder again, but Farid simply took his hand without a word and led him over to the place where Dustfinger was.
Roxane had hung his cloak in front of the gallery where he was still lying, motionless as if the earth had crushed him. She and Resa had placed burning candles around him – dancing fire instead of the flowers usually laid beside corpses.
‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed Orpheus when he saw him lying there. ‘Dead! He really is dead! But this is terrible!’
Meggie was amazed to see that there were tears in his eyes. His fingers shook as he took his misted-up glasses off his nose and polished them on his jacket. Then, hesitantly, he went up to Dustfinger, bent and touched his hand.
‘Cold!’ he whispered, and retreated. His eyes blurred with tears; he looked at Farid. ‘Was it Basta? Come on, tell me! No, wait, how did it go? Was Basta even there? Some of Capricorn’s men, yes, that was it, they were going to kill the marten and Dustfinger tried to save him! I wept my eyes out when I read that chapter, I threw the book at the wall! And now I get here at last and—’ He was struggling for breath. ‘I only sent him back because I thought he’d be safe here now! Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God! Dead!’ Orpheus sobbed – and then fell silent. He bent over Dustfinger’s body again. ‘Wait a moment. Stabbed. Stabbed, that’s what it says in the book. So where’s the wound? Stabbed for the marten’s sake, yes, that’s what it said.’ He turned abruptly and stared at Gwin, who was perched on Farid’s shoulders, hissing at him. ‘He left the marten behind. He left him and you both behind. So how is it possible that—’
&
nbsp; Farid said nothing, as the marten affectionately licked his ear. Meggie felt so sorry for him, but when she put out her hand he drew back.
‘What’s that marten doing here? Tell me! Have you lost your tongue?’ There was a metallic edge to Orpheus’s beautiful voice.
‘He didn’t die for Gwin,’ whispered Farid.
‘No? Who did he die for, then?’
‘For me.’
This time Farid did not withdraw his hand when Meggie took it. But before he could tell Orpheus any more, they heard another voice behind them. Abrupt and angry.
‘Who’s this? What is a stranger doing here?’
Orpheus spun round as if caught in some guilty act. There stood Roxane. with Resa beside her. Orpheus stared at her in amazement. ‘Roxane!’ he whispered. ‘The beautiful minstrel woman! May I introduce myself? My name is Orpheus. I was a – a friend of Dustfinger’s. Yes, I think one could say that.’
‘Meggie!’ said Resa in a faltering voice. ‘How did he get here?’
Meggie instinctively hid the notebook containing Fenoglio’s words behind her back.
‘So how is Elinor?’ Resa asked Orpheus sharply. ‘And Darius? What have you done to them?’
‘Nothing!’ replied Orpheus. In his confusion he obviously didn’t notice that the woman who had been able to speak only with her fingers had a voice again. ‘Far from it. I went to a lot of trouble to help them feel more relaxed about books. They keep them like butterflies pinned in a case, each in its own place, imprisoned in their cells! But books want to breathe and sing, they want to feel air between their pages, and a reader’s fingers tenderly stroking them—’
Roxane took Dustfinger’s cloak from the prop over which she had draped it. ‘You don’t look like a friend of Dustfinger’s to me,’ she