‘I’ve done it! I’ve done it!’ cried Farid, pulling the door of the cage open. But before the two women could take a step, a figure rose in the darkest corner of their prison, leaped towards them, and seized the first person he could lay his hands on – Meggie’s mother.
‘Wait!’ spat Basta. ‘Stop, stop, not so fast. Where are you off to, then, Resa? To join your beloved family? You think I didn’t understand all that whispering down in the crypt? Well, I did.’
‘Let go of her!’ cried Meggie. ‘Let go of her!’ Why hadn’t she noticed the dark heap lying so still in the corner? She had just assumed Basta was as dead as Capricorn. And indeed, why wasn’t he? Why hadn’t he disappeared like Flatnose and Cockerell and all the others?
‘Let her go, Basta!’ Mo spoke very quietly, as if he had no strength for anything else. ‘You won’t get out of here, even by using her as a shield. No one will help you. They’re all gone.’
‘Oh, I’ll get out!’ replied Basta unpleasantly. ‘I shall choke her if you don’t let me pass. I’ll break her scrawny neck. Did you know she can’t talk? She can’t make a sound because that useless Darius read her out of the book. She’s as silent as a fish, a pretty, mute fish. But if I know you, you’ll want her back all the same, am I right?’
Mo made no reply, and Basta laughed.
‘Why aren’t you dead?’ Elinor shouted at him. ‘Why didn’t you fall down dead like your master, or vanish? Why not?’
Basta merely shrugged. ‘How should I know?’ he growled, keeping his hand round Resa’s neck. She tried to kick him, but he only tightened his grip. ‘After all, the Magpie’s still here too, but she always made other people do her dirty work for her, and as for me – perhaps I’m one of the good characters in the story now because they put me in the cage? Perhaps I’m still here because it’s a long time since I set fire to anything, and Flatnose got much more fun out of killing people? Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps … but anyway here I am, so let me pass, you old book-bag!’
But Elinor did not budge.
‘No,’ she said. ‘You don’t get out of here until you let her go! I’d never have expected this story to have a happy ending, but it has – and a creature like you isn’t going to spoil that at the last moment, as sure as my name’s Elinor Loredan!’ Looking very determined, she placed herself in front of the cage door. ‘You don’t have your knife with you this time,’ she went on in a dangerously soft voice. ‘You have nothing but your filthy tongue, and believe you me, that’ll be no use to you now. Poke your fingers into his eyes, Teresa! Kick him, bite him, the beast!’
But before Teresa could do as she said Basta thrust her away from him so violently that she fell against Elinor and brought her down – her and Mo, for both of them had been coming to her aid. As for Basta, he raced for the open door of the cage, pushed the startled Farid and Meggie aside – and ran away past all the people and creatures still wandering like sleepwalkers around the scene of Capricorn’s festivities. Before Farid or Mo could give chase he had disappeared.
‘Oh, great!’ muttered Elinor, stumbling out of the cage with Teresa. ‘Now that wretched fellow will haunt me in my dreams, and every time I hear something rustling out in my garden at night I shall feel his knife at my throat.’
Not only had Basta gone, but the Magpie also disappeared without trace that night. And when, wearily, they set off to find a vehicle of some kind to get them away from Capricorn’s village, they found that all the cars had gone too. Not a single one was left in the car park, which was dark now.
‘Oh no, tell me it isn’t true!’ groaned Elinor. ‘Does this mean we have to go the whole wretched way on foot again?’
‘Unless you happen to have a mobile phone with you,’ said Mo. He had not moved from Teresa’s side since Basta had made his escape. He had looked with concern at her neck, where the red marks left by Basta’s fingers were still visible, and he had run a strand of her hair through his fingers and said he almost liked it better now it was darker. But nine years are a long time, and Meggie saw how careful they were with each other, like people on a narrow bridge crossing a wide, wide void.
Of course Elinor did not have her mobile. Capricorn had had it taken away from her, and although Farid immediately offered to go and search Capricorn’s fire-blackened house for it, it did not turn up. So they finally decided to spend one last night in the village, along with all the creatures that Fenoglio had brought back to life. It was still a beautiful, mild night, and sleeping under the trees would be quite comfortable. Meggie and Mo found plenty of blankets in the now deserted houses. But they did not go back into Capricorn’s house. Meggie never wanted to set foot inside it again, not because of the acrid smell of burning seeping out of its windows, or the charred doors, but because of the memories that leaped out at her like fierce animals at the mere sight of the place.
Sitting between Mo and her mother under one of the old oaks surrounding the car park, Meggie thought for a moment of Dustfinger, and wondered whether perhaps Capricorn had been telling the truth after all. Maybe he really was dead and buried somewhere in the hills. I may never find out what’s happened to him, she thought, as one of the blue fairies rocked back and forth on a twig above her, its face bland and happy.
The whole village seemed to be enchanted that night. The air was full of buzzing and murmuring, and the figures wandering round the car park looked as if they had escaped from the dreams of children and not the words of an old man. That was something else Meggie kept asking herself during the night: where was Fenoglio now, and did he like it in his own story? She so much hoped so. But she knew he would miss his grandchildren and their games of hide-and-seek in his kitchen cupboard.
Before Meggie’s eyes closed, she saw Elinor walking about among the trolls and fairies, looking happier than she had ever seen her. And her own parents were sitting to the left and right of Meggie, her mother was writing and writing, on leaves from the trees, on the fabric of her dress, in the sand. There were so many words, so many tales to tell.
58
Homesickness
Yet Bastian knew he couldn’t leave without the book. It was clear to him that he had only come to the shop because of this book. It had called him in some mysterious way, because it wanted to be his, because it had somehow always belonged to him.
Michael Ende,
The Neverending Story
Dustfinger watched it all from a rooftop far enough from the scene of Capricorn’s festivities for him to feel safe from the Shadow, but close enough for him to see everything through the binoculars he had found in Basta’s house. At first he had meant to stay in hiding. He had seen the Shadow kill too often already. Yet a strange feeling, as irrational as Basta’s good-luck charms, had driven him out: a feeling that he could protect the book just by his presence. When he slipped into the alley he felt something else too. He didn’t like to admit it to himself, but he wanted to see Basta die through the same binoculars that Basta himself had so often turned on his future victims.
So he sat on the tiles of a dilapidated roof, his back against the cold chimney, his face blackened with soot (for the face is treacherously pale by night), and watched smoke rise into the sky from Capricorn’s house. He saw Flatnose set out with several men to extinguish the fire. He saw the Shadow emerge from the ground, he saw the old man disappear with an expression of infinite amazement on his face, and he saw Capricorn die the death he himself had summoned. Unfortunately Basta did not die as well, which was really annoying. Dustfinger saw him running away. And he saw the Magpie follow him.
He, Dustfinger the spectator, saw it all.
He had often been just a spectator, and this was not his story. What were they to him, Silvertongue and his daughter, the boy, the bookworm, and the woman who was another man’s wife once more? She could have escaped with him, but she had stayed in the crypt with her daughter, so he had thrust her out of his heart as he always did with anyone who tried to stay there too long. He was glad that the Shadow hadn’t taken them all, but they were none of his business any more. From now on Resa would be telling Silvertongue all the wonderful stories that drove away loneliness and homesickness and fear again. Why should it bother him?
But what about the fairies and the brownies suddenly stumbling around the scene of Capricorn’s festivities? They were as out of place in this world as he was – and they too wouldn’t let him forget that he was still here for one reason alone. He was interested only in the book, nothing but the book, and when he saw Silvertongue hide it under his jacket he decided to get it back. The book at least would be his. It must be his. He would stroke the pages, and if he closed his eyes at the same time he would be home again.
The old man was there now, the old man with the wrinkled face. Crazy. If only you hadn’t been so afraid, Dustfinger, he thought bitterly. But you’re a coward and you always will be. Why wasn’t it you standing beside Capricorn? Why didn’t you venture down? Then perhaps you would have disappeared back into the book instead of the old man.
The fairy with the butterfly wings and milky white face had flown after him. She was a vain little thing. Whenever she caught sight of her reflection in a window she lingered, smiling in front of it, oblivious to all else. She turned and preened in the air, ran her fingers through her hair and examined herself as if delighted by her own beauty all over again. The fairies he had known had not been particularly vain. On the contrary, sometimes they positively enjoyed smearing their tiny faces with mud or pollen, and then asked him, giggling, to guess which of them it was behind all the muck.
Perhaps I ought to catch myself one, thought Dustfinger. They could make me invisible. It would be wonderful to be invisible now and then. Or a troll – I could make him part of my show. Everyone would think he was just a little human being in a furry suit. No one can stand on his head as long as a troll, no one can make faces so well either, and those funny little dances they do – yes, why not?
When the moon had travelled half-way across the sky and Dustfinger was still sitting on the roof, the fairy with the butterfly wings grew impatient. Her tinkling sounded shrill and angry as she flew round him. What did she want? Did she want him to take her back where she came from, back to the place where all fairies had butterfly wings and people understood their language?
‘You’ve picked the wrong man here,’ he told her quietly. ‘See that girl down there, and the man beside the woman with the dark blonde hair? They’re what you need, but I might as well warn you: they’re very good at luring people into their world, and not so good at sending them home again. Still, you can try! Maybe you’ll have better luck than me.’
The fairy turned in the air, looked down, cast him a final injured glance and flew away. Dustfinger saw her brightness mingle with the light of the other fairies flying around and chasing each other through the branches of the trees. They were so forgetful. No grief or sorrow lived longer than a day in their little heads – and, who knows, perhaps the mild night air had already made them forget that this was not their own story.
Faint light was coming into the sky by the time they were all asleep down there. Only the boy kept watch. He was a suspicious boy, always on his guard, always careful except when he played with fire. Dustfinger couldn’t help smiling when he thought of Farid’s eager face, and the way he had burned his lips when he secretly took the torches from his rucksack. The boy would be no problem, no, none at all.
Silvertongue and Resa were asleep under a tree with Meggie between them, sheltered like a young bird in a warm nest. Elinor was sleeping not far away, and smiling in her sleep. Dustfinger had never seen her look so happy. One of the fairies was lying curled up like a caterpillar on her breast, with Elinor’s hand around it. The fairy’s face was not much bigger than the ball of her thumb, and her fairy light shone between Elinor’s strong fingers like the light of a captive star.
Farid stood up as soon as he saw Dustfinger coming. He had a shotgun in his hand. It must have belonged to one of Capricorn’s men.
‘You—you’re not dead?’ Farid breathed incredulously. He still wore no shoes, which was hardly surprising, for he had always been falling over the shoelaces, and tying a bow had presented him with problems.
‘No, I’m not.’ Dustfinger stopped beside Silvertongue and looked down on him and Resa. ‘Where’s Gwin?’ he asked the boy. ‘I hope you’ve been looking after him!’
‘He ran away after they shot at us, but he came back.’ There was pride in the boy’s voice.
‘Ah.’ Dustfinger crouched down beside Silvertongue. ‘Well, he always knew when it was time to run, just like his master.’
‘We left him at our camp up by the burnt-out cottage last night, because we knew it was going to be dangerous,’ the boy went on. ‘But I was going to fetch him as soon as I came off watch.’
‘Well, I can do that now. Don’t worry, he’s sure to be all right. A marten like Gwin will always survive.’ Dustfinger reached out his hand and put it under Silvertongue’s jacket.
‘What are you doing?’ The boy’s voice sounded uneasy.
‘Just taking what’s mine,’ replied Dustfinger.
Silvertongue did not stir as Dustfinger slipped the book out. He was sleeping well and soundly, and what was there now to disturb his sleep? He had everything his heart desired.
‘It’s not yours!’
‘Yes, it is.’ Dustfinger stood up. He looked up at the branches. There were three fairies asleep up there. He’d always wondered how they could sleep perched in the trees without falling to the ground. Carefully, he took two of them off the spindly branch where they were lying, blew gently into their faces as they opened their eyes and yawned, and put them in his pocket.
‘Blowing at them makes them sleepy,’ he explained to the boy. ‘Just a little tip in case you ever have anything to do with fairies. But I think it only works on the blue sort.’
He didn’t bother to wake a troll. They were an obstinate lot; it would take a long time to persuade one of them to go with him, and very likely it would disturb Silvertongue.
‘Let me come too!’ The boy barred his way. ‘Here, I’ve got your rucksack.’ He held it up, as if to buy Dustfinger’s company with it.
‘No.’ Dustfinger took the rucksack from him, slung it over his shoulders and turned his back on the boy.
‘Yes!’ Farid ran after him. ‘You must let me come too! Or what am I going to tell Silvertongue when he realises the book is gone?’
‘Tell him you fell asleep. It happens to a lot of sentries keeping watch.’
‘Please!’
Dustfinger stopped. ‘What about her?’ he pointed to Meggie. ‘You like the girl, don’t you? Why not stay with her?’
The boy blushed, and stared at the girl for a long time, as if to commit the sight of her to memory. Then he turned back to Dustfinger. ‘I don’t belong with them.’
‘You don’t belong with me either.’ Dustfinger walked away again, but when he was a good way from the car park the boy was still behind him. He was trying to walk so quietly that Dustfinger wouldn’t hear him, and when Dustfinger turned he stopped like a thief caught in the act.
‘What’s the idea? I’m not going to be here much longer anyway!’ snapped Dustfinger. ‘Now I have the book I shall look for someone who can read me into it again, even if it’s a stammerer like Darius who sends me home with a lame leg or a squashed face. What will you do then? You’ll be left alone.’
The boy shrugged his shoulders and looked at him with his black eyes. ‘I can breathe fire well now,’ he said. ‘I practised and practised while you were gone. But I’m not so good at swallowing it yet.’
‘That’s more difficult. You go at it too fast. I’ve told you so a thousand times.’
They found Gwin in the ruins of the burnt-out house, sleepy and with feathers round his muzzle. He seemed pleased to see Dustfinger, and even licked his hand, but then he ran after the boy. They walked until it was light, always heading south towards the sea. At last, they stopped for a rest and ate the food Dustfinger had brought from Basta’s larder: some red spicy sausage, a piece of cheese, bread, olive oil. The bread was rather hard, so they dipped it in the oil, ate in silence sitting side by side on the grass, and then went on. Blue and dusty-pink wild sage flowered among the trees. The fairies moved in Dustfinger’s pocket – and the boy walked behind him like a second shadow.
59
Going Home
And [he] sailed back over a year
and in and out of weeks
and through a day
and into the night of his very own room
where he found his supper waiting for him
and it was still hot.
Maurice Sendak,
Where the Wild Things Are
In the morning, when Mo found that the book had gone, Meggie’s first thought was that Basta had taken it, and she felt sick with fear at the thought of his prowling round them while they slept. But Mo had a different explanation.
‘Farid has gone too, Meggie,’ he said. ‘Do you think he’d have gone with Basta?’
No, she didn’t. There was only one person Farid would have gone with. Meggie could well imagine Dustfinger emerging from the darkness, just as he had on the night when it all began.
‘But what about Fenoglio?’ she said.
Mo only sighed. ‘I don’t know whether I’d have tried to read him back anyway, Meggie,’ he said. ‘So much misfortune has come from that book already, and I’m not a writer who can make up the words he wants to read aloud for himself. I’m only a kind of book doctor. I can give books new bindings, rejuvenate them a little, stop the bookworms eating them, and prevent them losing their pages over the years like a man loses his hair. But inventing the stories in them, filling new, empty pages with the right words – I can’t do that. That’s a very different trade. A famous writer once wrote, “An author can be seen as three things: a storyteller, a teacher or a magician – but the magician, the enchanter is in the ascendant.” I always thought he was right about that.’
Meggie didn’t know what to say. She only knew that she missed Fenoglio’s face. ‘And Tinker Bell,’ she said. ‘What about her? Will she have to stay here too now?’ When she’d woken up the fairy had been lying in the grass beside her. Now she was flying around with the other fairies. If you didn’t look too closely they might have been a cloud of moths. Meggie couldn’t imagine how she had escaped from Basta’s house. Hadn’t he been planning to keep her in a jug?
‘As far as I remember, Peter Pan himself once forgot she’d ever existed,’ said Mo. ‘Am I right?’
Yes, Meggie remembered it too. ‘All the same!’ she murmured. ‘Poor Fenoglio!’
But as she said that, her mother shook her head vigorously. Mo searched his pockets for paper, though all he could find was a shopping receipt and a felt-tip pen. Teresa took both from him, smiling. Then, while Meggie crouched in the grass beside her, she wrote: Don’t be sorry for Fenoglio. It’s not a bad story he’s landed in.