hesitation, as if the stones themselves told him the way. Wherever he went, sparks sprang from the walls, spreading out and painting the black with gold. They met soldiers three times. Mo killed them with as much relish as if he were killing Orpheus. Dustfinger had to make him go on, and Mo saw the fear on Resa’s face. He reached for her hand, like a drowning man – and felt the darkness still inside him.
63
Ah, Fenoglio
And so the poet’s testament ends here,
And as he leaves this world upon his bier,
Take you your leave of him, saying thank God
We’re rid of him, let’s have the next man now,
To make a fair round dozen beneath the sod
Just as the good old custom used to vow.
In life and death alike, let’s not pretend
Anyone mourns for such a vagrant’s end.
Adapted from François Villon,
A Ballade with which Villon Concludes his Testament
In the hand of a giant. His own giant! Not bad, eh? No reason to be sad about it. If only the Black Prince had looked rather livelier! If, if, if, Fenoglio, he told himself. If only you’d finished writing the words for Mortimer! If only you had some idea how this story is to go on now …
The huge fingers held him both firmly and carefully, as if they were used to carrying small humans around. Not necessarily a reassuring idea. Fenoglio really didn’t want to become some giant child’s toy. He had little doubt that it would be one of the nastiest ways of meeting one’s end. But would anyone ask his opinion? No.
Which brings us back to the one crucial question, thought Fenoglio as his stomach, bumped about as it was, slowly but surely began to feel as if he’d eaten too many of Minerva’s stuffed pigs’ trotters. The one great crucial question.
Was there another man writing this story?
Was there a scribbler sitting somewhere in the hills that he himself had described so vividly, another writer who had sent him falling into this giant’s hand? Or was the wretch sitting in the other world, the real world that hadn’t been written, the way he used to sit there himself, putting Inkheart down on paper?
Oh, come on! What would that make you, Fenoglio? he asked himself, both annoyed and badly shaken, as he always was when that question occurred to him. No, he wasn’t dangling from strings like the stupid puppet that Battista sometimes showed in marketplaces (although it did look a little like him). No, no, no. No strings for Fenoglio, no strings controlling either his words or his fate. He liked to keep his life in his own hands and didn’t want any interference – although he admitted that he himself was very fond of pulling strings. But there it was: his story had simply swerved off course. No one was writing it. It was writing itself! And now it had come up with this stupid idea of the giant carrying him off!
Although his stomach rebelled, Fenoglio cast another glance at the depths below him. It was definitely a long way down, but why should that bother him after he’d fallen from the tree like a ripe fruit? The sight of the Black Prince gave considerably more cause for concern. He really did look alarmingly lifeless lying in the giant’s other hand. What a shame. All the trouble he’d gone to to keep the man alive – all the words, the herbs in the snow, Roxane’s nursing, all for nothing! Damn it! Fenoglio swore so loudly that the giant raised him to his eyes to look at him. This was too much!
Would it help to smile? Was it any use talking to him? Well, if you don’t know the answer, Fenoglio, you old fool, he told himself, then who does?
The giant stopped. He was still staring at him. He had opened his fingers out slightly, and Fenoglio took the opportunity of stretching his old limbs.
Words, words were wanted again – and of course, as always, they had to be exactly right. Perhaps it was a blessing to be mute and unable to rely on words at all!
‘Er …’ What a wretched start, Fenoglio! ‘Er. What’s your name?’ Oh, for heaven’s sake!
The giant puffed air into his face and said something. The sounds that passed his lips were certainly words, but Fenoglio didn’t understand them. How could that be possible?
Good heavens, how the giant was looking at him! Fenoglio’s eldest grandson had looked like that when he found a big black beetle in his kitchen. The boy was both fascinated and troubled by it. And then the beetle began wriggling, and Pippo had dropped it in alarm and trodden on it. So keep still, Fenoglio! No wriggling, not the least little wriggle, however much your old bones ache. Good God, those fingers. Each of them as long as one of his own arms!
But clearly the giant had lost interest in him for the moment. He was examining his other catch with obvious concern. Finally he shook the Black Prince as if he were a watch that had run down, and sighed when he still didn’t move. With another deep sigh he sank to his knees – astonishingly gently, given his size – looked sadly at the black face, and then carefully laid the Prince on the thick moss under the trees. It was just what Fenoglio’s grandchildren had done with the dead birds they took away from their cat. They’d had exactly the same look on their faces as they laid the small bodies to rest among his roses. Pippo used to make a cross out of twigs for every dead animal, but the giant didn’t do that for the Black Prince. He didn’t bury him either. He just covered him with dry leaves, very carefully, as if he didn’t want to disturb his sleep. Then he rose to his feet again, looked at Fenoglio – perhaps to make sure that he, at least, was still breathing – and went on, every stride as long as a dozen human footsteps, perhaps more. Going where? Away from everything, Fenoglio, far away!
He felt those mighty fingers closing more tightly around him again, and then – he couldn’t believe his ears! – the giant began humming the same tune that Roxane sang to the children in the evening. Did giants sing human songs? Whether they did or not, this one was obviously happy with himself and the world, even if the toy with the black face was broken. Perhaps he was thinking about giving the other strange creature that had fallen into his hand so suddenly to his son. Oh no! Fenoglio shuddered. Suppose the giant child pulled him apart the way children sometimes dismember insects?
You fool, he thought, you arrogant old fool! Loredan was right. Delusions of grandeur, that’s your trouble! How could you think there are words to control a giant?
Another stride, and then another … goodbye for ever, Ombra. Presumably he’d never find out now what became of the children. And Mortimer.
Fenoglio closed his eyes. And suddenly he thought he heard his grandchildren’s high, insistent voices: Grandfather, play dead for us. Of course! Nothing easier. How often he’d lain there on his sofa without moving, even when they prodded his stomach and his wrinkled cheeks with their little fingers. Play dead.
Fenoglio uttered a loud groan, made his limbs go limp and fixed his eyes.
There. The giant stopped and looked at him in dismay. Keep your breathing shallow, Fenoglio told himself. It would be better not to breathe at all, but then your stupid old head would probably burst.
When the giant puffed into his face once again he almost sneezed. But Fenoglio’s grandchildren had puffed in his face too, although with considerably smaller mouths, and breath that didn’t smell quite so strong. Keep still, Fenoglio.
Still.
The mighty face became a mask of disappointment. Another sigh rose from that broad chest. A cautious prod with his forefinger, a few incomprehensible words, and the giant knelt down. The downward plunge made Fenoglio feel dizzy, but he went on playing dead. The giant looked around for help, as if someone might come fluttering down from the trees to revive his toy. A few snowflakes fell from the grey sky – it was getting colder again – and settled on the giant’s huge arms. They were as green as the moss all around, as grey as the bark of the trees, and then finally white, as the snow began to fall more thickly.
The giant sighed and murmured to himself. Obviously he really was severely disappointed. Then he put Fenoglio down on the ground as carefully as he had set down the Black Prince, gave him one l
ast experimental prod with his finger – don’t move, Fenoglio told himself! – and sprinkled a handful of dry oak leaves on his face. They had woodlice in them, and other creatures of the forest floor, most of which had a great many legs, and all of them immediately looked for new hiding places in Fenoglio’s clothes. Keep playing dead, he thought; didn’t Pippo once put a caterpillar on your face? And much to his disappointment, you still didn’t move!
And he did not move, not even when something very hairy crawled over his nose. He waited for the footsteps to go away and the ground beneath him to stop vibrating like a drum. Away went the helper he had called. Away he went, leaving Fenoglio alone again with all his other creations. Now what?
All was still. There was only the faintest vibration left in the distance, and Fenoglio pushed the dead leaves off his face and chest and sat up, groaning. His legs felt as if someone had been sitting on them, but they would still carry him. But which way should he go? Follow the giant’s footsteps backwards, of course, he thought. After all, they ought to take you straight back to the tree with the nests. You’ll be able to read the tracks easily enough for yourself.
There. There was the last footprint. How his ribs hurt! He wondered if one of them was broken. If so, he too would have a claim on Roxane’s attentions at last. Not an unpleasant prospect. Although something else awaited him on his return: Signora Loredan’s sharp tongue. She’d certainly have something to say about his experiment with the giant. And then there was the Milksop …
Involuntarily, Fenoglio quickened his pace in spite of his aching ribs. Suppose the Milksop had come back and brought them all down from the tree by now, Loredan and the children, Meggie and Minerva. Roxane and all the others? Oh, why hadn’t he simply written that the Milksop and his men were struck down by the plague? That was the trouble with writing: there were such an infinite number of turns the story could take. How were you to know which one was right? Go on, admit it, Fenoglio, he thought, a giant just sounded more magnificent. Quite apart from the fact that the plague would hardly have stayed down at the foot of the tree.
For a moment he stood listening, afraid the monster might come back. Monster, Fenoglio? What did that giant do that was so monstrous? Did he bite off your head or tear a leg off? There you are, then.
Even what happened to the Black Prince had been an accident. Where was the place where the Prince had been left? Everything looked the same under the trees, and the giant’s strides were so long that you could lose your way between his footprints.
Fenoglio looked up at the sky. Snowflakes settled on his forehead. Darkness was falling too. That was all he needed! He immediately remembered every creature with which he had populated the night in this world. He wouldn’t want to meet a single one of them. There! What was that? Footsteps! He stumbled back against the nearest tree.
‘Inkweaver!’
A man was coming towards him. Battista? Fenoglio was so glad to see his pockmarked face! He felt there wasn’t a more beautiful face in the whole world.
‘You’re alive!’ cried Battista as he came up. ‘We thought the giant had eaten you!’
‘The Black Prince …’ Fenoglio was truly surprised to feel such pain in his heart for the Prince.
Battista led him away. ‘I know. The bear found him.’
‘Is he …?’
Battista smiled. ‘No, he’s as alive as you. Although I’m not sure whether all his bones are still unbroken. Seems like Death just doesn’t fancy the taste of him! First poison, now a giant – or maybe the White Women simply don’t like his face! But we’d better make sure we get back to the nests as soon as we can. I’m afraid the Milksop will come back. He’s certainly as terrified of his brother-in-law as he was of the giant!’
The Black Prince was sitting among the roots of the tree where the giant had laid him to rest, his back against the trunk, while the bear tenderly licked his face. The leaves that the giant had so considerately placed over him still clung to his clothes and his hair. He was alive! To his own annoyance, Fenoglio felt a tear running down his nose. He could have thrown his arms around the Prince’s neck.
‘Inkweaver! How did you get away?’ His voice showed that he was in pain, and Battista gently pushed him back when he tried to sit up straighter.
‘Oh, you showed me how, Prince!’ said Fenoglio hoarsely. ‘The giant was obviously only interested in live toys.’
‘Just as well for us,’ replied the Prince, closing his eyes. He deserves better, thought Fenoglio. Better than so much pain and all that fighting.
Something rustled in the undergrowth. Fenoglio spun round in alarm, but it was only two more robbers and Farid, with a stretcher made of branches. The boy nodded to him, but he clearly wasn’t half as glad as the others to see him safe. How those black eyes were looking at him! The fact was, Farid knew too much about Fenoglio and the part he played in this world. Don’t look at me so accusingly, he wanted to protest.
What else were we to do? Meggie thought it was a good idea too – well, to be honest, she had expressed a few doubts.
‘I don’t understand where that giant came from so suddenly!’ said Battista. ‘Even when I was a child the giants were little more than a fairy tale. I don’t know any of the strolling players who ever set eyes on one, except for Dustfinger, and he would always venture further into the mountains than the rest of us.’
Without a word, Farid turned his back on Fenoglio and cut a few more twigs for the stretcher. Presumably the bear would happily have carried his master on his furry back, and Battista had some difficulty in persuading him to get out of the way when they lifted the Black Prince and put him on the stretcher. Only when his master spoke gently to him did the bear calm down, and he lumbered along beside the Prince looking dejected.
Well, come on, Fenoglio, the old man told himself, what are you waiting for? Go after them, he muttered as he followed Battista, his legs aching. No one’s going to carry you. And you’d better pray to whatever you believe in that the Milksop isn’t back!’
64
Light
All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, phantoms of the mind that walk in darkness.
Washington Irving,
The Legend of Sleepy Hollow
The fire was everywhere. It ate its way along the walls and licked down from the ceiling, crept out of the stone, and gave as much light as if the sun itself had risen in the darkened castle to scorch his bloated flesh.
The Adderhead shouted at the Piper until he was hoarse. He struck him in his bony chest with his fists, longing to ram the man’s silver nose into his face, deep into the sound flesh that he envied him so much.
The Fire-Dancer was back from the dead for the second time, and the Bluejay had escaped from one of the cells which, so his father-in-law had always claimed, no prisoner ever left alive. ‘Flown away!’ whispered his soldiers. ‘The bird has flown, and now he’s roaming the castle like a hungry wolf. He’ll kill us all!’
The Adderhead had handed over the two guards of the cell to Thumbling for punishment, but the Bluejay had already killed six more, and the rumours grew louder with every dead man they found. His soldiers were running away, over the bridge or along the tunnel under the lake, anywhere to get away from the bewitched castle that now belonged to the Bluejay and the Fire-Dancer. Some of them had even jumped into the lake, never to climb out again. The rest were shaking in their shoes like a crowd of terrified children, while the painted walls burnt and the light scorched the Adder’s brain and his skin.
‘Bring me Four-Eyes!’ he shouted, and Thumbling dragged Orpheus into his room. Jacopo crept in at the door too, like a worm that had dug its way out of damp earth.
‘Put out the fire!’ How his throat hurt! As if the sparks were in there too. ‘Put it out at once and bring me back the Bluejay, or I’ll cut your slimy tongue out! Is this why you persuaded me to throw him into that cell? So that he could fly away?’
The pale-blue eyes blurred behind the man’s glasses – and
the flattering tongue sounded as if it had been bathed in precious oil. But it was impossible to mistake the fear in it.
‘I told the Piper he ought to post more than two guards outside the cell,’ said the sly little snake. So much cleverer than Silvernose, so much mock innocence, even the Adderhead couldn’t quite see through it. ‘Only a few more hours and the Jay would have been pleading with you to let him bind the book. Ask the guards. They heard him down there writhing like a worm on the hook, groaning and sighing—’
‘The guards are dead. I handed them over to Thumbling and told him to make sure their screams could be heard all over the castle.’
Thumbling adjusted his black gloves. ‘Four-Eyes is telling the truth. The guards kept bleating over and over that the Bluejay was in a very bad state down in that cell. They heard him screaming and groaning, and they checked a couple of times to make sure he was still alive. I’d like to know how you did it,’ he said, his hawk-like gaze resting on Orpheus for a moment. ‘But anyway, they said the Jay kept whispering one name again and again …’
The Adderhead put his hands over his burning eyes. ‘What name? My daughter’s name, by any chance?’
‘No, the name of some other woman,’ replied Thumbling.
‘Resa. His wife, Your Highness.’ Orpheus smiled. The Adderhead was not sure whether his smile expressed deference or self-satisfaction.
The Piper cast a vicious glance at Orpheus. ‘My men will soon have caught his wife. And his daughter too!’
‘And what use is that to me now?’ The Adderhead pressed his fists into his eyes, but he could still see the fire all the same. Pain was cutting him into slices, stinking slices, and now the man to whom he owed it all had fooled him for the second time. He needed the Book! A new Book to heal his flesh. It was hanging off his bones like mud – heavy, damp, stinking mud.
Bluejay.
‘Take two of those who tried to run away up on to the bridge where everyone can see them,’ he said grimly. ‘And you, fetch that dog of yours!’ he snapped at Orpheus. ‘It must be hungry.’
The men screamed like animals as the black shadow devoured them, and
Inkdeath Page 48
