The Book of Dead Days

by Marcus Sedgwick

  “Where are we going?”

  He did not turn round.

  “Valerian!” she called, louder. “Where are—”

  And now Valerian loomed over them in the deserted street. His eyes burnt through the darkness at Willow, and she began to shake. It was as if she was standing naked in a snowstorm—she felt cold and small and fragile. Valerian held her gaze until she finally pulled her eyes away and stared at the ground.

  “Be quiet, Girl,” he snarled, “or I’ll leave you to rot here.”

  He turned and strode off again.

  “I told you,” said Boy. “I told you. Don’t upset him.”

  He looked at Willow, then saw Valerian about to disappear down yet another shabby alleyway. He looked back at Willow. Her face was drawn and pale.

  Boy put his hand on her shoulder.

  “Come on.”

  “How does he do that?” she asked.

  Valerian had vanished around the corner.

  Boy tugged at her arm. “We’re better off with him.”

  Willow still didn’t move.

  “I know,” he said. “I know what it’s like. But really, it’s best if we keep going. Stay with him.”

  Willow nodded slowly.

  “Where’s he gone now?” he moaned. “Come on, Willow. Please?”

  At last she began to walk. Boy pulled her sleeve to hurry her, but he knew that Valerian would be getting further ahead with every stride.

  Valerian had gone down a small alley on the left, but now they were closer, Boy could see there were three of them leading off into even deeper darknesses, and he had no idea which one his master had taken. He scratched his nose.

  The thought of being alone in the City at night worried him. It brought back memories of things he had half forgotten, of all the years he had lived alone on the streets.

  Boy hesitated, and the longer he hesitated, the further away Valerian would be getting.

  Grabbing Willow by the hand, he ran down the nearest alleyway, his boots plucking at the mud and filth underfoot.

  “Valerian,” he called, but quietly. “Valerian?”

  It was so dark in the passage that he could barely see.

  “Where is he?” Willow asked, still sounding shaken.

  Boy kept running.

  Suddenly they came out into a torchlit square. It was vast and empty. Beautiful old buildings leant inward on all four sides, as if trying to get closer to each other across the cobbles that lay between them. Boy took in the square. Compared to the darkness of the alley, the light from the torches was amazingly bright.

  There!

  There was Valerian, unmistakeable, about to disappear down a street that led off the far corner of the square.

  Boy and Willow raced across the open space, feeling vulnerable and watched as they went. The City was quiet, and there still seemed to be no one else around. The sound of their boots on the cobbles of the square rang out like pistol shots.

  They made it across and turned into the street. Boy noticed its name: the Deadway. Another bad omen.

  Valerian was waiting.

  “You two make more noise than I care to hear,” he said as they arrived, panting heavily, but he waited for them to get their breath back.

  “Right,” he said. “Nearly there. Then our work begins.”

  The look on his face was deadly serious. There was no anger or intimidation this time, none of his tricks of scaring the hearts out of them.

  Just . . . , thought Boy, just . . . fear?

  Could Valerian be scared? It seemed unlikely.

  Valerian set off.

  Boy looked at Willow.

  “Are you all right now?” he asked as they followed.

  She nodded, forcing a smile.

  “I know,” Boy whispered. “He’s . . . difficult. But better the devil you know.”

  Though Boy said this quietly, Valerian had heard.

  “What did you say, Boy?” he asked, though not angrily. “A fair quote from you for once. But do not mention his name here.”

  They had come to the end of the Deadway, and stopped.

  Before them stood a huge pair of ornate bronze gates set into a long, high stone wall. The gates were covered in iron pictures of confusing and frightening design. Human figures, mostly naked, writhed and hung in peculiar postures and agonizing angles from the bars of the gates. Here and there Boy and Willow could see less-than-human figures, but they were not in pain. They grinned demonically and held long sticks or spears, with which they were pricking and piercing the bodies.

  “What is this place?” Willow whispered, but Boy had understood.

  “Look,” he said.

  His voice was deathly. He pointed through the bars of the gates to where, beyond the walls, stretched row after row of cold, gray gravestones.

  Above the gates was an arch, upon which were carved some strange words.

  “What does that say?” Boy asked Valerian quietly.

  “Is your reading still so bad?” Valerian sniped, but merely from habit. There was no life in his voice.

  “But it’s strange,” Boy protested.

  “It’s Latin,” Valerian said, “and it’s high time you learnt some. Mille habet mors portas quibus exeat vita. Unam inveniam. It means, more or less, ‘Death has a thousand doors to let out life. I shall find one.’ ”

  3

  It was bitterly cold. Boy and Willow were shivering, but not just from the temperature. Row after row of lifeless stones faded away around them into the darkness of the cemetery. They had crept inside through the massive iron gates, which were not locked. They could just make shapes out from the moonlight that slanted low over the wall of the cemetery. The land sloped slightly from where they stood, so that even in the darkness they could see the stones rising away from them. There were thousands, some small and plain, some big, some carved with complex designs. Some were not mere markers at all but impressive tombs made of huge blocks of stone, surrounded by spiked railings. The railings were designed to keep people out, though Boy thought how strange they looked, like cages, as if they were actually meant to keep people in.

  “What are we doing here?” Willow whispered.

  Boy shook his head.

  “I don’t know. He’s just got a habit of finding unpleasant places to be.”

  “Boy,” said Willow, “if you don’t ask him, I will.”

  Boy looked at her, wondering if she’d learnt nothing from her recent experience of Valerian’s moods.

  Valerian stood a few paces away, trying to get his bearings in the endless death-field.

  “I mean it,” Willow said.

  “All right!” he said. “All right.”

  Boy approached slowly. Gingerly he tugged at the tall man’s sleeve.

  “Valerian,” he said.

  “Ah! Boy!” Valerian said. “Good. Now, take these.”

  He pulled two candles from his pocket and couple of large matches.

  “There’s not too much wind—we won’t need lamps. I can almost smell it now! This must be the one.”

  “Valerian.” Boy was firmer this time.

  Valerian looked down at him distractedly.

  “Yes, Boy, what is it?”

  “What are we doing here?”

  A shadow swept across Valerian’s face, a flicker of rage.

  “I don’t have time to debate it, Boy! Don’t you understand? Time is running out. Today is the twenty-eighth. Don’t you understand?”

  “No, I don’t understand,” shouted Boy, “because you never tell me anything!”

  Valerian clapped his hand across Boy’s mouth and held it there.

  Willow ran over, then stopped, seeing that Boy was not actually being harmed.

  “How many times do I—” Valerian hissed. Willow stared at him. She saw the anger slip from his face.

  “No,” he said quietly, and took his hand from Boy’s mouth. Willow stepped to Boy’s side and held his arm.

  “No,” said Valerian again. “Y
ou are right, Boy. I should tell you.”

  Boy looked at him intently, waiting.

  “I will tell you, but not now. No time now. First we must find it.”

  “But what?” asked Boy.

  “The grave. The grave of Gad Beebe. Isn’t that obvious?”

  No, it isn’t, Boy thought, but he nodded. He smiled.

  “That was what the music box told us?” asked Willow. “To come here?”

  “Yes,” said Valerian. “Well, no, not exactly. I was looking for a grave, and now I have a name. We are looking for the grave of Gad Beebe, and this is the biggest cemetery in the City. We have to start somewhere!”

  “And what then? When we find it? Why is it so important?”

  “Later. We’re running out of time. We’ll find the grave first and then—Damn!”

  “What?” asked Boy.

  “A spade. I forgot to bring a spade.”

  Valerian stamped his foot and swore at the sky.

  “Why do we need a spade?” asked Willow, but she and Boy had a terrible feeling they knew why.

  “To dig up his grave, of course. Never mind, there must be a sexton’s hut here somewhere. The first thing is to find it. Now, let’s get these candles alight. . . .”

  A succession of thoughts swept through Boy’s mind, all of them ghastly. The news that was rife in the City about the Phantom and grave-robbers sprang to his mind. He looked at Valerian. Was it possible that he was the one who had been breaking into people’s graves? Could Valerian be capable of such a thing?

  Of course he could.

  “No,” Boy said, “I won’t do it!”

  Willow looked at Boy, surprised. Valerian too.

  “What now?” he asked. “Can’t you see we must get on?”

  “You can get on without me,” said Boy. “I won’t do it. I’ve done a lot of terrible things for you, but I won’t do this.”

  “Do what?” asked Valerian, the beginnings of a smile on his face.

  “I won’t steal people’s bodies. People’s . . . dead bodies.”

  Valerian gave a short bark of a laugh. Then he shot a glance around him, and was silent.

  “But, Boy”—he smiled—“we’re not looking for a body! We’re looking for a book.”

  4

  “Right. To save time, we’ll split up. Here, take a candle, each of you. Now, Boy, you go along this wall and work inward, row by row. Work systematically and do not miss one out. Not one. You, Girl—”

  “My name’s Willow,” she said, then remembered that terrible look he had given her, “sir.”

  But Valerian was too busy thinking to care.

  “Willow, go along the other wall. Do the same as Boy. Do not miss one out. I will go up this central avenue and work outward. It’s nearly the third hour after midnight. Meet back here in an hour. And remember—Gad Beebe. Inside his grave we will find the book, and then . . .”

  His voice tailed off. He pulled a third candle from his pocket, and as much to amuse himself as to impress Boy and Willow, he pulled it out already alight.

  “Can you teach me to do that?” asked Willow, but Valerian did not bother to reply.

  Valerian went up the stony path that led into the dark heart of the cemetery, his small candle flickering in his hand, casting weak but unnerving shadows on the stones around him.

  Boy and Willow looked at each other, then looked down the separate routes they were supposed to take, leading off into the pitch-black night.

  “Book?” asked Willow. “What’s so important about a book?”

  Boy shrugged. “He’s always going on about books, how important they are and why I have to learn to read better.”

  “Maybe, but that’s not enough of a reason to dig them up from graves, is it?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, “but then I never do. I just do what Valerian tells me. Life’s easier that way.”

  Willow looked at him sadly; then she glanced down the rows of elaborate, ornamented graves, and shivered.

  “Supposing,” said Boy, “we do half an hour my way and then half an hour your way? That would be about the same thing, wouldn’t it?”

  No, thought Willow, it wouldn’t.

  “Near enough,” she said, trying to sound bright. “Anyway, if one of us holds the candles and the other does the reading, we’ll be faster.”

  “Yes,” said Boy. “Especially if you do the reading,” he added, shuffling slightly where he stood.

  Willow smiled.

  “Which way first?” she said.

  Boy looked at the options.

  “This way,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “No idea. Willow?”

  “What?”

  “How will we know when an hour has passed?”

  “It’s about as long as one of Madame’s performances and one of Valerian’s put together, but you know how time moves differently when you’re doing . . . difficult things.”

  “Yes,” agreed Boy.

  He had a feeling this was going to be a very long hour.

  Elsewhere in the cemetery, Valerian was thinking about time too. In his eyes, time was speeding up, every day, every hour. It seemed to him that every second lasted half as long as the one before, as if time was accelerating toward the end of the year. The end of the year, and the end . . .

  He pushed the thought from his mind as he bent down to peer at the seventy-third gravestone he had looked at.

  Trying to stay calm, he noted the name. Gad Beebe? No.

  Gad Beebe? What kind of name was that? An important one. For Valerian it was a very important one.

  What was today?

  The twenty-eighth. Just three days left after today. Three days to find an answer, and so much depended on Kepler. Once, many years ago, he had trusted him completely, but things had changed. But he had always respected his learning, and now—now he needed all the help he could get.

  Seventy-fourth. No.

  Kepler. The camera obscura worked like a dream. It had cost everything Valerian had earnt from the theater for the last year, but it was worth it. Kepler had laughed at him when he’d first asked him to make it. “What is the use?” Kepler had scoffed. “It will be of no use to you, at the end. It will not save you to see Fate approaching!”

  Seventy-fifth. No.

  But then, when Valerian had persisted, he had changed his mind. “Very well,” he had said. “Very well, I will waste your money. It will be expensive. I only make the best pieces of optical equipment.”

  Seventy-sixth. No.

  And so they had agreed, and Valerian had slogged away at that stupid act for another year until the camera was built. Kepler had called him delusional. Delusional? He’d be delusional himself, thought Valerian, if his time was running out. If something was coming for him he’d damn well be delusional too!

  Seventy-seventh. No.

  Valerian straightened and moved on to the next stone, beginning to doubt he was going about this the right way. He knew there had to be a better answer. But just as an idea came into his head, his attention was caught by something up ahead.

  A light.

  There was a weak light flickering in the darkness ahead of him.

  “That boy can’t get anything right!” he cursed under his breath. “I told him to stick to the wall.”

  Valerian plucked another candle from his pocket and lit it from the one he was holding. No tricks this time. Pushing the candle into the earth of number seventy-eight to mark his place, he strode off to see what his boy was up to.

  As he approached the source of the light, his eyes widened with surprise.

  “Well! Hello, Valerian,” said a high, cracked voice.

  Valerian turned to run, but a blow to the back of his head had him out cold before he even hit the ground.

  5

  “What?” whispered Boy.

  “What?” replied Willow.

  “What did you say?” Boy asked.

  “I didn’t say anything,” she said.

>   They were hunched over a grave. Yet another grave. They had been searching stone after stone, until the carved names had become a blur. Nowhere had there been a trace of anyone with a name even vaguely resembling that of Gad Beebe.

  “What was that noise?”

  “You’re imagining things,” said Willow, as much to convince herself as anything.

  “Isn’t that an hour yet?” asked Boy.

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, it must be. Come on, let’s go back.”

  “You are sure it’s an hour?” Boy asked. “I mean, we don’t want to—”

  At that moment there was another noise, the click of metal on metal.

  They froze.

  “The candles!” Willow warned.

  Boy blew the candles out. Utter blackness surrounded them. After a few moments they began to see a little as their eyes widened to catch as much light as possible. In the vague, gray shadow world, they suddenly both saw the same thing—a flicker of yellow light away to their left, in the heart of the cemetery.

  “It must be Valerian,” said Willow.

  “Why?”

  “Well, who else would be out here?”

  Boy didn’t want to even think about the answer to that question.

  “Yes,” he said, “Come on. We may as well meet him there.”

  They set off in the darkness and immediately Boy walked into a gravestone. The moonlight had vanished behind a bank of cloud, and with no light to guide them the gray stones were as good as invisible. He picked himself up, silently cursing Valerian.

  “Boy!” whispered Willow. “Here’s the path. Come on. When you get your feet on it you can follow the stones.”

  She was right. By the feel and the sound of the grit underfoot they made their way more quickly toward the light. Boy found that by looking straight ahead rather than at his feet, he could see the faint gray ghost of the path better.

  As they got near, something started to worry Boy. “Willow?” he said quietly.

  She ignored him.

  “Willow?” He stopped in his tracks.

  She turned.

  “What is it now? I just want to go home.”

  “I don’t think that’s Valerian.”

  “Don’t be difficult,” she said. “Who else could it be?”