by Toby Forward
“Am I allowed in?” he asked.
“What do you want?”
“Is this Canterstock?”
“Where else could it be?”
“Is it or not?”
Their arms had grown tired of holding their pikes. They stood at ease and rested, one on his pike, the other against the gate.
“’Course it is.”
Tadpole didn’t like the way they laughed at him. And he didn’t like the look of them.
“That can’t be the college, though,” he said. “It’s grey and nasty.”
“Hear that? He thinks our college is nasty.”
The one leaning on the gate scratched his chin. “Well, he’s right, there. It is nasty.”
“Not for him to say, though, is it? Cheeky roffle.”
“I thought roffles weren’t Up Top any more.”
“That’s right.”
They were growing angry.
“He’s a spy. For the kravvins.”
“Look. Roffles don’t wear cloaks like that.”
“He’s some new sort.”
“Take hold of him.”
They were slow, not expecting Tadpole to resist. He sidestepped them and walked into a roffle hole he had spotted just by the left upright of the gate.
“Have you got him?”
“Where is he?”
Tadpole watched them from the safety of the roffle door. They were clowns. Stupid. While they were searching he slipped out, through the gate, and was in the town.
And a miserable, dirty town it was. Dog mess and rotting vegetables on the streets. Shops boarded up or half-empty, no goods in the windows. Tadpole crossed a market square and found himself at the gates of the college. Grey walls, not honey-coloured; at the base, green with moss and mould. Water overflowed the blocked guttering and spilled down the walls, bruising them with slippery stains.
The big gates were locked, with a small wicket giving entry. He stepped through it and looked around a quadrangle. Grass grew in every crevice. A cold wind seemed to blow, making a shrill noise. Tadpole huddled his cloak tight around him against the wind.
“Who’s there?”
A thin, pointy man came out of the porter’s lodge and stared straight at Tadpole.
“Who’s there?” he asked again.
He looked left and right and back at Tadpole.
“What’s that noise?” he said.
Tadpole began to answer. Before he could speak, the man shrugged. “Just the wind,” he muttered. He went back into the lodge.
Tadpole moved to the side of the quad, to avoid being seen by anyone else. There was something wrong with the porter.
He found a door and went inside.
The corridors were lit with floating globes, just as the book had said. These, though, were not bright. They hung, yellow and dim, throbbing, like the nests of some stinging creature, ready to burst. Tadpole, short though he was, ducked to avoid bumping his head against them. He peered through the grimy window of a classroom door. Eight pupils at desks, scattered in a room made for thirty, listened to a fat teacher who seemed to be telling them off. Tadpole couldn’t hear what he said. A sign on the door said, Dr Duddle.
He followed the corridor. More classrooms. More empty desks. More teachers looking angry or tired. And the stink! Tadpole gathered his cloak and put it over his nose and mouth to try to cover the smell. Things rotting, dying.
Stairs led up. He wound round, hoping the smell would be less as he rose higher. It was no better.
The light was worse up here. There seemed to be no classrooms, and the doors didn’t have windows in them. Studies? Bedrooms? He moved quickly, afraid to knock, afraid to try a handle. Turning a corner he saw a bigger door, with an arched top and a worked-iron loop for a handle. It was cold. He put his ear to the door. Was there a noise? A rustling, perhaps? Or a murmur?
Better not try it. He took his hand from the iron ring and it fell, making a sharp clang. Before he could move away the door opened.
“Come in.”
There was no one there. Tadpole backed away. His roffle pack bumped against the opposite wall with a thud.
“Come in. And be quick. And shut the door after you.”
At least the smell disappeared when he shut the door. There was still no sign of whoever had spoken to him. But the place was marvellous. A room like a drum, round and tall and endless above his head. Gallery after gallery, one above another, out of sight. And every one of them covered with books.
He was alone. At least, there was no one else to be seen.
“What do you want?”
Tadpole stepped back. He looked in all directions.
“If you don’t tell me, I’ll throw you out again.”
The voice was very near. Perhaps it was from someone behind a bookcase? Tadpole moved to his left and brushed against something.
“Watch where you’re going.”
Tadpole coughed to mask a sick feeling, and hoped he wouldn’t throw up. Was it Smedge?
“What’s the matter?”
Tadpole backed away.
“I’ll throw you out. You’re wasting my time.”
Tadpole tried to move sideways to the door to escape.
Something stirred overhead in the galleries. The sound of trees, before the rain starts and the wind lifts up their leaves. A whispering, that resolved itself into speech.
“He can’t see you.”
“What?”
“He can’t see you.”
Tadpole had reached the door. As he had expected, it was locked. Did all doors Up Top lock themselves as soon as you went through them?
“You can’t open the door. I let you in. You have to ask me to let you out.”
The air was thickening around the voice.
“Please let me out,” said Tadpole.
“To the stink? To the dirt? To Frastfil and Duddle? To those dunces and liars and frauds? Is that what you want?”
“I want to get out of here, please.”
“Very well.” The voice was coming from a shape, now, something like a man. It approached him. “Out you go. To stink and Smedge. To Duddle and dirt. Out you—”
“What?” asked Tadpole.
He moved away from the door to make room for the man shape. Tadpole could see right through him.
“I’m letting you out.”
“You said Smedge?”
“Yes.”
“Aren’t you Smedge?”
There was more noise from the galleries. Tadpole looked up and the light was rippling there, the shadows of clouds.
The shape disappeared.
The galleries laughed.
Tadpole grabbed the door handle. It was still locked.
The shape formed again. More like a man. Tadpole could only just see through him.
“Smedge? You think I’m Smedge?” He waved his hand and the whisper of laughter from the galleries ceased.
“I’m sorry. I’ve never been Up Top before. And I saw a boy who was there and then he wasn’t there. And then he was other things.”
“Always other things,” said the man. “Never really a boy. All right. No harm done.”
Now that Tadpole could see him properly, the man was real. He was old. Older than Tadpole thought possible. Not frail. Not infirm. Just old. As trees are old. Old, as rocks and lakes are old.
“My name’s Tadpole.”
“Is it? Nice for you. Are you going to be a frog tomorrow?”
The man thought that was a very funny question and laughed at it for a long time. Tadpole, who had heard it lots of times before, thought it was less funny, or not funny at all, really, and he was glad the galleries didn’t laugh either.
He scanned the galleries for any sign that there might be people up there, to make the noise, to speak to the man. There was only the play of light and shade.
“You’re supposed to tell me your name, now,” said Tadpole.
“Am I? Why?”
“It’s what people do?”
“Is it? It’s been so long, I don’t remember what people do.” He became slender again, against the light, and started to disappear.
“Don’t go.”
“Eh?”
“You’re fading again.”
The man made an effort and reformed.
“Are you a ghost?”
He disappeared.
“Where are you?”
Tadpole had grown used to the man. His eyes had adjusted to him. Although he had faded away, he left a disturbance in the air wherever he went. Tadpole followed him.
“I can see where you are.”
He moved.
“You’re by the door.”
Moved again.
“By the picture of a dragon.”
Again.
“In front of the table. Behind the table. Stand still so I can talk to you.”
The whispers of laughter from the galleries returned.
The man materialized and glared up at them.
“Don’t call me a ghost.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What’s a ghost?”
Tadpole hesitated.
“Come on. It’s not a trick question. And it’s not a hard question. What’s a ghost?”
“Someone who’s died and come back to haunt somewhere.”
There was a sigh from the gallery. The essence of sadness. It went straight through Tadpole’s heart and he wanted to cry. He had to brush the edge of his cloak against his eyes to keep them dry.
“What’s that?” asked the man. He came and touched Tadpole’s cloak. “A roffle. In a Cloude cloak?” His fingers found the selvedge and he looked at the memmont woven into it. “No doubt about it.”
“It’s not a Cloude cloak, whatever that is. Mr Martin wove it for me.”
“Martin?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, well. I never thought to see the like.” He gave Tadpole a long stare. “And now you’re in my library.”
“Your library?”
“Of course.” He put out his hand. “Jackbones. Librarian of Canterstock College.”
As Tadpole shook his hand there was a murmur from the galleries. Jackbones looked up and said, “Formerly, librarian of Canterstock College.”
“What are you now?”
“I am, as you see,” he said. And he seemed very pleased with this as an adequate answer.
He walked off and started to tidy some books on the round table. Tadpole watched him, to see if his feet touched the floor, or if he drifted along above it. Jackbones walked normally. Tadpole waited for him to say something else. Jackbones seemed to have forgotten him.
There were stairs, wrought iron, circling up into the galleries. Tadpole put his foot on the bottom step and looked up. Second step. The gallery rustled. He changed his mind and moved away, bumping into a stool. Jackbones put books back in their places on the shelves.
“Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m here?” said Tadpole.
“Do you want to tell me?”
“Yes.”
“Then I don’t need to ask, do I?”
Tadpole put his pack on the floor and sat on it at the big table. Jackbones looked over his shoulder at him and carried on stacking books. Tadpole waited. Jackbones sneaked another look. Tadpole smiled to himself. He had won. Jackbones was curious. It wasn’t long before the man edged his way back to the table. He was a little like a squirrel, or a bird — some wild creature which advances and then retreats, wanting to be near, not certain whether it’s safe.
He slid the books on to the table and sat down.
“I’m looking for Waterburn,” said Tadpole. He was amazed at the reaction. Jackbones jumped to his feet and rushed around the table. He seized Tadpole’s throat and shook him.
Tadpole fell back, grabbing Jackbones’ wrists.
The noise from the gallery increased. Jackbones had leaned Tadpole back and the roffle was looking straight up into the never-ending rows of books.
“Where is he? What’s happened to Waterburn? Have you hurt him?”
Tadpole pulled the hands from his throat. Jackbones was thin, had little strength. It was only the suddenness of his attack that had overpowered Tadpole. He took care not to hurt the librarian as he pushed him away. One by one, then more and more, faces appeared in the galleries. Tens, and hundreds and thousands, leaning over the rails, looking down at them.
Jackbones looked up at them and looked away.
“Who are they?” asked Tadpole.
Jackbones grinned. “They’re not there.”
Tadpole looked again. The faces didn’t move. They were silent.
“I can see them.”
“Not there.”
“I heard them.”
“Not there.”
“You saw them. I watched you.”
“Not there.”
Tadpole moved into the centre of the room and looked up.
“Who are you?” he asked.
Jackbones moved to stand beside him. He leaned in and whispered, “Do they frighten you?”
“You can see them.”
“Do they? Do they make you quake with fear? Do they make your stomach roll and your head grow dizzy?” His whisper was a snake, a sandslip, a secret in silk. “Do they speak to you of silence and pain?”
Tadpole shivered. They did. He wanted to look away, and his eyes wouldn’t leave them. Jackbones stroked cold fingers on Tadpole’s cheeks. “And you heard them?” he said. “Do you hear them now? Do you hear their promises, their lies? Do you?”
“Jackbones, leave the boy alone.”
Jackbones gripped Tadpole’s arm. “She’s not there. Don’t look round.”
So, of course, Tadpole looked round.
The spiral staircase to the first gallery creaked. First a foot, small and slender in a soft leather shoe, then a dress, green and blue and shimmering, then the whole figure, a woman, of no age and all age. She paused, looked at Tadpole, stepped softly down and stood a little distant from him.
“Welcome to our library,” she said.
Tadpole couldn’t answer.
“She’s not there.”
“Jackbones, you’re forgetting about Waterburn.”
The librarian closed his eyes and shook his head. “I did,” he admitted. “I forgot him. When you all looked down.” He took Tadpole’s arm again. “Have you hurt him? Where is he?” He looked at the woman. “Springmile, make the roffle tell me where he is.”
The woman moved across and removed his hand with gentle fingers. She led Tadpole to the table and sat next to him.
“Tell me,” she said. “Tell me about Waterburn. Please.”
Jackbones sidled round and sat, two chairs away from them.
“Is he alive?” asked Springmile.
“I don’t know. Perhaps.”
Jackbones howled.
“Shh,” she said. “Time to grieve when we know if it’s needed. Now, Tadpole, please tell us what you know.”
“You know my name?”
She nodded. “In the library, we hear what happens.”
He looked up. The faces were silent, listening.
“Please,” she said. “Will you tell us what brought you here and what’s happened to our friend?”
Tadpole began to feel like a travelling storyteller, repeating his tale at every stop he made. He gave them the same account that he had given to Smith, and he thought about how to add the part about visiting the forge.
He was interested to see how the way he told it changed a little from last time, and the way that the new part about the smith was changing the first part.
Springmile listened quietly, looking at him all of the time. Jackbones couldn’t sit still. He squirmed and wriggled, twitched and jumped, clenched his fists and made fierce grimaces as the different parts of the tale unfolded. At one point, when Tadpole described seeing Smedge arrive, Jackbones stood up, pushing his chair back and shouting, “No!” He grabbed an inkwell and threw it into the room. The ink sprayed out, and each drop,
each splash, became a spinning ball of spiked iron. They crashed into the walls, the books, the door, the floor. Some of them flew right up into the galleries above. And when they hit, they exploded, sending shards of jagged iron flying out. Tadpole ducked as one sped round his head and dug into the tabletop.
Springmile went to Jackbones, rested a slender hand on his shoulder and helped him to sit down again. She ran her hand over his head, smoothing his hair. She made small, comforting sounds with no words.
“I’m sorry,” said Jackbones. “Smedge. You know?”
“Yes, I know.”
Springmile flung out her arm, scattering a shower of silver-green leaves of willow over the library floor. They blew into every corner and fell on to the shattered iron fragments. Springmile waited, then blew gently and the leaves fluttered away, taking all traces of the sharp metal with them, leaving no trace of the damage or the explosions.
She sat down again.
“You were saying,” she said. “Smedge appeared, and the kravvins were with him.”
When Tadpole reached the point in his story
where Flaxfold fell, impaled, the galleries gave a universal sigh of loss.
“You’re sure?” said Springmile.
“I saw it.”
“She might have lived.”
“With magic, I suppose. I don’t know what magic can do.”
“She’s dead,” said Jackbones.
“I think she is,” Springmile agreed. “I feel it. It’s in his story. It’s true.”
“So, it’s over,” said Jackbones.
“Perhaps soon. Not yet. Please, Tadpole, tell us the rest.”
He finished his story.
“And the porter didn’t even see me come in the gate,” he said. “Is there something wrong with him?”
“The boy’s a fool,” said Jackbones. “We should take it off him.”
“I’m not a fool. And you’re very rude.”
The galleries were amused.
“I’m just new here, Up Top. I don’t understand everything. It doesn’t make me a fool.”
“It doesn’t,” said Springmile. “And Jackbones is sorry.”
“He hasn’t said sorry.”
“And he probably won’t. But he is, all the same.”
