“This,” he said, “is the coastline you’d have to search. It took hundreds of explorers decades to chart these waters. Unless you know where to start, and it sounds like you don’t, you could spend a whole lifetime searching and not even cover a tenth of it.”
Max saw at once that Endymion was right. The territory was too vast to cover.
“I disagree,” said Porterholse suddenly.
“You do?” asked Endymion.
“Yes,” said the Wind Giant confidently. “I do.”
He set aside his teacup, brushed the biscuit crumbs from his waistcoat, and stood up. “In fact, I know how he can complete his search, in a matter of hours, without ever setting foot out of London!”
WHERE THE WIND COMES FROM
“The Giants… were made by… the Wizards. We were… inventions. Patent… Eight Nine Zero… something I forget… something…”
Max sat on the 357th step of the spiral staircase of King’s Cross Wind Control Tower and waited for Porterholse to catch up.
“So all the Winds come from the Giants?” he called down.
“Almost all.” Porterholse’s voice echoed up from below. “There are some left from the Olden Days. Most dwindled down to a breeze… a long time ago. Some were stored underground. I believe they’re still there, gusting about.”
“So Winds were around before the Giants?”
Porterholse came into view, his huge body sagging with exhaustion. He collapsed on the steps and mopped his brow with a red polka-dot handkerchief.
“Oh yes! Giants were one of the early modifications Wizards made to Winds, so Winds came first. Witches and Wizards never get anything right first time. That’s what evolution is—the ongoing tampering of Witches and Wizards with creation. If they love anything more than creating, these Witches and Wizards, the Devil take their hides, it’s modifying. According to the records, which are rather incomplete, the Wizards made Air first. That was back in the Dabbling Days, the early era of the Woods when they were coming up with Fundamentals, Essences, Universals and so on. They knew Air was going to be important and nobody would be able to do without it, so they made it Still and Quiet and Narcissistic, so it would sit in one place contemplating itself and not suddenly disappear off on an adventure. But that meant the Clouds had to be moved about with sticks and grappling hooks, which was an awful bother. So they took half the Air and gave it Tirelessness, Enthusiasm and Curiosity, to encourage it to travel and not stay in one place. It all looked good on paper, but when the Patent was activated it was a disaster.”
“Something went wrong?”
“Everything went wrong. The Winds became over-excited and started tearing about all over the place. The destruction was catastrophic. Eventually another Wizard came up with the idea of containing the Winds in bags, so they could be dispersed gradually, as and when required. He called the bags Giants.”
“And that’s what you do?”
“Yes. I and the other Wind Giants let out our Winds at regular intervals, according to various timed schematics. Naturally we are in great demand by the Balloon companies, who provide us with a monthly stipend for our services.”
He got to his feet and leant for a moment on the banister, dabbing his perspiring forehead with his handkerchief.
“OK!” said Max. “Come on! Are you ready for more?”
Porterholse nodded, and they continued up the steps. In only four hours, the last Balloon for Paris before Eisteddfod would depart, and they were climbing the Tower to interrogate the Winds. If any Wind had blown any Balloon out over the Panthalassa Ocean, Porterholse would soon learn of it.
They had already visited the King’s Cross launching area. Max had stood by the workers as they loaded the travellers’ trunks into the baggage compartment, wondering if his Forever Parents were among them. He must have looked at every last passenger, ticket-collector and street-seller, desperate for the glinting spectacles or flash of auburn hair that would save him from the Dragon Fire.
Nothing.
Worse, Porterholse had shown him a map of all the flight routes, landing areas and Wind Towers in the Beginning Woods. Some towers stood in cities, some in isolated outposts in the Woods. Each was serviced by a team of Giants, who took it in turns to emit their Winds at the scheduled moment. There were more than 30,000 Hot Air Balloons operating in the Woods at any one time, Porterholse had told him. Even if he forgot about searching the Ocean and just checked the Balloons, the chances of finding his Forever Parents were almost non-existent.
The Winds were his only hope.
At last they reached the top of the Tower and emerged into the bright sunshine. Pigeons exploded up around them in a clatter of wings then dropped down towards the city, disappearing among the rooftops. Max scrabbled up onto the stone balustrade, flopped over on his belly and peered directly down at the U-shaped courtyard below, where the fabric of the Balloon was lying flat out and wrinkled.
“They’re starting to fill it,” he called back. The Wind Giant had sat on a small wooden bench, and for some reason was unlacing his shoes.
“Plenty of time,” Porterholse replied. “I’ll send out part of my Wind to make some enquiries. While we wait for it to return, I’ll see if these other Winds know anything.”
Max nodded, but his thoughts were turning to Martha again. She was silent and faint, barely there inside him.
I know you’re really upset about what happened. But I helped you. And you promised to help me back.
No answer.
I’m going to have to go to Paris if these Winds don’t know anything. You might want to find another gravestone, if you don’t want to get all burnt up, that is.
She remained silent.
Sighing, he scratched a spot of lichen off the balustrade and crumbled it between his fingers. A Wind caught the flakes and held them in the air, examining them for a moment before flinging them down into the streets of London.
“You should be more careful what you throw into the Wind,” Porterholse cautioned. “You never know where it will end up.”
“Something that small isn’t going to make any difference to anyone,” Max muttered.
“Ah! HUFF-PUFF! But what started the Vanishings? A tiny baby, popping up out of nowhere onto a bookshelf! And the whole World is changed!”
The Wind Giant came to stand next to him. He had undressed down to his shirt and trousers, and left his scarf, coat and waistcoat neatly folded on the bench. He’d even taken off his socks, Max noticed, and was flexing his bare toes on the cold stone.
“I have this Wind in me,” he went on. “Sometimes I let part of it escape, and off it goes into the Woods: WHOOSH! Goodbye! HUFF-PUFF! Whatever it does, I am responsible. It is ME out there, moving through the Woods, doing all that the Wind does. It is the same with you.”
“No it isn’t,” Max said. “I can’t blow a gigantic Wind that goes whizzing off everywhere.”
“Your actions, what you do and say—those are your Winds. You send them out all the time without even realizing it—HUFF-PUFF!”
He unbuttoned his shirt and handed it to Max. Then, with a snap of leather, he whipped off his belt and stepped out of his trousers. His white body gleamed like a pearl in the afternoon light. Flapping his arms in the crisp air, he shivered and let out a great WHOO-OOOSH! of pleasure.
“Take your crumb of lichen. Off it goes—HUFF-PUFF— off through London, down streets and up alleyways, in and out of windows, shooed away by feather dusters and sucked up by chimneys, until finally it lodges in some fellow’s eye. WHOO-OOSH! Blinking, he ducks into a doorway. The door opens and a woman steps out. He is about to turn away, embarrassed—she will think he is crying. But what’s this? Her eyes are red and moist as well! She’s been weeping over something, a tragic story, a broken promise. Each suffers and sees the other’s suffering! It’s love! They marry and have children. Their children have children. Their children’s children have children. WHOOOSH! A countless series of lives, all thanks to that little flake you fl
ung into the World without a thought!”
As he spoke, he completed his undressing. Entirely naked, his arms held wide, his face rapt with pleasure, he stood inflating as the Winds swirled around him, gathering excitedly to welcome one of their brothers.
“The greatest illusion in life,” Porterholse cried, “is that I go from the tips of my toes to the ends of my fingers and no further! This body, this bag, is only my BEGINNING. The rest of me is OUT THERE! HUFF-PUFF! In the EVER AFTER! WHOOOO-OOOOOSH!”
His skin stretching until he was an immense, partially translucent orb, he rolled backwards against the wall of the spire and unleashed his Wind with an almighty shout:
For some time afterwards, Porterholse stood on the balcony interrogating the Winds, shooing some away, beckoning others to him, while waiting for his own to return.
But the minutes passed, and the Balloon below got bigger, and its departure drew nearer, and not one of the Winds had heard a whisper of a rumour about Forever Parents or Panthalassas. Each time a new Wind arrived, Max looked at Porterholse hopefully, and each time the Wind Giant only sadly shook his head.
By the time evening fell, he was boarding the Balloon to Paris.
THE ACCURSED QUESTIONS
So that was it.
Dragon Fire.
Why, Max wondered, did the only way to find his Forever Parents have to be not a way? Talk of Soul Searchers and prophecies was all very well. But he still had to stand there, in the fire.
What was more certain than the fact that fire was dangerous? Nothing! Was there anything more painful than fire? No! And now he had to stand in a fire rumoured to be so hot it could melt stone, just because some old man with a notebook had taken a peep into his soul (and made an insulting remark about reading).
As he shuffled up the ramp with Boris and Mrs Jeffers, caught in the mass of people boarding the Balloon, the gas-powered burner roared above their heads, and flickering shadows chased each other up the brickwork of King’s Cross station. The vast silken girth of the Balloon glowed orange from within.
The fire-filled belly of a Dragon probably looked like that, he realized. A lot of fire could fit in a belly that big. Enough to burn down a house, let alone a boy.
But it was too late. The press of people pushed him forwards, into the Balloon, like they knew he wanted to turn and go back. Step by step, inch by inch, they were forcing him towards the Dragon. Somewhere in the Woods, it was waiting for him.
There was no escape.
Inside the Balloon passengers squeezed past each other in narrow corridors. Mrs Jeffers went one way, and Boris and Max went another, holding their bags over their heads. Their berth was a snug cabin in a corner. Instead of bunks or seats, there were two rolled-up mattresses, a stack of cushions and blankets. Orbs filled with glowing amber liquid rolled about on the thick carpet, giving off a gentle light and heat.
Moving awkwardly round each other, Boris began gathering cushions and arranging the mattresses, while Max picked up one of the orbs. His chilled fingers tingled with warmth.
“It’s leftovers from an early version of Old Light,” Boris explained. “Mind your back, I’ll open the window. There’s a good view as we go up.”
He removed two wooden pegs from their fastenings on the wall and folded down a panel to reveal the evening sky. Outside whistles were blasting and ropes were hissing through iron hoops. There were several thuds, one after the other, and a sudden lurch as a team of horses began to haul the Balloon clear of the building. They were already rising, so slowly Max had hardly noticed. Popping his head out, he saw King’s Cross dropping away below.
“Grab hold!” said Boris, pointing to a leather strap attached to the wall. Max slid his hand through the loop just as the Balloon was caught in a mighty gust. The cabin swung violently, and Max caught a brief glimpse of the stark-naked Porterholse on the balcony of the Wind Tower, his arms held high, waving delightedly. From other cabins came screams and shouts of laughter. But the disturbance soon settled, and Max hung his arms out of the window to watch the view. Solitary clouds were scudding across the moon. London shimmered far below.
Don’t you want to see this?
He waited, and after a moment asked again, but Martha made no reply. He trailed his hand in the air, staring at the fingertip where she had taken up her strange residence.
Did you hear me before? It looks like I’m going to be entering Eisteddfod. So it’s the Dragon Fire after all.
She didn’t seem to hear, and after a few minutes he gave his finger an irritated flick. If she wasn’t going to bother with him, he wasn’t going to bother with her.
He turned away from the view and watched Boris instead.
The Dark Man was lying opposite the window, lighting a cigarette. He was close enough to touch—but the thought of the Dark Man being touchable still seemed like a bizarre contradiction.
“How did you find out about the Beginning Woods?” he asked. “Did you cross over by mistake and go Wild?”
“No,” Boris said after a moment. “Actually my Father brought me here.”
“How did he know about it?”
“He was a storyteller. All storytellers know about the Woods one way or another. Even if they don’t know they know, they know.”
“That was his job? Telling stories?”
“He wouldn’t have called it a job. It was just what he did.”
“Who did he tell them to?”
“Anyone who would listen. He loved telling stories.”
“Will you tell me about him?” Max asked.
“You want to know about my Father?”
“Yes. You’ve been following since forever. You know all about me. And I hardly know anything about you.”
Boris seemed to think about this a moment, then nodded slowly. “Very well,” he said. “I suppose… I never thought about that.”
He crawled across to the window to sit beside Max. Drawing his blanket round his shoulders, he looked out at the darkening sky.
“My parents travelled round the World performing in all sorts of places,” he said. “Village halls. Palaces. Theatres. Living rooms. Papa would tell the stories and Mama would accompany him on a guitar. She could make any sound with her instrument, create any atmosphere. She was a magnificent Russian. They both were.”
Max gathered one of the orbs of leftover Old Light into his chest. He didn’t feel at all sleepy.
“He was an intense, quiet man, my Father,” Boris continued. “It was like this between us: we would be walking somewhere, side by side, and I would want to ask him something, and I would turn to him and say, ‘Papa?’ And I would have to say it two or three times to get his attention. He had the look of one concerned with the proklyatye voprosy, the Accursed Questions. We had learnt about them at school. Who am I? Where do I come from? Why am I here? What is the best way to live? I began to wonder which question was troubling Papa. When I asked him, he told me he never thought about the Accursed Questions. We had each other, he said, and as long as we did we wouldn’t get gotten by the Questions. They only got people who’d been struck a blow in life, a damaging blow they’d never recovered from, that made them forget what was most important. When I asked him what was most important he only smiled and said: ‘That is one of the Questions.’
“Shortly after my twelfth birthday my parents were invited to Moscow for a season of evening performances in a theatre on Old Arbat. I enrolled at the local school, the same one we always used when we returned to the capital. On my first day back, the teacher gave me a test ‘to see what my travels had taught me’. In those days exams were conducted differently. Each student was called up to the teacher’s desk and asked questions. I had missed all my classes, so I began making up the answers, and my teacher’s face darkened as he listened to my fantasies. The other boys began laughing at me, and the teacher began to shout, to maintain order. But then we became aware of another much louder commotion going on in the corridors, the furious yelling of a great many people, getting
rapidly nearer. It was so surprising we all went quiet. The teacher indicated that I was to return to my seat, and I did so, feeling very fortunate. The teacher moved towards the door to investigate, but right at that moment Papa burst into the classroom, followed by a group of men who were struggling to hold him back. Among them were some other teachers, the headmaster himself, and a man in a long black coat I did not recognize.
“When he saw me Papa stood frozen, unable to speak. The other men let him go and stood back with solemn expressions. And suddenly everyone was staring at me—even the other boys—as if they expected something from me. Then my teacher walked up to my desk and said words which I will never forget: ‘There are no more questions. Go with your Father.’ He had realized the truth, or perhaps the headmaster had given him a signal, but I only stared at Papa, who was standing still as a statue. Then, to everyone’s astonishment, he simply turned and walked rapidly out of the classroom.
“It was the man in the long black coat who took me to the school infirmary. He sat me on a bed and took the school matron into the very furthest corner of the room. As he whispered in her ear, her face went white with shock. I could not understand why I was there. I vaguely remembered a story about a plum stone. If you ate a plum stone, you died. Maybe Papa thought I had eaten a plum stone. But I’d had oatmeal for breakfast. When the man in the black coat returned, I told him: ‘I only ate oatmeal!’
“He sternly told me oatmeal had nothing to do with it. His name was Andreyev, he said. He was a doctor. And what he said next was a thousand times more unbelievable than any plum stone. I told him he was lying. Doctors never lie, he replied. He’d made the ‘final pronouncement’ himself. I kept asking where Papa was, but the doctor avoided my questions and I became angry. I ran out of the infirmary and made my way home, beside myself with panic.
“I found our flat full of people—neighbours, our landlord and many I did not recognize. They were horrified to see me. When I arrived, shouting for Mama, they all drew back, and I made it as far as my parents’ bedroom before anyone stopped me. Papa was sleeping, they said, and wouldn’t wake until tomorrow.
The Beginning Woods Page 20
