Orpheus fell silent as abruptly as if he had swallowed his tongue. "By all means," he said in slightly injured tones. "Well, now you'll see! With my help, the book will welcome you back like a prodigal son. It will suck you up the way paper absorbs ink."
Dustfinger just nodded and looked down the empty road. Farid sensed how much he wanted to believe Cheeseface – and how afraid he was of another disappointment.
"What about me?" Farid went up to him. "He did write something about me, too, didn't he? Did you check it?"
Orpheus gave him a rather nasty look. "My God," he said sarcastically to Dustfinger, "that boy really does seem fond of you! Where did you pick him up? Somewhere along the road?"
"Not exactly," said Dustfinger. "He was plucked out of his story by the man who did me the same favor."
"Ah, yes! That… Silvertongue!" Orpheus spoke the name in a disparaging tone, as if he couldn't believe that anyone really deserved it.
"Yes, that's what he's called. How do you know?" There was no mistaking Dustfinger's surprise.
The hellhound snuffled at Farid's bare toes. Orpheus shrugged. "Sooner or later you get to hear of everyone who can breathe life into the letters on a page."
"Indeed?" Dustfinger sounded skeptical, but he asked no more questions. He just stared at the sheet of paper covered with Orpheus's fine handwriting. But Cheeseface was still looking at Farid.
"What book do you come from?" he asked. "And why don't you want to go back into your own story, instead of his, which has nothing to do with you?"
"That's none of your business!" replied Farid angrily. He liked Cheeseface less and less. He was too inquisitive – and far too shrewd.
But Dustfinger just laughed quietly. "His own story? No, Farid isn't in the least homesick for that one. The boy switches from story to story like a snake changing its skin." Farid heard something like admiration in his voice.
"Does he indeed?" Orpheus looked at Farid again, so patronizingly that the boy would have liked to kick his fat shins, but the hellhound was still glaring hungrily at him. "Very well," said Orpheus, sitting down on the wall. "I'm warning you, all the same! Reading you back is easy, but the boy has no business in your story! I can't put his name into it, I can only say 'a boy,' and as you know, I can't guarantee that it will work. Even if it does, he'll probably just cause confusion. He may even bring you bad luck!"
Whatever did the wretched man mean? Farid looked at Dustfinger. Please, he thought, oh, please! Don't listen to him. Take me with you.
Dustfinger returned his gaze. And smiled.
"Bad luck?" he said, and his voice conveyed the certainty that no one could tell him anything he didn't already know about bad luck. "Nonsense. So far the boy has brought me nothing but good luck instead. And he's not a bad fire-eater. He's coming with me. And so is this." Before Orpheus realized what he meant, Dustfinger picked up the book that Cheeseface had put down on the wall beside him. "You won't be needing it anymore. And I shall sleep considerably more easily if it's in my possession."
Dismayed, Orpheus stared at him. "But… but I told you, it's my favorite book! I really would like to keep it."
"And so would I," was all Dustfinger said as he handed the book to Farid. "Here, take good care of it."
Farid clutched it to his chest and nodded. "Now for Gwin," he said. "We must call him." But just as he took a little dry bread from his trouser pocket and was about to call Gwin's name, Dustfinger put his hand over Farid's mouth.
"Gwin stays here," he said. If he had announced that he was planning to leave his right arm behind, Farid couldn't have looked at him more incredulously. "Why are you staring at me like that? We'll catch ourselves another marten once we're there, one that's not so ready to bite."
"Well, at least you've seen sense there," said Orpheus, his voice sounding injured.
Whatever was he talking about? But Dustfinger avoided the boy's questioning gaze. "Come on, start reading!" he told Orpheus. "Or we'll still be standing here at sunrise."
Orpheus looked at him for a moment as if he were about to say something else. But then he cleared his throat. "Yes," he said. "Yes, you're right. Ten years in the wrong story – that's a long time. Let's start reading."
Words.
Words filled the night like the fragrance of invisible flowers. Words made to measure, written by Orpheus with his dough-pale hands, words taken from the book that Farid was clutching tightly and then fitted together into a new meaning. They spoke of another world, a world full of marvels and terrors. And Farid, listening, forgot time. He didn't even feel that there was such a thing. Nothing existed but the voice of Orpheus, so ill-suited to the mouth it came from. It obliterated everything: the potholed road and the run-down houses at the far end of it, the streetlamp, the wall where Orpheus was sitting, even the moon above the black trees. And suddenly the air smelled strange and sweet…
He can do it, thought Farid, he really can do it, and meanwhile the voice of Orpheus made him blind and deaf to everything that wasn't made of the written letters on the sheet of paper.
When Cheeseface suddenly fell silent, Farid looked around him in confusion, dizzy from the beautiful sound of the words. But why were the houses still there, and the streetlamp, all rusty from wind and rain? Orpheus was still there, too, and his hellhound.
Only one thing was missing. Dustfinger.
But Farid was still standing on the same lonely road. In the wrong world.
2. FOOL'S GOLD
For plainly this miscreant had sold himself to Satan, and it would be fatal to meddle with the property of such a power as that.
Mark Twain, Tom Sawyer
"No!" Farid heard the horror in his own voice. "No! What have you done? Where has he gone?" Orpheus rose ponderously from the wall, still holding that wretched piece of paper, and he smiled. "Home. Where else?"
"But what about me? Go on reading. Go on!" Everything was blurred by the tears in his eyes. He was alone again, alone as he had always been before he found Dustfinger. Farid began trembling so hard that he didn't even notice Orpheus taking the book from his hands.
"And here's the proof of it once again," he heard the man murmur. "I bear my name by right. I am the master of all words, both written and spoken. No one can compete with me."
"Master of words? What are you talking about?" Farid shouted in such a loud voice that even the hellhound flinched. "If you know so much about your trade, then why am I still here? Go on, start reading again! And give me that book back!" He reached for it, but Orpheus avoided him with surprising agility.
"The book? Why should I give it to you? You probably can't even read. Let me tell you something! If I'd wanted you to go with him, then you'd be there now, but you have no business in his story, so I just left out what I'd written about you. Understand? And now be off before I set my dog on you. Boys like you threw stones at him when he was a puppy, and he's enjoyed chasing your sort ever since!"
"You brute! You liar! You traitor!" Farid's voice broke. Hadn't he known it? Hadn't he told Dustfinger? Cheeseface was as false as fool's gold.
Something made its way between his bare feet, something furry and round-nosed with tiny horns between its ears. The marten. He's gone, Gwin, thought Farid. Dustfinger's gone. We'll never see him again!
The hellhound lowered its bulky head and took a hesitant step toward the marten, but Gwin bared his needle-sharp teeth, and the huge dog withdrew its nose in astonishment. Its fear gave Farid fresh courage.
"Come on, give it to me!" He rammed his thin fist into Orpheus's chest. "That piece of paper, and the book, too! Or I'll slit you open like a carp. I swear I will!" But he couldn't help sobbing, which made the words sound nowhere near as impressive as he had intended.
Orpheus patted his dog's head as he stowed away the book in the waistband of his trousers. "Dear me, that really scares us, Cerberus, doesn't it?"
Gwin pressed close to Farid's ankles, his tail twitching uneasily back and forth. Even when the marten ran across the ro
ad and disappeared into the trees on the other side, Farid thought it was because of the dog. Deaf and blind, he kept thinking later, you were deaf and blind, Farid. But Orpheus smiled, like someone who knows more than his opponent.
"Let me tell you, my young friend," he said, "it gave me a terrible fright when Dustfinger wanted the book back. Luckily, he handed it to you, or I couldn't have done anything for him. It was hard enough persuading my clients not to just kill him, but I made them promise. Only on that condition would I act as bait… bait for the book, because in case you haven't caught on yet, this is all about the book. The book and nothing else. They promised not to hurt a hair on Dustfinger's head, but I'm afraid no one said a word about you."
And before Farid realized what Cheeseface was talking about, he felt the knife at his throat – sharp as the edge of a reed, colder than mist among the trees.
"Well, well, who have we here?" a well-remembered voice murmured in his ear. "Didn't I last see you with Silvertongue? It seems you helped Dustfinger steal the book for him, isn't that so? What a fine little fellow you are!" The knife scratched Farid's skin, and the man breathed peppermint into his face. If he hadn't known Basta by his voice, then that stinking breath would have identified the man. His knife and a few mint leaves – Basta was never without them. He chewed the leaves and then spat out what remained. He was dangerous as a rabid dog and not too bright, but how did he come to be here? How had he found them?
"Well, how do you like my new knife?" Basta purred into Farid's ear. 'I'd have liked to introduce the fire-eater to it, too, but Orpheus here has a weakness for him. Never mind, I'll find Dustfinger again. Him and Silvertongue, and Silvertongue's witch of a daughter. They'll all pay…"
"Pay for what?" said Farid. "Saving you from the Shadow?"
But Basta only pressed the blade more firmly against his neck. "Saving me? They brought me bad luck, nothing but bad luck!"
"For heaven's sake, put that knife away!" Orpheus interrupted, sounding sickened. "He's only a boy. Let him go. I have the book as we agreed, so -"
"Let him go?" Basta laughed aloud, but the laughter died in his throat. A snarling sound came from the woods behind them, and the hellhound laid back its ears. Basta spun around. "What the devil…? You damned idiot! What have you let out of the book?"
Farid didn't want to know the answer. He felt Basta loosen his grip for a moment. That was enough: He bit the man's hand so hard that he tasted blood. Basta screamed and dropped the knife. Farid jerked back his elbows, rammed them into the man's narrow chest, and ran. But he had entirely forgotten the little wall by the roadside; he stumbled on it and fell to his knees, so hard that he was left gasping for breath. As he picked himself up he saw the paper lying on the asphalt, the sheet of paper that had carried Dustfinger away. The wind must have blown it into the road. With quick fingers, he reached for it. I just left out what I'd written about you. Understand? Orpheus's words still rang in his head, mocking him. Farid clutched the sheet of paper to his chest and ran on, over the road and toward the dark trees waiting on the other side. The hellhound was growling and barking behind him. Then it howled. Something snarled again, so fiercely that Farid ran even faster. Orpheus screamed, fear making his voice shrill and ugly. Basta swore, and then the snarl came again, wild as the snarling of the great cats that had lived in Farid's old world.
Don't look around, he thought. Run, run! he told his legs. Let the cat eat the hellhound, let it eat them all, Basta and Cheeseface included, just keep running. The dead leaves lying under the trees were damp and muffled the sound of his footsteps, but they were slippery, too, and made him lose his balance on the steep slope. Desperately, he caught hold of a tree trunk, pressed himself against it, knees trembling, and listened to the sounds of the night. Could Basta hear him gasping?
A sob escaped his throat. He pressed his hands to his mouth. The book, Basta had the book! He'd been supposed to look after it – and how was he ever going to find Dustfinger again now? Farid felt the sheet of paper that held Orpheus's words. He was still holding it tight. It was damp and dirty – and now it was his only hope.
"Hey, you little bastard! Bite me, would you?" Basta's voice reached him through the quiet night air. "You can run, but I'll get you yet, do you hear? You, the fire-eater, Silvertongue and his hoity-toity daughter – and the old man who wrote those accursed words! I'll kill you all! One by one! The way I've just slit open the beast that came out of the book."
Farid hardly dared to breathe. Go on, he told himself. Go on! He can't see you! Trembling, he felt for the next tree trunk, sought a handhold, and was grateful to the wind for blowing through the leaves and drowning out his footsteps with their rustling. How many times do I have to tell you? There aren't any ghosts in this world. One of its few advantages. He heard Dustfinger's voice as clearly as if he were still following the fire-eater. Farid kept repeating the words as the tears ran down his face and thorns gashed his feet: There are no ghosts, there are no ghosts!
A branch whipped against his face so hard that he almost cried out. Were they following him? He couldn't hear anything except the wind. He slipped again and stumbled down the slope. Nettles stung his legs, burrs caught in his hair. And something jumped up at him, furry and warm, pushing its nose into his face.
"Gwin?" Farid felt the little head. Yes, there were the tiny horns. He pressed his face into the marten's soft fur. "Basta's back, Gwin!" he whispered. "And he has the book! Suppose Orpheus reads him into it again? He's sure to go back into the book sometime, don't you think? How are we going to warn Dustfinger about him now?"
Farid twice found himself back at the road that wound down the mountain, but he dared not walk along it and instead made his way on through the prickly undergrowth. Soon every breath he drew hurt, but he did not stop. Only when the first rays of the sun made their way through the trees, and Basta still hadn't appeared behind him, did he know that he had gotten away.
Now what? he thought as he lay in the damp grass, gasping for breath. Now what? And suddenly he remembered another voice, the voice that had brought him into this world. Silvertongue. Of course. Only Silvertongue could help Farid now, he or his daughter, Meggie. They were living with the bookworm woman these days. Farid had once been there with Dustfinger. It was a long way to go, particularly with the cuts on his feet. But he had to get there before Basta did…
3. DUSTFINGER COMES HOME
"What is this?" said the Leopard, "that is so 'sclusively dark, and yet so full of little pieces of light?"
Rudyard Kipling, Just So Stories
For a moment Dustfinger felt as if he had never been away – as if he had simply had a bad dream, and the memory of it had left a stale taste on his tongue, a shadow on his heart, nothing more. All of a sudden everything was back again: the sounds, so familiar and never forgotten; the scents; the tree trunks dappled in the morning light; the shadow of the leaves on his face. Some were turning color, like the leaves in that other world, so autumn must be coming here, too, but the air was still mild. It smelled of overripe berries, fading blossoms, a thousand or more flowers dazing his senses – flowers pale as wax glimmering under the shade of the trees, blue stars on stems so thin and delicate that he walked carefully so as not to tread on them. Oaks, planes, tulip trees towering to the sky all around him! He had almost forgotten how huge a tree could be, how broad and tall its trunk, with a leaf canopy spreading so wide that a whole troop of horsemen could shelter beneath it. The forests of the other world were so young, their trees still children. They had always made him feel old, so old that the years covered him like cobwebs. Here he was young again, just a child among the trees, not much older than the mushrooms growing among their roots, not much taller than the thistles and nettles.
But where was the boy?
Dustfinger looked around, searching for him, calling his name again and again. "Farid!" It was a name that had become almost as familiar to him as his own over these last few months. But there was no reply. Only his own voice echoing
back from the trees.
So that was it. The boy had been left behind. What would he do now, all alone? Well, thought Dustfinger as he looked around in vain one last time, what do you think? He'll manage better in that world than you ever did. The noise, the speed, the crowds of people, he likes all that. And you've taught him enough of your craft, he can play with fire almost as well as you. Yes, the boy will manage very well. But for a moment the joy of his homecoming wilted in Dustfinger's heart like one of the flowers at his feet, and the morning light that had welcomed him only a moment ago now seemed wan and lifeless. The other world had cheated him again: Yes, it had let him go after all those years, but it had kept the only beings there to whom he had given his heart…
Well, and what does that teach you? he thought, kneeling in the dewy grass. Better keep your heart to yourself, Dustfinger. He picked up a leaf that glowed red as fire on the dark moss. There hadn't been any leaves like that in the other world, had there? So what was the matter with him? Angry with himself, he straightened up again. Listen, Dustfinger, you're back! he told himself firmly. Back! Forget the boy – yes, you've lost him, but you have your own world back instead, a whole world. You're back, can you finally believe it?
If only it wasn't so difficult. It was far easier to believe in unhappiness than in happiness. He would have to touch every flower, feel every tree, crumble the earth in his fingers and feel the first gnat-bite on his skin before he really believed it.
But yes, he was back. He really was back. At last. And suddenly happiness went to his head like a glass of strong wine. Even the thought of Farid couldn't cloud it anymore. His ten-year nightmare was over. How light he felt, light as one of the leaves raining down from the trees like gold!
He was happy.
Remember, Dustfinger? This is what it feels like. Happiness.
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