50. LAZY OLD MAN
One day God felt he ought to give his workshop a spring-clean… It was amazing what ragged bits and pieces came out from under his workbench as he swept. Beginnings of creatures, bits that looked useful but had seemed wrong, ideas that he'd mislaid and forgotten… There was even a tiny lump of sun. He scratched his head. What could be done with all this rubbish?
Ted Hughes, "Leftovers," from The Dreamfighter
Here she came again! Elinor Loredan! The name sounded almost as if he'd thought her up himself. Cursing, Fenoglio pulled the blanket over his face. Wasn't it bad enough that she was a know-it-all, a bluestocking, and stubborn as a mule? Did she have to be an early riser, too? He supposed day was just beginning to dawn outside.
"Hm, that doesn't look particularly inspired!" Her eyes had gone straight to the blank sheet of paper lying beside him. How horribly bright and cheerful she sounded. "Don't they say the Muses' kisses are sweetest early in the morning? I think I read that somewhere."
Huh. As if she knew anything about kissing – and hadn't he earned his sleep, when there wasn't a decent drop of wine to be had in this wretched cave? Hadn't he just saved the Black Prince's life? Very well, the Prince's legs were still rather weak, and he wasn't eating much, as Minerva kept saying with concern. But then, all those children had to be fed, not an easy task at this time of year, and the little ones were hungry the whole time – when they weren't asking him or Darius for a story, Farid for some tricks with fire, or Meggie for a few songs about the Bluejay. She sang them better than Battista by now.
Perhaps that's something I ought to do, thought Fenoglio, ostentatiously turning his back on Signora Loredan. Write some more game here for us to hunt – something easily brought down, with plenty of meat on it and a good flavor.
"Fenoglio!" She'd actually pulled the blanket off him! This was incredible!
Rosenquartz put his head out of the pocket where he had taken to sleeping and rubbed his eyes.
"Good morning, Rosenquartz. Get some paper out and sharpen the pens."
That tone of voice! Just like a hospital nurse! Fenoglio sat up with a groan. He really was too old to be sleeping on the floor of a damp cave! "That's my glass man, and he does what I tell him to do!" he grunted, but before he knew it Rosenquartz was scurrying past him with a syrupy-sweet smile on his pale pink lips.
What by all the ink-devils was he playing at? The glass-headed traitor! How eagerly he did as she told him, whereas if he, Fenoglio, asked Rosenquartz for something, it didn't arrive half so quickly.
"Wonderful!" whispered Signora Loredan. "Thank you, Rosenquartz."
Elinor. It's not the name I'd have given her, thought Fenoglio as he forced his feet into his boots, shivering. Something more warlike would fit her much better… Penthesilea or Boadicea or some such Amazon… Heavens, it was cold in this cave, too! Can't you change the weather somehow, Fenoglio? Could he?
As he blew on his cold hands, his uninvited visitor held out a steaming mug to him. "Here you are. Doesn't taste particularly good, but it's hot. Coffee made from tree bark – you know, Rosenquartz really is a delightful glass man!" she whispered to him in a confidential tone. "Jasper is very nice, too, but so shy. And then there's that pink hair!"
Flattered, Rosenquartz ran his fingers over it. Glass men's ears were certainly as keen as any owl's, which was why – even with their fragile limbs – they made such good spies. Fenoglio could cheerfully have stuffed the vain little creature into his empty wineskin.
He took a sip of the hot brew – it really did taste nasty – got to his feet, and dipped his face in the basin of water that Minerva always left ready for him in the evening. Did he just imagine it, or was there a thin layer of ice on the surface?
"You really don't understand the first thing about writing, Loredan!" he growled. That was it, Loredan! That's what he'd call her in future. It suited her much better than the flowery "Elinor." "For one thing, early in the morning is the worst possible time. The brain is like a wet sponge at that hour. And for another, real writing is a question of staring into space and waiting for the right ideas."
"Well, you certainly are very good at staring into space!" Oh, what a sharp tongue she had. "Next you'll be telling me that tipping brandy and mead down your throat encourages the flow of ideas, too."
Had Rosenquartz just nodded in agreement? He'd chase him out into the forest, where his wild cousins would teach him to eat snails and beetles.
"Well, then, Loredan, I'm sure you've known all along how this story ought to turn out! Let me guess: I suppose a frozen sparrow told you the ending yesterday when you were sitting outside the cave, gazing at my forest and my fairies, totally beguiled by them!" Damn it, another tear in his trousers. And Battista had hardly any yarn left for mending clothes.
"Inkweaver?" Despina came around the wall that allowed him, for a few precious moments, to forget where he was. "Do you want any breakfast?"
Dear, kind Minerva. She still looked after him as if they were back in her house in Ombra. Fenoglio sighed. The good old days…
"No, thank you, Despina," he replied, looking sideways at his other visitor. "Tell your mother that unfortunately someone ruined my appetite first thing today."
Despina and Elinor exchanged a glance that could only be called conspiratorial. Good heavens, were even Minerva's children on Loredan's side now?
"Resa has been gone for two days, not to mention Snapper, but what was the good of leaving you the book if you're just going to sleep the day away or drink bad wine with Battista?"
Dear God, how delightful this world had been when he hadn't had that voice ringing in his ears the whole time!
"You owe it to Mortimer to give him a few words to help him. Who else is going to do it? The Black Prince is too weak, and Mortimer's poor daughter is just waiting for you to give her something to read aloud at long last. But oh no, no. It's too cold, the wine is bad, the children make too much noise, how's anyone supposed to write? You don't run out of words when it comes to complaining!"
There! Rosenquartz was nodding again! I'll mix soup in his sand, thought Fenoglio, so much soup that he writhes with stomach cramps like the Black Prince – and I won't write a single word to cure him!
"Fenoglio, are you listening to me?" She was looking at him as reproachfully as a teacher asking where his homework was!
The book, yes. Resa had left it here for him. So what use was that supposed to be? It just reminded him how easy he had once found storytelling, before he put every word down on paper knowing that it could become reality.
"It can't be all that difficult! Mortimer has done almost all the work for you in advance! He's going to pretend to the Adderhead that he can heal the Book, then Violante will distract her father's attention, and Mortimer will write the three words in it. Maybe afterward there'll be a duel with the Piper – that kind of thing always reads well – I suppose the Fire-Dancer will put on a show, too, although personally I still don't like him – and yes, you could have Resa playing a part as well. She could keep that horrible Snapper occupied, I don't know just how, but I'm sure you'll think of something…"
"Be quiet!" thundered Fenoglio in such a loud voice that Rosenquartz, terrified, took refuge behind the inkwell. "What outrageous nonsense! That's just typical. Readers and their ideas! Yes, Mortimer's plan sounds really good. Plain and simple, but good. He overcomes the Adderhead with Violante's help, writes the three words, Adderhead dead, Bluejay saved, Violante ruler of Ombra – oh yes, it sounds wonderful. I tried writing it like that last night. It doesn't work! Dead words! This story doesn't like taking an easy path. It has other ideas, I can smell that in the air.
But what are they? I brought the Piper into it, I gave Dustfinger his fair share of the action, but then – something or other was missing. Someone or other was missing! Someone who's going to thwart Mortimer's fine plan with a vengeance. Snapper? No, he's too stupid. But who? Sootbird?"
She was looking at him so anxiously. Well,
well. At last she understood. But the next moment she was as defiant as ever. It was a wonder she didn't stamp her foot like a child. She was a child, disguised as a rather stout middle-aged woman.
"But that's all nonsense! You're the author. You, and no one else."
"Oh yes? So why is Cosimo dead, then? Did I write about Mortimer binding the Book in a way that would leave the Adderhead rotting alive? No, Was it my idea to make Snapper jealous of him, and Her Ugliness suddenly want to kill her father? Definitely not. I just planted this story, but it's growing the way it wants to, and everyone expects me to know in advance what kind of flowers it will have!"
Good God, that incredulous look. As if he'd been talking about Santa Claus. But finally she thrust out her chin (it was quite an imposing chin), and that never boded well.
"Excuses! Nothing but excuses! You can't think of anything, and Resa's on the way to that castle. Suppose the Adderhead gets there long before she does? Suppose he doesn't trust his daughter, and Mortimer is dead before -"
"And suppose Mortola is back, as Resa says?" Fenoglio brusquely interrupted her. "Suppose Snapper kills Mortimer because he's jealous of the Bluejay? Suppose Violante hands Mortimer over to her father after all, because she can't bear to be rejected by yet another man? What about the Piper, what about Violante's spoiled son, what about all that?" His voice grew so loud that Rosenquartz hid under his blanket.
"Stop shouting." Suddenly, Signora Loredan sounded unusually subdued. "Poor Rosenquartz's head will be splitting."
"No, it won't, because his head is as empty as a sucked-out snail's shell. Mine, on the other hand, has to think about difficult problems, matters of life and death – but it's my glass man that gets your sympathy, and you drag me out of bed after I've been lying awake half the night straining my ears trying to get this story to tell me where it wants to go!"
She fell silent. She actually fell silent. She bit her surprisingly feminine lower lip and plucked a few burrs off the dress that Minerva had given her, lost in thought. That dress was always picking up dead leaves, burrs, and rabbit droppings – and no wonder, the way she kept wandering around the forest. Elinor Loredan certainly loved his world, though of course she would never admit it – and she understood it almost as well as he did.
"How… how would it be if you could at least gain us a little time?" She still sounded far less sure of herself than usual. "Time to think, time to write! Time that might really give Resa a chance to warn Mortimer of Snapper and that magpie. Perhaps a wheel could come off the Adderhead's coach. He travels by coach, doesn't he?"
Well, yes. Not such a stupid idea. Why hadn't he thought of it himself?
"I can try," he growled.
"Oh, wonderful." She smiled with relief – and was immediately more self-confident again. "I'll ask Minerva to make you some nicer tea," she added, looking back over her shoulder.
"Tea is better for thinking than wine, I'm sure. And don't be cross with Rosenquartz."
The glass man smiled at her in a nauseating way, and Fenoglio gave him a slight nudge with his foot that sent him over on his back.
"Stir the ink, you slimy-tongued traitor!" he said as Rosenquartz scrambled to his feet, looking offended.
Minerva really did bring him some tea. It even had a little lemon in it, and outside the cave the children were laughing as if everything in the world was all right. Well, make it all right, Fenoglio, he told himself. Loredan has a point. You're still the author of this story. The Adderhead is on his way to the Castle in the Lake, where Mortimer is waiting. The Bluejay is preparing for his finest song. Write it for him! Write Mortimer's part to its end. He's playing it with as much conviction as if he'd been born with the name you gave him. The words are obeying you again. You have the book. Orpheus is forgotten. This is still your story, so give it a good ending!
Yes. He'd do it. And Signora Loredan would finally be left speechless and show him the respect she owed him. But first he had to delay the Adderhead (and forget that had been Elinor's idea in the first place).
Outside the children were shouting noisily. Rosenquartz was whispering to Jasper, who was sitting among the freshly sharpened pens and watching him, wide-eyed. Minerva brought some soup, and Elinor peeped over the wall as if he couldn't see her there. But soon Fenoglio was beyond noticing any of that. The words were carrying him away as they had in the past, letting him ride on their inky backs, leaving him blind and deaf to his surroundings, until he heard only the crunch of coach wheels on frozen ground and the sound of black-painted wood splitting. Soon both glass men were dipping pens in the ink for him, the words came so fast. Splendid words. Words worthy of Fenoglio. He'd quite forgotten how the letters on the page could intoxicate you. No wine could compete with them…
"Inkweaver!"
Fenoglio raised his head, irritated. He was already deep in the mountains, on his way to the Castle in the Lake, aware of the Adderhead's bloated flesh as if it were his own.
Battista stood there, concern in his face, and the mountains vanished. Fenoglio was back in the cave, surrounded by robbers and hungry children. What was the matter? The Black Prince hadn't taken a turn for the worse again, had he?
"Doria is back from one of his scouting expeditions. The boy's dead on his feet; he must have been running half the night. He says the Milksop is on his way here, and he knows about the cave. No one has any idea who told him." Battista rubbed his pockmarked cheeks. "They have hounds with them. Doria says they'll be here this evening. That means we must leave."
"Leave? And go where?"
Where could they take all the children, many of them half crazed with homesickness by now? Fenoglio saw from Battista's face that the robber had no answer to that question, either.
Well, so now what would clever Signora Loredan say? How was anyone supposed to write in these circumstances? "Tell the Prince I'll be with him right away."
Battista nodded. As he turned, Despina pushed past him. Her little face was anxious. Children know at once when something's wrong. They are used to having to guess what grown-ups don't tell them.
"Come here!" Fenoglio beckoned her over, while Rosenquartz fanned the words he had just written, with a maple leaf. Fenoglio sat Despina on his lap and stroked her fair hair. Children… lie forgave his villains so much, but since the Piper had started hunting children down, there was only one ending he wanted to write to the man's story, and it was a bloody one. If only he'd already written it! But it would have to wait now, like the song of the Bluejay. Where could they take the children? Think, Fenoglio, think!
He desperately rubbed his lined brow. Heavens, no wonder thinking dug such deep furrows in your face.
"Rosenquartz!" he told the glass man sharply. "Find Meggie. Tell her she must read what I've written, even though it isn't quite finished. It'll have to do."
The glass man scurried off so fast that he knocked over the wine Battista had brought, and the covers of Fenoglio's bed were stained as if soaked in blood. The book! He snatched it out from under the damp fabric in concern. Inkheart. He still liked that title. What would happen if these pages were moistened? Would his whole world begin to rot? But the paper was dry, only one corner of the binding was slightly damp. Fenoglio rubbed it with his sleeve.
"What's that?" Despina took the book from him. Of course – where would she ever have seen a book before? She hadn't grown up in a castle or a rich merchant's house.
"This is a thing that has stories in it," said Fenoglio.
He heard Elfbane calling the children together, the alarmed voices of the women, the first sounds of weeping. Despina listened anxiously, too, but then she stared at the book again.
"Stories?" She leafed through the pages as if expecting the words to fall out. "What stories? Have you told them to us already?"
"Not this one." Fenoglio gently took the book from her hands and stared at the page where she had opened it. His own words looked back at him, written so long ago that they sounded like someone else's work…
&nbs
p; "What kind of a story is it? Will you tell it to me?"
He stared at his old words, written by a different Fenoglio, a Fenoglio whose heart had been so much younger, so much lighter – and not so vain, no doubt Signora Loredan would add.
Great marvels lay north of Ombra. Hardly any of its inhabitants had ever set eyes on those wonders, but the songs of the strolling players told tales about them and when the peasants wanted to escape their toil in the fields for a few precious moments they would imagine themselves standing on the banks of the lake, which, so it was said, the giants used as their mirror. They would picture the nymphs thought to live in it rising from the water and taking them away to castles made of pearls and mother-of-pearl. As the sweat ran down their faces they would sing softly, songs that told of snow-white mountains and of the nests human beings had built in a mighty tree when the giants had begun stealing their children.
Nests… a mighty tree… stealing their children. Good heavens, that was it!
Fenoglio picked up Jasper and put him on Despina's shoulder. "Jasper will take you back to your mother," he said, and strode away past her. "I must go to the Prince."
Signora Loredan is right, he thought as he made his way swiftly through the crowd of excited children, weeping mothers, and robbers standing around helplessly. You're a foolish old man. Your befuddled brain doesn't even remember your own stories anymore! Orpheus may well know more about your own world than you do by now.
But his vain self, lurking somewhere between his forehead and his breastbone, answered back at once. How are you supposed to remember them all, Fenoglio? There are just too many of them. Your imagination is inexhaustible.
Yes. Yes, he was indeed a vain old man. He admitted it. But he had very good reasons for his vanity.
51. THE WRONG HELPERS
Inkdeath ti-3 Page 41
