by James Bow
Puck pulled the ball away. “You are indeed wise, Sage Rosemary. Your mind is full of many thoughts.”
Rosemary gaped. “Wait —”
But Puck tossed the ball high into the air. It arced over the beach and landed in the sea. It bobbed on the surface for a few seconds before sinking beneath the waves. “We’ve had our fun,” he said, waving them forward, “but now our ride has come. Move along, my children, along!”
Peter and Rosemary saw movement on the black sea. A boat was gliding across the surface, and a shrouded figure was standing on the prow.
The boat pulled up to the jetty and stopped. The figure floated off. Covered from head to toe in a black cloak, he advanced on the party as though he were gliding on air, though they heard the boards creak beneath him over the slap of oily waves. Peter and Rosemary backed into Puck.
The Ferryman stopped. “Who asks for passage across the Sea?” The voice boomed from the dark space under his hood.
Puck nudged Rosemary forward. She swallowed hard and tried her best to curtsy. Her jeans made it feel silly. “I do.”
“And who are you?”
“Rosemary Ella Watson.”
“And who are your companions?”
“Robin Goodfellow, her guide,” said Puck.
There was a moment’s silence, then Puck nudged Peter. He started. “Peter Calvin McAllister.”
“The lady’s champion,” Puck finished.
“What?” squawked Peter.
“And why do you seek to cross?”
Rosemary looked to Puck. He nodded. She turned back to the Ferryman. “To rescue my brother from the Land of Fiction.”
“That is worthy,” said the Ferryman. “You may now pay the fare.”
“The fare?” said Rosemary. “I didn’t bring much money —”
“The fare is not money. You must each submit a verse of your own. If I find the three verses good, then all three may cross. If not, another fare is required.”
“Oh!” said Puck. “I’ll start.”
If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended,
That you have but slumber’d here
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream,
Gentles, do not reprehend:
if you pardon, we will mend:
And, as I am an honest Puck,
If we have unearned luck
Now to ’scape the serpent’s tongue,
We will make amends ere long;
Else the Puck a liar call;
So, good night unto you all.
Give me your hands, if we be friends,
And Robin shall restore amends.
“Hey!” said Peter. “You didn’t make that up — William Shakespeare did!”
Puck smiled. “Yes, but those few words first did come from my lips.”
The Ferryman bowed. “I accept your verse. Who goes next?”
“I guess I will,” said Peter. He took a deep breath.
There once was a bright boy from Clarksbury
w-who was confronted with much sound and fury ...
He did his best ...
To keep up with the ... rest?
Cause he wanted to go home in a hurry.
The Ferryman considered for a moment, then said, “I accept your verse. And now you, girl.”
Rosemary stood, wide-eyed. She opened her mouth, but no words came.
“Rosemary?” said Peter.
She shot him a look of desperation.
Peter stepped towards the Ferryman. “I can do another one.”
“No!” The Ferryman pushed Peter back. “It has to come from her.”
Rosemary swallowed hard. “One proton, two proton, three proton, four ... hydrogen, helium, lithium ... more?”
The Ferryman looked at her with thundering silence.
Rosemary drooped. Then she looked up. “You said there was another fare?”
“Failing the first fare, instead of three tasks between you, you now have six.”
Rosemary went white. “Six poems?”
“No. You must show me that you believe in six impossible things before you may cross.”
“Like Alice in Wonderland,” Peter muttered.
“The White Queen, actually,” said Puck. “I’ll start. I live within a house the size of a thimble, and I believe that all that I say is a lie.”
“Hey!” said Peter. “If everything you say is a lie, then how —”
“Shh,” said Puck. “Your turn.”
Before Peter could say anything, Rosemary jumped in. “Well, I’m standing right here, and that’s impossible.”
“Go ahead, take the easy one!” Peter looked as if smoke was going to rise from his head. He turned away and gnawed a knuckle before snapping his fingers.
“Bumblebees!”
“What?” said Rosemary.
“They say it’s impossible for bumblebees to fly, but they do!”
“That’s because they flap their wings,” huffed Rosemary. “If they didn’t, they’d drop like stones.”
The Ferryman’s voice cut between them. “Two more.”
They stood in silence, looking around for inspiration. Peter stuffed his hands in his pockets, digging a toe in the paper-coloured sand. The waves slapped the shore. Suddenly he blurted out, “I ... I believe my parents are alive. I wake up and I think that they’re downstairs making breakfast and then I ... is that okay?”
“And you?” The Ferryman turned towards Rosemary.
Rosemary had been staring at Peter; she jerked up at the Ferryman’s voice. Everyone stood still and silent. Finally a small smile dawned on her face. She took a deep breath. “I believe I can save Theo.”
The Ferryman put forth a long hand to the boat. “Board.”
They clambered aboard. Peter and Rosemary jammed themselves into a narrow bench while Puck lounged on the remaining seat. The Ferryman stood at the prow. Without oars or sails, the boat glided forward into the sea. As Rosemary glanced at the grey-on-black horizon, Peter nudged her. “Um, the fare ... isn’t saving Theo the reason we’re here?”
She looked at him. “So?”
“So? Well, if you believe it and it’s impossible ... aren’t we in trouble? Or isn’t it impossible?”
“Do you want off this boat?” asked Rosemary.
“Just asking!”
Rosemary turned away. She dipped her hand in the water and wrinkled her nose at the faint chemical smell, like permanent markers. “Why is this water so dark?”
“Water it is not, Rosemary,” said Puck. “This is the Sea of Ink.”
She pulled her arm out. It was black to her elbow. “This is ink?”
“Indelible ink, I fear.”
She tried to wipe her arm clean on her jeans, but only smeared them. “Great,” she muttered. “Just great.”
“The Sea of Ink surrounds the Land of Fiction,” said Puck. “It would be wise to keep your hands within the boat. You too, Peter.”
He pointed to a wave on the sea. Then Rosemary saw that it wasn’t a wave, but the silhouette of a girl, a few years younger than she was, rising out of the water. Her black mouth was open, taking in a great gulp of air before she sank back beneath the waves.
“A character is born,” said Puck.
Rosemary shuddered.
Something bumped the boat. Peter and Rosemary looked over the side and saw the dorsal fin of a great black shark sink below the surface. Peter pulled his arm away from the edge. “Can they capsize the boat?”
“No, I think not,” said Puck. “The Ferryman has crossed this sea since I was put to paper. Few of his fares have been lost.”
“Few?” squeaked Peter.
“The sea is getting thick with characters,” said Rosemary.
Other shapes bobbed on the waves. The silhouette of a man in a bowler hat and a suit, carrying a long, black umbrella, walked upright on a swell. He tipped his hat to a teenag
e girl who cartwheeled past, half submerged. Nearby, a warrior held his black sword high as he sank beneath the surface.
“All the characters in fiction come from here?” asked Rosemary.
“Most,” said Puck. “Legendary characters are uncertain of birth, but King Arthur rises every fortnight.”
Peter pointed ahead. “I see the other jetty.”
The boat coasted up to the jetty and stopped with a crunch against the shore. The beach of white sand stretched ahead for several feet before becoming darker and stonier. Trees rose up further inland, and a forest stretched into the distance.
Puck leapt lightly out and helped Rosemary and Peter step onto the jetty. Then he crossed his arms and bowed low to the Ferryman. He gave Peter and Rosemary a glance, and they mimicked the gesture. The Ferryman bowed in return.
Rosemary started up the beach, with Peter close behind, but Puck stopped them and turned them back to the sea.
“Look,” he said. “New characters begin their stories.”
Black shapes surfaced from the ink and crawled onto the shore. There, the ink dried on them, changing colour, and they got to their feet as princes and princesses, dwarfs and elves, orphans and detectives, monsters and villains. From the shore, they walked in straight lines to their destinies.
Peter and Rosemary stared after them, awed.
“Come,” said Puck, nudging them forward. “Let us begin our own story.” And they crossed the beach and slipped in among the trees.
CHAPTER FIVE
INTO THE WOODS
“What did she ever do to you?”
— Theo Watson
Five steps into the trees, Rosemary froze. Peter bumped into her. They looked up and around at the dense canopy and the little slivers of sky. Already they couldn’t see the beach that had been behind them. The scenery had changed as completely as if somebody had turned a page.
Puck bounded ahead of them, not bothered by the dense forest. Peter started after, but Rosemary pulled him to a stop. “Wait! Where are we going? What do we do?”
Puck stopped and came back, hunching down to Rosemary’s height, his hands on his knees. “The Land of Fiction is a patchwork of stories,” he said, “each with its own setting and its own challenge to face. We proceed through them until we find and rescue Theo.”
“But where is Theo?” asked Rosemary.
“That’s easy,” said Peter. “If he’s a prisoner in a storybook, then he is in a dungeon, right? How many dungeons are there in the Land of Fiction?”
“Four hundred and sixty-two thousand, five hundred and ninety-three,” said Puck.
Peter’s face fell.
“But we will not find Theo in a dungeon,” said Puck. “Find one and you will find them all; it is too insecure. No, to find Theo, we must proceed to the centre of the island.” He waved them forward.
Rosemary didn’t move. “Why the centre of the island?”
“Because it is the highest point of land,” said Puck. “It is a goal to strive for. Once we reach the peak, we will come to the climax of our story, and you will find Theo.”
“That’s kind of stupid,” said Peter.
“Tsk, tsk! Trust your native guide!” Puck beckoned Peter and Rosemary forward.
Peter and Rosemary glanced at each other, and then stopped in their tracks. They stared at each other, then at themselves.
Their clothes had changed. Instead of jeans and a winter coat, Peter was wearing a medieval tunic and stockings, leather shoes, and a leather cap with a feather sticking out of it. Slung over his shoulder was a longbow.
Rosemary was in a pink and white dress that stretched to her ankles. There was something on her head. She tried to yank it off. “Ow!”
After pulling off the pins, she disentangled a cone-shaped storybook princess hat. “I look like a fairy godmother! A short fairy godmother!”
Puck sighed and stepped back.
“Why did our clothes change?” asked Peter.
“To make you more suitable to the setting,” said Puck.
Rosemary cast aside her cone hat. She poked her foot out from beneath the hem of her dress and peered at her cloth slippers. “How am I going to get through the forest in this?”
“How come —” Peter’s eyes went wide. “Oh, no — we’re part of a story, aren’t we?”
Rosemary looked up. “Peter?”
He shivered. “Think about it: a storybook forest? Bad things happen in storybook forests! We could run into lions or tigers or bears —”
“Lions live in grasslands,” said Rosemary.
“I’m talking storybook forests!” Peter rounded on Puck. “What’s here? Goblins? Trolls? Evil trees?”
Puck shrugged. “That, my friend, I cannot say. We must go on and find the way.” He linked their hands together. Peter and Rosemary looked at each other and let go. They grabbed hold again when Puck took Rosemary’s other hand and pulled her into the forest.
Puck soon let go of their hands and darted ahead of them, prancing and leaping over fallen logs, looping back to them to make sure they weren’t left behind.
“I had a dog like this,” muttered Peter, his arms folded and his shoulders hunched. “Maybe we could throw him a stick.”
“I don’t see why you’re so worried,” said Rosemary. “Look at Puck. He seems at home here.”
Puck turned around and paced them, walking backwards. “That is because this is my home!” He swung his arms wide. “And I am always happy to return to it! I am the forest and the forest is me. Remove me and a part is lost. Return me and I am whole!”
He cartwheeled backwards, landing on his feet. “Dance with me, Rosemary!” He held out his hand. “Feel the joy of the forest!”
Rosemary hung back, but Puck caught her hand. She sailed into the dance with a cry. Then, as Puck swung her around, she began to laugh and shriek with delight.
Puck twirled her, and Rosemary, laughing, swung down the path towards Peter. She reached out her hand to draw him into the dance, but he ducked back. She stopped and looked at him sourly. “Why not?”
He laughed. “I — I’m not the dancing type.”
“You should be,” said Puck. “You seem most nimble and well-made. Doesn’t he, Rosemary?”
“I — I just think we should be more careful,” stammered Peter.
“How can you be afraid of this place?” said Rosemary. “With Puck so happy, what could possibly go wr—”
Puck tackled her, clamping a hand over her mouth.
Rosemary struggled free. “What?”
“You tempted fate,” said Puck, his smile gone. “Never do that in the Land of Fiction.”
“But this is your home!”
“Sage Rosemary, look me in the eye. I am the forest and the forest is me. Would you trust me every moment of the day and night?”
Rosemary looked at Puck. His eyes were bright as new leaves and deep as wells. They sparkled with energy and Rosemary was bathed in Puck’s compassion for her. But she also sensed a wildness in that gaze that could overwhelm her.
She turned away, shivering. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking!”
“My fault. You caught my happiness. You could not see my caution.”
Peter cut them off. “I hear something.”
A low and steady drumbeat rose at the edge of hearing and grew louder.
Peter, Puck, and Rosemary dove for cover in the bushes. From there they watched the path and listened.
The drumbeat grew louder, and as it did, other music, whistles and trumpets, entered the range of hearing. Then they heard the sounds of marching feet, and they could see shapes moving along the path.
As the figures came closer, Peter and Rosemary realized that the shapes weren’t human, they were ... shapes. And they were singing.
Two, four, six, eight,
Find the greatest numerate!
Three, six, nine, twelve,
Through the forest we will delve!
Four, eight, twelve, sixteen
To catch the largest number seen!
Five, ten, fifteen, twenty
For our hunt to feed us plenty!
Spheres, cubes, and pyramids, each barely two feet tall, were marching along the forest floor on legs as thin as pencils. Their hands were human, but barely an inch across. Their arms were as thin as their legs. They wore white sailor hats, white gloves, and galoshes and carried fountain pens for spears.
Rosemary frowned. She stood up.
“Rosemary!” Peter gasped. “What are you doing?”
She stepped through the bushes and onto the path. Peter moved to stop her, but Puck held him back. “She is following her instinct. My instinct says to let her.”
The troop of shapes stopped in their tracks. They looked at Rosemary in shock.
One of the shapes, a gold sphere with two white eyes, a slit mouth, and no nose, stepped forward. It peered at Rosemary. “Princess Rosemary!” it squealed in a little-girl voice. It jumped up and down. “You’re back! You’re back! It’s been one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight years since you last read us!” The creature jumped into Rosemary’s arms and looked her over. “You’ve grown!”
Rosemary lifted the little sphere in shocked delight. “Una? I remember you!” She looked around at the crowd. “I remember all of you! You’re the Number Crunchers!”
A cheer went up among the crowd. “She remembers us! She remembers us!”
“I read you when I was like four!”
“And eight years have passed,” said Una. “That makes you twelve, because four plus eight is twelve!”
“Yes, I know that.” Rosemary hesitated, blushing. “I can divide and multiply.”
“Ooo!” said the crowd.
Peter and Puck glanced at each other, shrugged, and stepped out of the bushes.
The Number Crunchers gasped and started to edge away.
“It’s okay,” said Rosemary. “These are my friends.” She looked at Peter. “Why are you snickering?”
“So, this was what you were reading when you were four?” said Peter.
Another shape darted forward, two blue pyramids balanced tip to tip. It hopped into Peter’s arms. “Peter the Valiant of the Merry Men! It’s been one-two-three-four-five-six years since you last read us!”
