‘That poor child, did you see her?’ he asked as Dustfinger came over to him. ‘I can’t bear to see them so sick. And the mothers … you’d think they’d weep their eyes away. I remember how Roxane—’ But here he broke off abruptly. ‘Sorry,’ he murmured, putting his hand into the breast of his dirty tunic, ‘I was forgetting she was your child too. Here, this is for you.’ He brought out a note on fine, pure white paper such as Dustfinger had never seen in this world before. ‘A woman gave me this for you. Nettle found her and her husband in the forest, in Capricorn’s old fortress, and took them to the Secret Camp. The man’s wounded, quite badly.’
Hesitantly, Dustfinger unfolded the paper. He recognized the writing at once.
‘She says she knows you. I told her you can’t read, but—’
‘I can read now,’ Dustfinger interrupted him. ‘She taught me.’
How did she come to be here? That was all he could think of as Resa’s words danced before his eyes. The paper was so crumpled that it was difficult to decipher them. Not that reading had ever come easily to him …
‘Yes, she said so too: “I taught him”, she told me.’ Cloud-Dancer looked at him curiously. ‘Where did you get to know the woman?’
‘It’s a long story.’ He put the note in his rucksack. ‘I must be off,’ he said.
‘We’re going back this evening, Nettle and I!’ Cloud-Dancer called after him. ‘Shall I tell the woman anything?’
‘Yes. Tell her I’ll bring her daughter to her.’
Cosimo’s soldiers were still standing in the smiths’ alley, assessing the merits of a sword, something an ordinary man-at-arms could never afford. There was no sign of the Piper. Brightly coloured strips of fabric hung from the windows: Ombra was celebrating the return of its dead prince, but Dustfinger was in no mood to celebrate. The words in his rucksack weighed heavily on him, even if he had to admit that it gave him bitter satisfaction to see that Silvertongue obviously had even less luck in this world than he, Dustfinger, had known in Silvertongue’s. Did he know what it felt like to be in the wrong story now? Or hadn’t he had time to feel anything before Mortola shot him?
People were thronging the street leading up to the castle as if it were market day. Dustfinger looked up at the towers, from which black banners still flew. What did his daughter think of the return of her mistress’s husband? Even if you were to ask Brianna, she wouldn’t tell you, he thought, turning back to the gate. It was time to get out of here before he encountered the Piper again. Or even his master …
Meggie was already waiting with Farid under the empty gallows. The boy whispered something to her, and she laughed. By fire and ashes, thought Dustfinger, see how happy those two look, and you have to be the bearer of bad news yet again! Why is it always you? Simple, he answered himself. Bad news suits your face better than good news.
35
Ink-Medicine
The memory of my father is wrapped up in
White paper, like sandwiches taken for a day of work.
Just as a magician takes towers and rabbits
Out of his hat, he drew love from his small body.
Yehuda Amichai,
‘My Father’,
Isi Bongo 2
Meggie stopped laughing as soon as she saw Dustfinger approaching her. Why was his face so grave? Farid had said he was happy. Was it the sight of her that made him look so grim? Was he angry with her because she had followed him into his story, and her face reminded him of years that he surely wanted to forget? ‘What does he want to talk to me about?’ she had asked Farid.
‘Probably Fenoglio,’ Farid had said. ‘And probably Cosimo too. He wants to know what the old man is planning!’ As if she could have told Dustfinger that …
When he stopped in front of her, there was not a sign on his face of the smile that she had always found so hard to interpret.
‘Hello, Meggie,’ he said. A marten blinked sleepily out of his rucksack, but it wasn’t Gwin. Gwin was sitting on Farid’s shoulders, and hissed as the other marten’s nose showed above Dustfinger’s shoulder.
‘Hello,’ she said awkwardly. ‘How are you?’ It was strange to see him again. She felt both pleased and distrustful.
Behind them, people were flowing ceaselessly towards the city gate: peasants, tradesmen, entertainers, beggars, everyone who had heard of Cosimo’s return. Although there were no telephones or newspapers in this world, and only the rich wrote letters, news travelled fast here.
‘Fine! Yes, I’m really fine!’ Now he was smiling after all, and not in his usual enigmatic way. Farid had told the truth. Dustfinger was happy. It almost seemed to embarrass him. His face looked so much younger, in spite of the scars; but suddenly it turned grave again.
The other marten jumped down on the ground when his master took the rucksack off his shoulders and brought out a piece of paper. ‘I’d meant to talk to you about Cosimo, our Prince who has so surprisingly come back from the dead,’ he said, unfolding the crumpled piece of paper. ‘But I think I’d better show you this first.’
Baffled, Meggie took the note. When she saw the handwriting, she looked at Dustfinger with incredulity. How had he come by a letter from her mother? Here, in this world?
But all he said was: ‘Read it.’ And Meggie read it. The words were like a noose going around her neck, drawing tighter with every word, until she could scarcely breathe.
‘What is it?’ asked Farid uneasily. ‘What does it say?’ He looked at Dustfinger, but Dustfinger did not answer.
As for Meggie, she was staring at Resa’s words. ‘Mortola – Mortola shot Mo?’
Behind them, people were pushing forward to see Cosimo, the brand-new Cosimo, but why should she be interested? Nothing else mattered to her now. There was just one thing she wanted to know.
‘How …’ she said, and looked at Dustfinger in desperation, ‘how come they’re here? And how is Mo? It’s not too bad, is it?’
Dustfinger avoided her eyes. ‘All I know is what it says there,’ he said. ‘Mortola shot your father, Resa is with him in the Secret Camp, and she asked me to look for you. A friend brought me her note. He’s going back to the camp this morning, with Nettle. She—’
‘Nettle? Resa told me about her!’ Meggie interrupted him. ‘She’s a healer, a very good one … she’ll make Mo better, won’t she?’
‘Of course,’ said Dustfinger, but he still didn’t look at her.
Farid’s gaze moved from him to Meggie in confusion. ‘Mortola shot Silvertongue?’ he stammered. ‘Then the root’s for him! But you said it was dangerous!’
Dustfinger cast him a warning glance, and Farid fell silent.
‘Dangerous?’ whispered Meggie. ‘What’s dangerous?’
‘Nothing, nothing at all. I’ll take you to them right away.’ Dustfinger slung the rucksack over his shoulder. ‘Go to Fenoglio and tell him you’ll be away for a few days. Tell him Farid and I will be with you. I don’t suppose the news will relieve his mind very much, but that’s too bad. Don’t say where we’re going, and don’t say why! News travels fast in these hills, and it would be better,’ he added, lowering his voice, ‘if Mortola doesn’t find out that your father is still alive. The camp where he is now is known only to the strolling players, and they’ve all had to swear an oath never to let anyone who isn’t one of us know about the place. But all the same …’
‘… oaths are made to be broken!’ Meggie finished his sentence for him.
‘You said it.’ Dustfinger looked at the city gate. ‘Go now. It won’t be easy to get through that crowd, but hurry all the same. Tell the old man there’s a minstrel woman who lives on that hill, he—’
‘He knows who Roxane is,’ Meggie interrupted.
‘Of course!’ This time Dustfinger’s smile was bitter. ‘I keep forgetting he knows all about me. Right, tell him to let Roxane know I must be away for a few days. And ask him to keep an eye on my daughter. I suppose he knows who she is too?’
Meggie just nodded.
‘Good,’ Dustfinger went on. ‘Then tell the old man something else: if a single one of his accursed words harms Brianna, he’ll rue the day he ever thought up a man who can summon fire.’
‘I’ll tell him!’ Meggie whispered. Then she ran off, pushing and shoving her way through the crowds of people trying to get into the city. Mo, she thought. Mortola shot Mo. And her dream came back to her, her red, red dream.
Fenoglio was standing at the window when Meggie stumbled into his room.
‘Good heavens, what do you think you look like?’ he exclaimed. ‘Didn’t I tell you not to go out while all these people are thronging the streets? But that boy only has to whistle and you go running to him like a well-trained puppy!’
‘Stop that!’ snapped Meggie, so abruptly that Fenoglio actually did fall silent. ‘You have to write something for me. And fast!’
She hauled him over to his desk, where Rosenquartz was quietly snoring away.
‘Write what?’ Confused, Fenoglio dropped into his chair.
‘It’s my father,’ faltered Meggie, taking one of the freshly sharpened quill pens out of the jug with shaking fingers. ‘He’s here, but Mortola’s shot him. He’s very sick! Dustfinger didn’t want to say so, but I could tell from the way he looked, so please write something, anything that will make him well again. He’s in the forest in the strolling players’ secret camp. Please, hurry!’
Fenoglio looked at her in bewilderment. ‘Shot your father? And he’s here? But why? I don’t understand!’
‘You don’t have to understand!’ cried Meggie desperately. ‘You just have to help him. Dustfinger’s going to take me to him. And I’ll read him better, understand? I mean, he’s in your story now, you can even bring back the dead, so why can’t you heal a wound too? Please!’ She dipped the pen in the inkwell and put it into his hand.
‘Heavens, Meggie!’ murmured Fenoglio. ‘This is bad, but … but with the best will in the world I don’t know what to write. I don’t even know where he is. If at least I knew what the place looks like …’
Meggie stared at him. Suddenly the tears she had been holding back all this time were flowing. ‘Please!’ she whispered. ‘Just try! Dustfinger’s waiting. Outside by the gate.’
Fenoglio looked at her, and gently took the pen from her hand.
‘I’ll try, then,’ he said hoarsely. ‘You’re right, this is my story. I couldn’t have helped him in the other world, but perhaps I can here. Go to the window,’ he told her, when she had brought him two sheets of parchment. ‘And look out of it, look at the people in the streets or the birds in the sky, occupy your mind somehow. Just don’t look at me or I won’t be able to write.’
Meggie obeyed. She saw Minerva and her children down in the crowd, and the woman who lived opposite, she watched pigs grunting as they pushed past the people, soldiers with the Laughing Prince’s emblem on their chests – yet she wasn’t really seeing any of it. She just heard Fenoglio dip his pen in the inkwell, heard it scratching over the parchment, pausing, and writing on again. Please, she thought, please let him find the right words. Please. The pen fell silent for a painfully long time, while down in the street a beggar pushed a child aside with his crutch. Time passed slowly, like a shadow spreading. People thronged the streets, one dog barked at another, trumpets sounded from the castle, ringing out above the rooftops.
Meggie couldn’t have said how much time had passed when, with a sigh, Fenoglio put down his pen. Rosenquartz was still snoring, stretched out straight as a ruler behind the sand-box. Fenoglio reached into the box and sprinkled sand over the wet ink.
‘Did you – did you think of something?’ Meggie hesitantly asked.
‘Yes, yes, but don’t ask me if I got it right.’
He handed her the parchment, and her eyes skimmed the words. There weren’t many of them, but if they were indeed the right words, they would be enough.
‘I didn’t make him up, Meggie!’ said Fenoglio in a soft voice. ‘Your father isn’t one of my characters, like Cosimo and Dustfinger and Capricorn. He doesn’t belong here. So don’t hope for too much, will you?’
Meggie nodded as she rolled up the parchment. ‘Dustfinger wants you to keep an eye on his daughter while he’s gone.’
‘His daughter? Dustfinger has a daughter? Did I write that? Oh yes – indeed, weren’t there two of them?’
‘You know one of them anyway. She’s Brianna, Her Ugliness’s maid.’
‘Brianna?’ Fenoglio looked at her in astonishment.
‘Yes.’ Meggie picked up the leather bag that she had brought with her from the other world and went to the door. ‘Look after her. I’m to say that if you don’t, you’ll rue the day you ever thought up someone who can call on fire.’
‘He said that?’ Fenoglio pushed back his chair and laughed. ‘You know something? I like him better and better. I believe I’ll write another story about him, a story where he’s the hero, and he doesn’t—’
‘Die?’ Meggie opened the door. ‘I’ll tell him, but I think he’s had more than enough of being in one of your stories.’
‘But he is in one. He came back into my story of his own free will!’ Fenoglio called after her as she hurried down the steps. ‘We’re all in it, Meggie, up to our necks in it! When are you coming back? I want you to meet Cosimo!’
Meggie did not reply. How was she to know when she’d be coming back?
‘You call that hurrying?’ asked Dustfinger, when she was standing before him again, out of breath and putting Fenoglio’s parchment in her bag. ‘What’s that parchment for? Did the old man give you one of his songs for nourishment along the way?’
‘Something like that,’ replied Meggie.
‘Just so long as my name’s not in it,’ said Dustfinger, turning towards the road.
‘Is it far?’ called Meggie, as she hurried after him and Farid.
‘We’ll be there by evening,’ said Dustfinger, over his shoulder.
36
Screams
I want to see thirst
In the syllables,
Touch fire
In the sound;
Feel through the dark
For the scream.
Pablo Neruda,
‘Word’,
Five Decades
The White Women were still there. Resa didn’t seem to see them any more, but Mo felt their presence like shadows in sunlight. He didn’t tell her about them. She looked so tired. The one thing that still kept her going was her hope that Dustfinger would soon arrive – with Meggie.
‘You wait and see, he’ll find her,’ Resa kept whispering to him when he shook with fever. How could she be so sure? As if Dustfinger had never let them down, never stolen the book, never betrayed them … Meggie. The need to see her once again was even stronger than the enticing whispers of the White Women, stronger than the pain in his breast … and who could say, perhaps this accursed story might yet take a turn for the better? Although Mo remembered Fenoglio’s preference for unhappy endings only too well.
‘Tell me what it looks like outside,’ he sometimes whispered to Resa. ‘It’s ridiculous to be in a whole different world and see nothing of it but a cave.’ And Resa described what he couldn’t see – the trees, so much taller and older than any trees he had ever set eyes on, the fairies like swarms of gnats among the branches, the glass men in the tall bracken, and the nameless terrors of the night. Once she caught a fairy – Dustfinger had told her how to do it – and took it to him. She held the little creature in the hollow of her hands and put it close to his ear, so that he could hear the fairy’s chirping, indignant voice.
It all seemed so real, however often he told himself it was made of nothing but paper and ink. The hard ground where he lay, the dry leaves that rustled when he tossed and turned in his fever, the bear’s hot breath – and the Black Prince, whom he had last seen in the pages of a book. Now the man himself sometimes sat beside him, cooling his brow and talking quietly to Resa. Or was it all just a fevered dream?
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Death felt real in this Inkworld too. Very real. It was strange to encounter death here in a world out of a book. But even if the dying was made only of words – even if, perhaps, it was nothing but a game played by the letters on the page – his body thought it was real. His heart felt fear, his flesh felt pain. And the White Women had not gone away, even if Resa couldn’t see them. Mo felt them near him, every minute, every hour, every day and every night. Fenoglio’s angels of death. Did they make dying easier than it was in the world he came from? No. Nothing could make it easier. You lost what you loved. That was death, here as well as there.
It was light outside when Mo heard the first scream. At first he thought the fever was taking hold of him again. But then he saw from Resa’s face that she could hear it too: the clash of weapons, and screaming. Cries of fear – death cries. Mo tried to sit up, but the pain pounced on him like an animal digging its teeth into his chest. He saw the Black Prince standing outside the cave, his sword drawn; he saw Resa jump up. Fever made her face blur before his eyes, but then Mo suddenly saw another picture: he saw Meggie sitting in Fenoglio’s kitchen staring at the old man in horror as, full of pride, he told her of the fine death scene he had written for Dustfinger. Oh yes, Fenoglio liked sad stories. And perhaps he had just written another.
‘Resa!’ Mo cursed the way his tongue felt, heavy with fever. ‘Resa, go and hide – hide somewhere in the forest.’
But she stayed with him as she always had – except for that one day, the day when his own voice had banished her.
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