Inkheart (30 page)

said Mo hesitantly. "But let me talk to him first."

"In the square here?" Fenoglio's eyes widened. "That's wonderful!" With one stride he was standing in front of the little mirror hanging next to the kitchen door, running his fingers through his black hair almost as if he were afraid Dustfinger might be disappointed by his creator's appearance. "I'll pretend I don't see him until you call me," he said. "Yes, that's the thing to do."

There was a clattering in the cupboard, and Pippo stumbled out in a jacket that came down to his ankles and a hat so large that it had slipped right over his eyes.

"Of course!" Fenoglio took the hat off Pippo's head and put it on his own. "That's it! I'll take the children with me. A grandfather with three grandchildren — nothing about that sight to make anyone uneasy, is there?"

Mo just nodded and pushed Meggie out into the narrow hallway.

As they walked down the street leading back to the square and their car, Fenoglio followed a few meters behind them, with his grandchildren running and jumping around him like three puppies.

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Chapter 26 – Shivers Down The Spine and A Foreboding

And that's when she put her book down. And looked at me. And said it: "Life isn't fair, Bill.

We tell our children that it is, but it's a terrible thing to do. It's not only a lie, it's a cruel
lie. Life is not fair, and it never has been, and it's never going to be."

–
William Goldman,
The Princess Bride

Dustfinger sat on the chilly stone steps, waiting. He felt sick with fear; but he wasn't quite sure of what. Perhaps the war memorial behind him reminded him too much of death. He had always been afraid of death, which he imagined as cold, too, like a night without fire. Now, however, he dreaded something else even more. Its name was sorrow, and it had been stalking him like a second shadow ever since Silvertongue lured him into this world. Sorrow that made his limbs heavy and turned the sky gray.

Beside him, the boy was running up and down the steps.

Up and down, tirelessly, with light feet and a cheerful face, as if Silvertongue had read him straight into paradise. What could be making him so happy? Dustfinger looked around at the narrow houses, pale yellow, pink, peach, the dark green shutters at the windows and the rust-red tiles on the roofs, an oleander flowering in front of a wall as if its branches were on fire, cats stalking past the warm walls. Farid stole up to one of them, stroked its gray fur, and put it on his lap, although it dug its claws into his thighs.

"You know what people do to keep the numbers of cats down around here?" Dustfinger stretched his legs and blinked up at the sun. "When winter comes they take their own cats indoors for safety, then they put out dishes of poisoned food for the strays."

Farid still fondled the gray cat's pointed ears. But his face was rigid and grim, not a trace left of the happiness that had just made it look so soft and open. Dustfinger glanced quickly aside. Why had he said that? Had the happiness on the boy's face upset him so much?

Farid let the cat go and climbed the steps to the memorial.

He was still sitting there on the wall, legs drawn up, when the other two came back. Silvertongue had no book with him, and he looked strained — his guilty conscience was clearly visible on his face.

Why? What could have made Silvertongue look so guilty? Dustfinger glanced suspiciously around without knowing quite what he was looking for. Silvertongue's face always showed his feelings; he was an open book, which any stranger could read. His daughter was different. It wasn't so easy to make out what was going on in her mind. But now, as she came toward him, Dustfinger thought he saw something like concern in her eyes, perhaps even pity. . . . What had that writer fellow said to make the girl look at him like that?

He got up and brushed the dust off his pants.

"No copies left, am I right?" he asked, when the two of them had reached him.

"You're right. They've all been stolen," replied Silver-tongue. "Years ago."

His daughter never took her eyes off Dustfinger.

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"Why are you staring at me like that, princess?" he snapped. "Do you know something I don't ?"

Bull's-eye. An accidental one, too. He hadn't wanted to score a bull's-eye at all, certainly not a direct hit on an uncomfortable truth. The girl bit her lip, still looking at him with that same mixture of pity and concern.

Dustfinger rubbed his hand over his face, feeling his scars on it like a picture postcard saying

"Greetings from Basta." He could never forget Capricorn's rabid dog for a single day even if he wanted to. "To help you please the girls even better in the future!" Basta had hissed in his ear before wiping the blood off his knife.

"Oh, curse it all!" Dustfinger kicked the nearest wall so hard that he felt the pain in his foot for days to come. "You've told that writer about me!" he accused Mo. "And now even your daughter knows more about me than I do! Very well, out with it! I want to know now, too. Tell me. You always wanted to tell me, after all. Basta hangs me, is that it? Strings me up and tightens the noose until I'm dead as a doornail, right? But why should that bother me? Basta's in this world now, isn't he? The story's changed — it must have changed. Basta can't hurt me if you just send me back there where I belong!"

Dustfinger took a step toward Silvertongue as if to grab him, shake him, take out on him all that had been done to himself, but Meggie came between them. "Stop it! It's not Basta!" she cried, pushing him away. "It's one of Capricorn's men, and he's waiting for you in the book. They want to kill Gwin and you try to help him, so they kill you instead! Nothing about that has changed! It will simply happen and there's nothing you can do about it. Do you understand? You
must
stay here, you can't go back, ever!"

Dustfinger stared at the girl as if he could shut her up that way, but she held his gaze. She even tried to take his hand.

"You should be glad to be here!" she faltered as he retreated from her. "You can escape from them here. You can go away, far away, and .. " Her voice quivered. Perhaps she had seen the tears in Dustfinger's eyes. Angrily, he wiped them away with his sleeve and looked around like an animal in a trap, searching for some way out. But there
was
no way out. No going forward and, even worse, no going back.

A trio of women standing at the bus stop glanced curiously in his direction. Dustfinger often attracted such glances; anyone could see he didn't belong here. A stranger forever.

Three children and an old man were playing football with a tin can on the other side of the square. Farid looked at them. The Arab boy had Dustfinger's backpack over his narrow shoulders, and gray cat hairs clung to his pants. He was deep in thought, wriggling his bare toes into the gaps between the paving stones. He was always taking off the sneakers Dustfinger had bought him and going around barefoot, even on hot tarmac, with his shoes tied to the backpack like loot he was taking home.

Silvertongue looked at the playing children, too. Had he given some sign to the old man with them? The old fellow left the children and came over. Dustfinger took a step back. A shiver ran down his spine.

"My grandchildren have been admiring the tame marten that boy has on a chain," said the old man as he approached.

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Dustfinger took another step backward. Why was the dark-haired man looking at him like that?

In quite a different way than the women at the bus stop. "The children say the marten can do tricks and the boy's a fire-eater. Perhaps we could come to the show and watch at close range?"

The cold shiver spread right through Dustfinger, although the sun was shining down on him. The way the old man looked at him — as if he were a dog who had run away long ago and was now back, tail between his legs, perhaps with lice in his coat, but definitely
his,
the old man's dog.

"Nonsense, we don't do tricks!" he managed to say. "There's nothing to see here!" He retreated again, but the old man followed him — as if they were linked by an invisible thread.

"I'm sorry," said the old man, raising a hand as if to touch Dustfinger's scarred face.

Dustfinger's back came up against a parked car. Now the old man was standing right in front of him, and still staring, staring —

"Go away!" Dustfinger pushed him roughly back. "Farid, bring me my things!" The boy hurried to his side. Dustfinger snatched the backpack from his hand, picked up the marten, and stowed him in the pack, taking no notice of the animal's sharp, snapping teeth. The old man stared at Gwin's horns. Fingers flying, Dustfinger slung the pack over his shoulder and tried to push past him.

"Please. I only want to talk to you." The old man barred his way, reaching for his arm.

"Well, I don't want to talk to
you."
Dustfinger tried to free himself from the bony fingers. They were surprisingly strong, but Dustfinger had the knife, Basta's clasp knife. He took it out of his pocket, snapped it open, and held it under the old man's chin. His hand was trembling, he had never enjoyed threatening anyone with a knife, but the old man let go. And Dustfinger ran.

He ignored whatever Silvertongue was calling after him. He just ran for it, as he had often done in the past. He could trust his legs even if he didn't yet know where they were taking him. He left the village and the road behind, dodged under some trees, ran through wild grass, plunged in among the mustard-yellow bramble bushes, let the silvery foliage of the olive trees hide him. . . .

He had to get away from the houses, away from the paved roads. Wild country had always protected him. Only when every breath he drew hurt him did he throw himself down into the long grass behind an abandoned cistern where frogs croaked and the rainwater that had collected among the gray stones steamed in the sun. He lay there gasping, listening to his own heartbeat and staring at the sky.

He jumped. "Who's that?"

The boy stood there. Farid had followed him.

"Go away!" shouted Dustfinger.

The boy crouched down among the wildflowers that grew everywhere — blue and yellow and red splashes of bright color in the grass.

"I don't want you!" snapped Dustfinger.

The boy said nothing, but picked a wild orchid and examined the bloom. It looked like a bumblebee on the tip of a flower stem. "What a strange flower!" he murmured. "I've never seen one like that before."

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Dustfinger sat up and leaned against the side of the cistern. "You'll be sorry if you keep running after me," he said. "I'm going back. You know where to."

Only when he said it did he
realize
that he had made up his mind — long ago. Yes, he was going back. Dustfinger the coward was going back into the lion's den. Never mind what Silvertongue said, nor what his daughter thought — there was only one thing he wanted. He had never wanted anything else. And if he couldn't have it now, then at least he could hope that one day his wish would come true.

The boy stayed sitting there.

"Go away, will you? Go back to Silvertongue! He'll look after you."

Farid sat there unmoved, his arms around his knees. "You're going back to that village?"

"Yes, the village where the devils and demons live. Believe me, they'll kill a boy like you and eat you for breakfast. They'll enjoy their coffee all the more afterward."

Farid stroked his cheeks with the orchid. He made a face as the petals tickled his skin. "Gwin wants to get out," he said.

He was right. The marten was biting the fabric of the backpack and sticking his
muzzle
out of it.

Dustfinger undid the straps and freed him. Gwin blinked up at the sun, chattered crossly, presumably complaining that it was the wrong time of day, and scurried over to the boy. Farid picked him up, put him on his shoulder, and looked earnestly at Dustfinger. "I've never seen flowers like this," he repeated. "Or such green hills or such a clever marten. But I know a lot about the kind of men you mean. They're the same everywhere."

Dustfinger shook his head. "These are particularly bad."

"No, not
particularly."

The defiance in Farid's voice made Dustfinger laugh, he himself didn't know why.

"We could go somewhere else," said the boy.

"No, we couldn't."

"Why not? What are you planning to do in that village?"

"Steal something," said Dustfinger.

The boy nodded, as if stealing were the most natural plan in the world, and carefully put the orchid in his pants pocket. "Will you teach me a little more about fire first? Before we go there."

"Before?" Dustfinger couldn't help smiling. The boy was a clever lad and no doubt he knew there wouldn't be any
after.

"Of
course," he said. "I'll teach you everything I know. Before we go there."

148

Chapter 27 – A Good Place to Stay

I keep six honest serving men (they taught me all I knew); Their names are What and Why
and When and How and Where and Who."

–
Rudyard Kipling,
The Elephant's Child

They
did not set off to join Elinor after Dustfinger had left them. "Meggie, I know I said we would," said Mo as they stood in the square in front of the war memorial, feeling rather at a loss.

"But I'd like to leave the journey until tomorrow. As I told you before, there's something else I have to discuss with Fenoglio." The old man was still standing where he had been when he spoke to Dustfinger, staring down the road. His grandchildren were pulling at him and talking to him, but he didn't seem to notice them.

"What exactly do you want to discuss with him?" Mo sat on the steps in front of the memorial and made Meggie sit down beside him. "Do you see those names?" he asked, pointing up at the chiseled letters listing people no longer alive.

"There's a family behind every name — a mother or father, brothers and sisters, perhaps a wife.

If one of them were to find out that letters can be brought to life, that someone who's only a name now could become flesh and blood again, don't you think he or she would do anything, anything at all, to make it happen?"