Inkheart (44 page)

Meggie hid the note in the sleeve of her dress. Gwin was still sitting on the windowsill. Sleepily, he stretched his neck and sniffed at the wall outside. Perhaps he could smell the pigeons who sometimes settled outside the window. "Feed him some bread so he won't run away!" Meggie whispered to Fenoglio, and then went over to the bed and got down her backpack. Where was that pencil? She was sure she had a pencil. Yes, there it was, although it was only a small stump.

Now, what about paper? She took one of Darius's books out from under the mattress and carefully tore out one of the endpapers. She had never done such a thing before — imagine tearing a page out of a book! — but now she had to. Kneeling on the floor, she began to write in the same curly script that Mo had used for his message. She knew the letters by heart:
We're all
right and I can do it, too, Mo! I read Tinker Bell out of her book, and when it gets dark tomorrow
Capricorn wants me to bring the Shadow out of
Inkheart to
come and kill Dustfinger.
She didn't mention Resa. Not a word to show that she thought she had seen her mother, and if Capricorn had his way that she, too, had only two days to live. A message like that wouldn't fit on a piece of paper no matter how large it was.

Gwin was greedily nibbling the bread Fenoglio had given him. Meggie folded up the endpaper and tied it to his collar. "Take care!" she whispered to Gwin, and then threw the rest of the bread down into Capricorn's yard. The marten scurried down the wall of the house as if it were the easiest thing in the world. One of the maids screamed as he scampered between her legs and called out to the others. She was probably alarmed for Capricorn's chickens, but Gwin had already disappeared over the wall.

"Good. Excellent. So your father's here," Fenoglio whispered to Meggie, standing beside her by the open window. "Somewhere out there. Very good indeed. And you'll get the tin soldier back.

Who was it who said that
all's for the best in this best of all possible worlds?"
He rubbed the tip of his nose and blinked out at the dazzling sunlight. "So the next thing to do," he murmured, "is to play on Basta's superstitions. What a good thing I gave him that little weakness. It was a clever move."

Meggie had no idea what he was talking about, but that didn't matter to her. She had only one thought in her head: Mo was here.

216

Chapter 43 – A Dark Place

"Jim, old boy," said Lukas — in a rough voice. "That was a short journey, I'm sorry that
you must share my fate now."

Jim swallowed.

"We're friends," he said quietly, biting his lower lip to keep it from trembling so hard. The
scribes chuckled again, and the bonzes nodded at each other, grinning.

"Jim Button," said Lukas, "you really are the best little fellow I ever met in all my life."

"Take them to the place of execution!" commanded the Head Bonze, and the soldiers
seized Lukas and Jim to drag them away.

–
Michael Ende, Jim Button
and Luke the Engine Driver

Dustfinger had expected Capricorn to leave him and Resa in those dreadful nets until their execution, but they spent only a single if very long night there. In the morning, as soon as the sun cast its bright light on the red walls inside the church, Basta had them brought down. For a few horrible moments Dustfinger thought Capricorn had decided instead to put an end to them in some quick and inconspicuous way, and when he felt solid ground under his feet again he didn't know which made him weaker at the knees — that fear or his night in the net. Whichever it was, he could hardly stand upright.

Basta put his mind to rest for the time being, although that was certainly not his intention.

"Personally, I'd have liked to leave you dangling up there a while longer," he said as his men dragged Dustfinger out of the net. "But for some reason or other Capricorn's decided to lock the two of you in the crypt for what's left of your miserable lives."

Dustfinger did his best to hide his relief. So death was still a little way off. "I expect it bothers Capricorn to have an audience when he's discussing his filthy plans with the rest of you," he said.

"Or perhaps he just wants us to be able to walk to our execution on our own two legs." One more night in that net and Dustfinger wouldn't even have known he still
had
legs. His bones ached so much after that first night that he was moving like an old man as Basta took him and Resa down to the crypt. Resa stumbled once or twice on the stairs and seemed to be feeling even worse than he was, but she made not a sound, and when Basta took her arm after she had slipped on one step she shook herself free, giving him such an icy look that he let her go on by herself.

The crypt below the church was a damp, cold place even on days like this, when the sun was practically melting the tiles on the houses outside. It smelled of mold and mouse droppings and other things Dustfinger didn't want to think about. Soon after arriving in the deserted village Capricorn had had gratings fitted over the narrow niches where long-dead priests slept in their stone tombs. "What could be more fitting than to make the condemned sleep on coffins?" he had said at the time, with a laugh. He had always had his own peculiar sense of humor.

Impatiently, Basta pushed them down the last few steps. He was in a hurry to get back to the light of day, away from the dead and their ghosts. His hand shook as he hung his lantern on a hook and opened the grating over the first cell. There was no electric light down here, no heating either, or any other comforts, only the quiet tombs and the mice scurrying over the cracked flagstones of the floor.

"Oh, aren't you going to give us the pleasure of your company a little longer?" asked Dustfinger as Basta pushed them into the cell. They had to duck. They couldn't stand upright under the old vaults here. "We could tell ghost stories. I know some nice new ones."

217

Basta growled like a dog. "We won't be needing any coffin for you, Dirtyfingers!" he said as he closed the grating again.

"No, indeed! An urn perhaps, a jam jar, but no coffin." Dustfinger took a step back from the bars so as to be out of reach of Basta's knife. "I see you have a new amulet," he called. Basta had almost reached the steps. "Another rabbit's foot, is it? Didn't I tell you they attract White Ladies?

You could see the White Ladies in our old world. You don't see them here, which isn't very practical, but of course they're still around with their whispering and their icy fingers."

Basta was standing at the foot of the steps with his fists clenched, his back still turned.

Dustfinger was always surprised to find how easily you could scare the man with a few words.

"Remember how they come for their victims?" he went on softly. "They whisper your name,

'Basta and next thing you know you're freezing cold, and then—"

"They'll soon be whispering
your
name, Dirtyfingers!" Basta interrupted, his voice shaking.

"Yours and yours alone." And he hurried up the steps as if the ghosts of the White Ladies were already after him.

The sound of his footsteps died away, and Dustfinger was alone — with the silence, with death, and with Resa. They were obviously the only prisoners. Now and then Capricorn had some poor fellow locked in the crypt just to give him a good fright, but most of those who came here and wrote their names on the tombs disappeared some dark night and were never seen again.

Their own departure from this world was going to be rather more spectacular.

My last performance, in a way, thought Dustfinger. Perhaps it will turn out that all this was only a bad dream, and I just had to die to get home again? A nice idea, if only he could have believed in it.

Resa had seated herself on a sarcophagus. It was a plain stone coffin, with a cracked lid, and the name that was once on it could no longer be deciphered. It didn't seem to frighten Resa to be so near the dead. Dustfinger felt differently. He was not afraid of ghosts and White Ladies, like Basta. If a White Lady had appeared he would have passed the time of day with her. No — he was afraid of death. He thought he heard death itself breathing down here, breathing so deeply that no air was left for anyone else. His chest felt as if a huge and ugly animal were sitting on it.

Perhaps it hadn't been so bad up there in the net after all. At least they'd had air to breathe.

He sensed Resa watching him. She beckoned him over and patted the lid of the coffin. Hesitantly, he sat down beside her. She put her hand into the pocket of her dress, brought out a candle, and held it up to him with an inquiring look. Dustfinger had to smile. Yes, of course he had matches on him. It was child's play to conceal something as small as a few matches from Basta and the other idiots.

Resa fixed the flickering candle to the coffin with a little of its own wax. She loved candles —

colored candles and stones. She always had both in her pockets. But perhaps today she had lit the candle just for him, because she knew how he loved fire.

"I'm sorry. I should have looked for the book on my own," he said, passing a finger through the bright flame. "Forgive me."

218

She put her fingers on his mouth. Presumably she was saying there was nothing to forgive. What a sweet, silent lie. She took her hand away, and Dustfinger cleared his throat. "You — you didn't find it, did you?" Not that it would make any difference now, but he had to know.

Resa shook her head and shrugged her shoulders regretfully.

"That's what I thought." He sighed. The silence was terrible, worse than a thousand voices. "Tell me a story, Resa!" he said quietly, moving closer to her. Please, he added in his thoughts. Chase my fear away. It's crushing my chest. Take us somewhere else, somewhere better.

Resa could do that. She knew endless numbers of stories. Just how she knew them she had never told him, but of course he knew. He knew exactly who had once read her those stories, for he had recognized her face the instant he first saw her in Capricorn's house. After all, Silvertongue had shown him the photograph often enough.

Resa took a piece of paper out of her inexhaustible pockets. They contained more than just candles and stones. Just as Dustfinger always carried the means of lighting a fire, she always had a number of things with her: candle stumps, a few pebbles, some paper, and a pencil — her wooden tongue, she called it. Obviously none of these things had seemed to Capricorn's men dangerous enough to be taken away from her.

When Resa told one of her stories she sometimes wrote only half a sentence, and Dustfinger had to finish it. It went faster that way, and the story developed surprising twists and turns. But this time it seemed she didn't want to tell him a story, although he had never needed one so badly.

Who is the girl?
wrote Resa.

Of course. Meggie. Should he lie? Why not? But he didn't, although he didn't know why not.

"She's Silvertongue's daughter. — How old? — Twelve, I think."

It was the right answer. He saw that in her eyes. They were Meggie's eyes. Perhaps rather wearier.

"What does Silvertongue look like? I think you've asked me before. Well, he isn't scarred like me." He tried to smile, but Resa remained grave. The candlelight flickered on her face. You know his face better than you know mine, thought Dustfinger, but I'm not going to say so. He's taken a whole world from me, why shouldn't I take his wife from him?

Rising to her feet, she put her hand in the air above her head.

"Yes, he's tall. Taller than you, taller than me." Why didn't he lie to her? "Yes, he has dark hair, but I don't want to talk about him now!" He heard the petulance in his own voice. "Please!"

Reaching for her hand, he drew her down beside him. "Tell me a story. The candle will soon go out, and the light Basta's left us is enough to see these wretched coffins but not to read letters."

She looked at him thoughtfully, as if she were trying to guess at his thoughts and uncover the words he didn't say. But Dustfinger could guard his face better than Silvertongue much better.

He could make it impenetrable, a shield to keep his heart from prying eyes. What business was it of anyone else to know what was in his heart?

Resa bent over the paper again and began to write.

219

Hear and attend and listen; for this befell and behappened and became and was, O my Best
Beloved, when the Tame animals were wild,
she wrote.

Dustfinger smiled.
"The Dog was wild,"
he whispered.
"And the Horse was wild, and the Sheep was
wild, and the Pig was wild
— as
wild as wild could be
—
and they walked in the Wet Wild
Woods
by their wild lones. But the wildest of all wild animals was the Cat. He walked by himself, and all
places were alike to him."

Resa always knew what story he needed at any given moment. She was a stranger in this world, just like him. It couldn't be that she belonged to Silvertongue.

220

Chapter 44 – Farid’s Report

"All right," said Spiff. "Now this is what I say, anyone who thinks they've got a better plan
can say so afterwards."

–
Michael de Larrabeiti,
The Borribles Go for Broke

When Farid came back Silvertongue was waiting for him. Elinor was asleep under the trees, her face flushed by the midday heat, but Silvertongue was still standing where Farid had left him.

Relief spread over his face as he saw the boy coming up the hill.

"We heard shots!" he called. "I thought we'd never see you again."

"They were shooting at cats," replied Farid, letting himself drop on to the grass. Silvertongue's concern made Farid feel awkward. He wasn't used to people being concerned for his safety.

What kept you? Where have you been all this time?
That was the kind of reception he was used to.

Even Dustfinger's face had always been closed to him, as uncommunicative as a barred door. But with Silvertongue's face it was different.