Inkheart (57 page)

281

Chapter 58 – Homesickness

Yet Bastian knew he couldn't leave without the book. It was clear to him that he had only
come to the shop because of this book. It had called him in some mysterious way, because
it wanted to be his, because it had somehow always belonged to him.

–
Michael Ende,
The Neverending Story

Dustfinger watched it all from a rooftop far enough from the scene of Capricorn's festivities for him to feel safe from the Shadow, but close enough for him to see everything through the binoculars he had found in Basta's house. At first, he had meant to stay in hiding. He had seen the Shadow kill too often already. Yet, a strange feeling, as irrational as Basta's good-luck charms, had driven him out: a feeling that he could protect the book just by his presence. When he slipped into the alley he felt something else, too. He didn't like to admit it to himself, but he wanted to see Basta die through the same binoculars Basta himself had so often turned on his future victims.

So he sat on the tiles of a dilapidated roof, his back against the cold chimney, his face blackened with soot (for the face is treacherously pale by night), and watched smoke rise into the sky from Capricorn's house. He saw Flatnose set out with several men to extinguish the fire. He saw the Shadow emerge from the ground, he saw the old man disappear with an expression of infinite amazement on his face, and he saw Capricorn die the death Fenoglio himself had summoned.

Unfortunately, Basta did not die, which was really annoying. Dustfinger saw him running away.

And he saw the Magpie follow him.

He, Dustfinger the spectator, saw it all.

He had often been just a spectator, and this was not his story. What were they to him, Silvertongue and his daughter, the boy, the bookworm, and the woman who was another man's wife once more? She could have escaped with him, but she had stayed in the crypt with her daughter, so he had thrust her out of his heart as he always did with anyone who tried to stay there too long. He was glad that the Shadow hadn't taken them all, but they were none of his business anymore. From now on Resa would be telling Silvertongue all the wonderful stories that drove away loneliness and homesickness and fear again. Why should it bother him?

But what about the fairies and the goblins suddenly stumbling around the scene of Capricorn's festivities? They were as out of place in this world as he was — and they, too, wouldn't let him forget that he was still here for only one reason. He was interested only in the book, nothing but the book, and when he saw Silvertongue hide it under his jacket he decided to get it back. The book at least would be his. It must be his. He would stroke the pages, and if he closed his eyes at the same time he would be home again.

The old man was there now, the old man with the wrinkled face. Crazy. If only you hadn't been so afraid, Dustfinger, he thought bitterly. But you're a coward and you always will be. Why wasn't it
you
standing beside Capricorn? Why didn't you venture down? Then perhaps
you
would have disappeared back into the book instead of the old man.

The fairy with the butterfly wings and milky white face had flown after him. She was a vain little thing. Whenever she caught sight of her reflection in a window she lingered, smiling in front of it, oblivious to all else. She turned and preened in the air, ran her fingers through her hair, and examined herself as if delighted by her own beauty all over again. The fairies he had known had
282

not been particularly vain. On the contrary, sometimes they positively enjoyed smearing their tiny faces with mud or pollen, and then asked him, giggling, to guess which of them it was behind all the muck.

Perhaps I ought to catch myself one, thought Dustfinger. They could make me invisible. It would be wonderful to be invisible now and then. Or a troll — I could make him part of my show.

Everyone would think he was just a little human being in a furry suit. No one can stand on his head as long as a troll, no one can make faces so well either, and those funny little dances they do — yes, why not?

When the moon had traveled halfway across the sky and Dustfinger was still sitting on the roof, the fairy with the butterfly wings grew impatient. Her tinkling sounded shrill and angry as she flew around him. What did she want? Did she want him to take her back where she came from, back to the place where all fairies had butterfly wings and people understood their language?

"You've picked the wrong man here," he told her quietly.

"See that girl down there, and the man beside the woman with the dark blond hair? They're what you need, but I might as well warn you: They're very good at luring people into their world and not so good at sending them home again. Still, you can try! Maybe you'll have better luck than me."

The fairy turned in the air, looked down, cast him a final injured glance, and flew away.

Dustfinger saw her brightness mingle with the light of the other fairies flying around and chasing one another through the branches of the trees. They were so forgetful. No grief or sorrow lived longer than a day in their little heads — and, who knows, perhaps the mild night air had already made them forget that this was not their own story.

Faint light was coming into the sky by the time they were all asleep down there. Only the boy kept watch. He was a suspicious boy, always on his guard, always careful except when he played with fire. Dustfinger couldn't help smiling when he thought of Farid's eager face and the way he had burned his lips when he secretly took the torches from his backpack. The boy would be no problem, no, none at all.

Silvertongue and Resa were asleep under a tree with Meggie between them, sheltered like a young bird in a warm nest. Elinor was sleeping not far away and smiling in her sleep. Dustfinger had never seen her look so happy. One of the fairies was lying curled up like a caterpillar on her breast, with Elinor's hand around it. The fairy's face was not much bigger than the ball of her thumb, and her fairy light shone between Elinor's strong fingers like the light of a captive star.

Farid stood up as soon as he saw Dustfinger coming. He had a shotgun in his hand. It must have belonged to one of Capricorn's men.

"You — You're not dead?" Farid breathed incredulously. He still wore no shoes, which was hardly surprising, for he had always been falling over the shoelaces and tying a bow had presented him with problems.

"No, I'm not." Dustfinger stopped beside Silvertongue and looked down on him and Resa.

"Where's Gwin?" he asked the boy. "I hope you've been looking after him!"

"He ran away after they shot at us, but he came back." There was pride in the boy's voice.

283

"Ah." Dustfinger crouched down beside Silvertongue. "Well, he always knew when it was time to run, just like his master."

"We left him at our camp up by the burnt-out cottage last night, because we knew it was going to be dangerous," the boy went on. "But I was going to fetch him as soon as I come off watch."

"Well, I can do that now. Don't worry, he's sure to be all right. A marten like Gwin will always survive." Dustfinger reached out his hand and put it under Silvertongue's jacket.

"What are you doing?" The boy's voice sounded uneasy.

"Just taking what's mine," replied Dustfinger.

Silvertongue did not stir as Dustfinger slipped the book out. He was sleeping well and soundly, and what was there now to disturb his sleep? He had everything his heart desired.

"It's not yours!"

"Yes, it is." Dustfinger stood up. He looked up at the branches. There were three fairies asleep up there. He'd always wondered how they could sleep perched in the trees without falling to the ground. Carefully, he took two of them off the spindly branch where they were lying, blew gently into their faces as they opened their eyes and yawned, and put them in his pocket.

"Blowing at them makes them sleepy," he explained to the boy. "Just a little tip in case you ever have anything to do with fairies. But I think it works only on the blue kind."

He didn't bother to wake a troll. They were an obstinate lot, it would take a long time to persuade one of them to go with him, and very likely it would disturb Silvertongue.

"Let me come, too!" The boy barred his way. "Here, I've got your backpack." He held it up as if to buy Dustfinger's company with it.

"No." Dustfinger took the pack from him, slung it over his shoulders, and turned his back on the boy.

"Yes!" Farid ran after him. "You must let me come, too! Or what am I going to tell Silvertongue when he realizes the book is gone?"

"Tell him you fell asleep. It happens to a lot of sentries keeping watch."

"Please!"

Dustfinger stopped. "What about her?" He pointed to Meggie. "You like the girl, don't you? Why not stay with her?"

The boy blushed and stared at the girl for a long time, as if to commit the sight of her to memory.

Then he turned back to Dustfinger. "I don't belong with them."

"You don't belong with me either." Dustfinger walked away again, but when he was a good way from the parking lot the boy was still behind him. He was trying to walk so quietly that Dustfinger wouldn't hear him, and when Dustfinger turned he stopped like a thief caught in the act.

284

"What's the idea? I'm not going to be here much longer anyway!" snapped Dustfinger. "Now that I have the book I will look for someone who can read me into it again, even if it's a stammerer like Darius who sends me home with a lame leg or a squashed face. What will you do then? You'll be left alone."

The boy shrugged his shoulders and looked at him with his black eyes. "I can breathe fire well now," he said. "I practiced and practiced while you were gone. But I'm not so good at swallowing it yet."

"That's more difficult. You go at it too fast. I've told you so a thousand times."

They found Gwin in the ruins of the burnt-out house, sleepy and with feathers around his muzzle. He seemed pleased to see Dustfinger and even licked his hand, but then he ran after the boy. They walked until it was light, always reaching south toward the sea. At last, they stopped for a rest and ate the food Dustfinger had brought from Basta's larder: some red spicy sausage, a piece of cheese, bread, olive oil. The bread was rather hard so they dipped it in the oil, ate in silence sitting side by side on the grass, and then went on. Blue and dusty pink wild sage flowered among the trees. The fairies moved in Dustfinger's pocket — and the boy walked behind him like a second shadow.

285

Chapter 59 – Going Home

And [he] sailed back over a year

and in and out of weeks

and through a day

and into the night of his very own room

where he found his supper waiting for him

and it was still hot.

–
Maurice Sendak,
Where the Wild Things Are

In the morning, when Mo found the book was gone, Meggie's first thought was that Basta had taken it, and she felt sick with fear at the thought of him prowling around them while they slept.

But Mo had a different explanation.

"Farid is gone, too, Meggie," he said. "Do you think he'd have gone with Basta?"

No, she didn't. There was only one person Farid would have gone with. Meggie could well imagine Dustfinger emerging from the darkness, just as he had on the night when it all began.

"But what about Fenoglio?" she said.

Mo only sighed. "I don't know whether I'd have tried to read him back, anyway, Meggie," he said.

"So much misfortune has come from that book already, and I'm not a writer who can make up for himself the words he wants to read aloud. I'm only a kind of book doctor. I can give books new bindings, rejuvenate them a little, stop the bookworms from eating them, and prevent them from losing their pages over the years like a man loses his hair. But inventing the stories in them, filling new, empty pages with the right words — I can't do that. That's a very different trade. A famous writer once wrote, 'An author can be seen as three things: a storyteller, a teacher, or a magician — but the magician, the enchanter, is in the ascendant.' I always thought he was right about that."

Meggie didn't know what to say. She only knew she missed Fenoglio's face. "And Tinker Bell,"

she said. "What about her? Will she have to stay here, too, now?" When she'd woken up the fairy had been lying in the grass beside her. Now she was flying around with the other fairies. If you didn't look too closely they might have been a flock of moths. Meggie couldn't imagine how she had escaped from Basta's house. Hadn't he been planning to keep her in a jug?

"As far as I remember, Peter Pan himself once forgot she'd ever existed," said Mo. "Am I right?"

Yes, Meggie remembered it, too. "All the same!" she murmured. "Poor Fenoglio!"

But as she said that her mother shook her head vigorously. Mo searched his pockets for paper, though all he could find was a shopping receipt and a felt-tip pen. Teresa took both from him, smiling. Then, while Meggie crouched in the grass beside her, she wrote:
Don't be sorry for
Fenoglio. It's not a bad story he's landed in.

"Is Capricorn still in it? Did you ever meet him there?" asked Meggie. How often she and Mo had wondered that. After all, he was one of the main characters in
Inkheart.
But perhaps there really was something behind the printed story, a world that changed every day just like this one.

286

I only heard of him there,
her mother wrote.
They spoke of him as if he had gone away for a while.

But there were others just as bad. It's a world full of terror and beauty
(here her writing became so small Meggie could hardly make it out)
and I could always understand why Dustfinger felt
homesick for it.

The last sentence worried Meggie, but when she looked anxiously at her mother, Teresa smiled and reached for her hand.
I was far, far more homesick for you two,
she wrote on the palm of it, and Meggie closed her fingers over the words as if to hold them fast. She read them again and again on the long drive back to Elinor's house, and it was many days before they faded.