The Second Forever (2 page)

Each day, having locked the gates, Peter's father walked across the courtyard, locked the museum doors and switched off the vacuums in the dust screens. This evening routine was more than simply keys and switches being turned. It was the closing of the gap into everywhere else, and it was only after the vacuums had fallen silent that total calm settled over the museum. The constant hum of their motors had become invisible and only when it actually stopped did Peter and his father notice it. The first seconds of complete silence were a perfect moment at the end of each day.

‘School boring again, I suppose,' he said as he joined
Peter, who would be waiting at the foot of the stairs.

‘Yes, no different.'

‘It never is. It was just the same for me when I was younger. I couldn't wait to get back here each afternoon.'

‘Well, at least you had rain and trees and the river,' said Peter. ‘Now everywhere seems like the inside of an ancient pyramid.'

‘True,' his father agreed. ‘We had seasons. Remember?'

‘Yes.'

‘Never thought about them, either. They came no matter what we did,' said Peter's father. ‘We always moaned about the rain and the cold. If only we'd known what was to come. Even the worst global warming threats never predicted this.'

They walked through the empty galleries and upstairs to the apartment behind the glass door of fake books that was their home. Peter's mother was still at work downstairs in her office and Peter's grandfather was in his room propped up in his bed, waiting for his grandson to get back from school.

The old man spent more and more time in bed now. He seemed to grow older every day, though the light in his eyes showed windows into a brain that was a sharp as it had ever been. Some mornings, before the museum opened, he and Peter would go down to
the Egyptian galleries and visit the mummies or walk slowly around the great halls of fossils.

‘I'm one of them now,' he would say laughingly, ‘the mummies and the fossils.'

‘If it doesn't rain soon,' Peter said, ‘we all will be.'

But the old man's visits were growing fewer and he often spent whole days in bed. Yet no matter how tired he was, and he usually fell asleep every afternoon, he was always awake when Peter came home from school, awaiting his grandson's reports of the world outside.

‘How are you feeling today, Grandfather?' Peter would ask.

‘Like the world outside,' the old man would reply and laugh. ‘All dried up.'

‘I wonder how it's all going to end,' said Peter.

‘I imagine I'll go to sleep one day and never wake up.'

‘I meant outside,' Peter replied.

‘I suppose that could be the same,' said the old man. ‘Everything will slowly come to a halt. And then one day, when we've all gone and all the books and bones have turned to dust so there's no memory of us ever having been here, maybe it will start to rain and everything will begin all over again.'

‘Do you think so?' said Peter.

‘Who knows? There are people who think nature
is shutting down deliberately to rid the world of mankind. They claim that when we are all gone, then the world will re-awaken, rain will come and the world will be reborn, but without mankind to spoil it,' said the old man.

Peter said nothing. The thought of everything, not just people and animals, but every last blade of grass dying was too big to imagine. No matter how bad things got he always thought something else would happen that could fix it. Most people thought this, but it was more a wish than a belief.

‘And who can say,' the old man continued, ‘that it hasn't all happened before? There are some people who even believe that.'

Since he had found his father and brought him back from the other world in the heart of the library, Peter had a head full of questions for his grandfather. Yet whenever he had tried to put them to the old man, his grandfather had always managed to avoid them. Now with him in his bed and growing visibly older, Peter had become determined to finally get some answers.

And now, for the first time, Peter began to wonder if the way he and Festival had reversed the river by reading the book was connected to the drought in his world. This wasn't something he'd thought about before. He had no reason to, and the idea had just
appeared from nowhere, but the river running backwards in the other world and the rivers drying up in Peter's world suddenly felt like they could have something in common. If not, it was an incredible coincidence.

‘You don't think the drought has anything to do with the book, do you?' asked Peter.

‘I wouldn't have thought so,' said the old man. ‘Yet, now that you mention it, the two things do kind of have a similar strangeness in common.'

‘But,' said Peter, ‘if they are connected, that would mean Festival and I caused this drought.'

‘No, no, it can't be anything to do with that,' said Peter's grandfather. ‘I'm sure it's what the scientists are saying. It's global warming and it has accelerated past the point of us being able to do anything about it.'

‘Do you think so?'

‘Yes, of course. I mean, they're experts, these people, and look at the evidence.'

‘I suppose so,' said Peter, but there was a disturbing doubt in his head that wouldn't go away.

The old man lay back and closed his eyes. He'd been doing that more and more lately, slipping into a world of his own that Peter could only guess about. Maybe he was thinking about his youth and things that his grandson would never know about. Or maybe
he was just old and tired . . .

‘Grandfather,' Peter continued, ‘I met your sister and her daughter, Victoria, in the other world. Why did
they
go there?'

‘They didn't.'

‘But they are there. I met them, and they'd read the book.'

‘Yes, I know,' said the old man, ‘but they didn't leave this world and go there. It was me who came here.'

‘You mean, you were born there and lived there?' said Peter.

‘Yes.'

‘I didn't know anyone had done that.'

‘Very few have,' said the old man.

‘So why did your grandparents come here?'

‘When Darkwood's wife found out about the book and what it had done to their child, she stole it and hid it away in the remotest place she could find,' the old man explained. ‘She herself had refused to read the book and hadn't become immortal. So, when she died, the secret of where she'd hidden it died with her. But, you know, nothing stays hidden forever and six hundred years later, my grandfather discovered it, completely by chance. He had gone to meditate in a remote valley and there it was, lying in a niche at the back of the cave.'

‘How did he know what it was?' said Peter.

‘For as long as anyone could remember, there had been rumours about the book's existence. Most people didn't believe them, but there were a few who claimed to have read it,' Peter's grandfather continued. ‘They claimed to be over six hundred years old and, of course, no one believed that until one of them told my grandparents about Darkwood and the whole story came out. My grandparents realised just how evil the book was and so, to try to make it safe, they ran away and brought it here.'

‘Without their children?'

‘They were grown up by then,' Peter's grandfather said. ‘They didn't want to go and they had a good life there, and I had just been born. But when Darkwood found out that it had been my grandfather who had stolen the book, he vowed to kill me as his only grandson and kill off our family line. So they sent me here to be safe.'

The old man closed his eyes and sank back into the pillows. He was tired, not just of talking, but of thinking too. He'd had a lifetime of it and it hadn't seemed to have brought him the peace or wisdom he had hoped for. Everything felt as far away as it ever had, worse now really, because there were no years ahead in which he might find answers. When you are young, you own the whole world – all of it is at your fingertips. But as you get older, you realise there is so
much that you don't know or understand. Now, as he was in the last part of his life, Peter's grandfather found it hard to accept that there were questions for which he would never receive answers. He had always thought that by the time he got to be very old, he would have cleared his mind of all the unresolved complications and be at peace.

But it wasn't just the drought, or the wretched book, or all the other strange things he had seen that was bothering him. It was that, no matter how hard he tried to let it all go, new things kept appearing in his thoughts, things that refused to let him relax. This was the part of his life when he should have been able to forget the bad stuff, lie back and just enjoy the good memories.

When Peter returned from school the next day, it was different.

Peter's grandfather was actually waiting inside the main entrance, something he hadn't done since Peter's father had come back five years ago. The old man looked as he had five years ago, too. The sparkle was still in his eyes and he appeared to be excited.

‘Hello, hello,' he said. ‘I was wondering where you'd got to.'

‘It's a quarter past four, Grandfather,' said Peter. ‘That's when I always get home from school.'

‘Oh, oh, is it? I thought you got back earlier than
that. Are you sure it's only a quarter past four? It feels much later. You know, more like five o'clock.'

‘Grandfather, is everything okay?'

‘Oh yes,' said the old man, taking Peter's hand. ‘Yes, yes, we've got a visitor.'

‘Who?'

They never had visitors. There was no one to visit them, no brothers, sisters, aunts or uncles. Peter, his mother and father and grandfather were the entire family, and although they were not remote or unfriendly with anyone, they were content with each other's company and had no friends close enough to invite into their world.

‘You'll see,' said the old man, leading Peter upstairs with a spring in his step that he had forgotten was there.

‘Tell me, who?'

‘You'll see.'

When they reached their apartment, there was a girl sitting by the fire. Peter could only see the top of her head, and although it had been five years since they had seen each other, he knew immediately who it was. As soon as his grandfather had told him they had a visitor, he had quietly known.

Festival had come back.

Since their adventure in her world, there had barely been a day when Peter hadn't thought about Festival. He had only to look down at his hand and see the scar
where his little finger had been to remember their time together. When that vile creature Throatgall had attacked him, Festival had wrapped the wound in torn rags and led him to safety. But for her he would probably have died – if not from the loss of blood then it would have been from the creature coming back for him.

They had been children then, both ten years old, together in a strange, terrifying place on a quest that neither of them had understood or asked for. Now, as Peter looked down at Festival sitting in the armchair, he saw a young woman and felt suddenly shy. Festival stood up, looked into his eyes and held out her arms towards him. They stood silently, both awkward yet overwhelmed to see each other.

As they hugged, Peter wanted to say how he had missed her, how often he had thought about her and tried to imagine her life, but he was too selfconscious. They had been like brother and sister then, but now, seeing her almost grown up, his feelings were different and he was overcome with shyness. Festival seemed the same too, so they continued to stand silently, their arms around each other as a way of avoiding conversation.

It was Peter's grandfather who broke the silence.

‘It is so good to see you again, my dear,' he said. ‘And look at you, so beautiful. Isn't she, Peter?'

Peter nodded and turned red and the old man laughed, but then the ice was broken and the trio laughed, and then Peter and Festival were both talking at once and all their shyness was gone.

‘It's wonderful to see you, too,' said Festival. ‘But the reason I'm here is not. I mean, I've wanted to visit. Lots of times, in fact, but my parents were scared to let me in case something went wrong and I couldn't get home again. But their fears have been overruled.'

‘What fears?' said Peter, though in his heart he knew exactly why Festival had returned.

‘My world is drowning,' she said. ‘Almost five of the thirteen galleries are now below water. People have been forced to move higher, into the derelict galleries where that awful creature attacked you. The island is below the sea. The clouds that hung around its peaks now sit on the water.'

‘Oh my God,' said Peter. ‘Your world is drowning while ours is turning to dust. We haven't seen rain for so long that people can't remember when it happened. There has to be a connection!'

‘We have nothing
but
rain,' said Festival. ‘All day, every day. None of us can remember the last time we saw the sunshine, and even when the rain stops for a bit, the sun doesn't come out. The sky is grey from side to side, not grey like clouds that move, but dark
grey like evening, as if a blanket has been thrown over our world.'

‘That'll be the dust,' said Peter's grandfather.

‘See, Grandfather, there has to be a connection,' said Peter.

‘I suppose so,' the old man agreed. ‘The drought started just after you returned from the other world.'

‘But what can we do about it?' said Peter.

‘You remember when we read the book at the foot of the cliff and the river began to run backwards?' said Festival.

‘Yes, of course.'

‘It's been running backwards ever since. It's not just the rain that's drowning us. It's the river, too. It filled the valley and then poured out over the island and into the sea. The rain and the river are flooding our entire world,' she explained. ‘You and I have to sail out into the mist above the island and read the book once more. Then everything will go back to how it was.'

‘But we destroyed the book,' said Peter.

‘I know, so we have to write it again,' said Festival.

‘But it was years go,' said Peter. ‘I can't remember it all.'

‘Neither can I,' said Festival, ‘but maybe we can remember it together.'

Peter was devastated. The book –
How To Live Forever
– had been the most evil book ever created.
Anyone who read it, or heard its words, would stay the age they were forever, and it wasn't until time passed that all those who had read it began to realise that immortality was a terrible curse. They would not so much live forever as remain frozen in time, with all the aches and pains and fears they had had before becoming immortal. If they had been suffering a terrible disease, reading the book would not rid them of it. It changed nothing. Sicknesses were not cured and neither did they progress. Those in pain stayed in pain forever – an unimaginable hell.

By reading it a thousand times, Peter and Festival had destroyed the book because it was so evil that, no matter what anyone was told, the call of the book was irresistible. People mistook living forever for the fountain of youth. It would be wonderful, but after they read the book and the years passed with each one seemingly longer than the one before, they all realised just how horrible it was. Worse than a curse, for a curse can be lifted. Their loved ones grew old and died, but they didn't. Then, of course, it was too late.

And when Peter and Festival had read the book they had learned its two secrets – secrets that no one had suspected or guessed. They had discovered that reading the book a second time could reverse the spell, and that each time it was read, the book
gradually disintegrated until after they had read it a thousand times there was nothing left but dust.

Darkwood, the book's creator, had tried to force Peter to rewrite it soon after they had destroyed it, but the boy had tricked him and escaped. The idea of bringing the terrible thing back to life was monstrous. No matter how or where they tried to hide it, or how much they warned people, there would always be those who would want to read it. Yet Peter was aware they had no choice.

‘I knew this day would come,' he said. ‘I had hoped I was just being irrational, but when we were reading it in that dark cave and it was slowly dying, I knew it was immortal. I mean, it had to be, didn't it?'

‘Yes. I felt it too,' said Festival. ‘But I had always thought I was wrong. I've tried really hard to forget it, but it's one of those things that can never be unlearnt.'

‘Me too,' said Peter. ‘Every now and then I dream we are reading the book and all the words come back.'

‘So you didn't destroy it at all, did you?' said Peter's grandfather. ‘You just transferred it into your brains.'

‘If we do manage to write it again and fix things,' Peter said, ‘we must hide it away as soon as possible, where no one will ever be able to reach it.'

‘We will,' said Festival.

‘And how do we know it will make everything right again?' said Peter. ‘It seems ridiculous that
something as simple as reading the book could fix all our problems.'

‘I know,' said Festival. ‘Lots of people think the same, but we have to try. It can't make things worse.'

‘Yes it can,' said Peter. ‘The book will exist again.'

‘Maybe we can take it to a remote, deserted place – somewhere lifeless where there is nothing it can influence – and read it another thousand times.'

They both knew no such place existed. Even the most barren place on earth had not always been that way, and reading the book there would have some consequence, but they also knew that they had no choice. They would have to read it somewhere.

The children knew too that no matter where they hid the book, someone would eventually find it. It would be impossible to keep its re-birth a secret and, regardless of what warnings they would try to give, there would always be people for whom the lure of immortality would be like a terrible drug that they would do anything to reach. The lure was so irresistible that if they could somehow place the book in the heart of a nuclear reactor, people would be prepared to walk naked into the radiation to read it. And even if they could tie it to an atom bomb and detonate it, the book would emerge unscathed.

They also knew that in spite of every consequence, they could and would re-create it.

‘What is the worst thing that could happen?' said Peter's grandfather. ‘If you do rewrite the book and it does change the weather, millions and millions of people will survive, and if someone finds the book and reads it – even if fifty people or a hundred or two hundred read it – their sacrifice will be small compared to the end of all life.'

‘But . . .' Peter began.

‘I know it sounds melodramatic, but think about it. How long will it be until there is no water left in our world? A lot of species have already become extinct. We haven't worried about it as much as we would have done a few years ago because we've been too busy surviving ourselves,' the old man continued. ‘And what about Festival's world? Today there are five galleries underwater. Tomorrow it will be six and then seven, until there is nowhere left for anyone to go and they will all drown.'

‘I know,' said Peter.

‘Yes you do, and you both know you have no choice.'

The two children nodded.

Peter and Festival had discovered the simple secret about reading the book a second time being able to reverse the curse. As the creator of the book, Darkwood had been unable to regain mortality and now Peter and Festival knew that by re-creating the book,
they too could possibly become immortal. Their only consolation was that they would at least have each other.

‘I don't know if we'll be able to remember it all,' Peter said, but he knew that every word was imprinted in the deepest corner of their two brains, and it didn't live just there, but in every single cell of every part of their bodies. They were the book and it just needed to be brought back and put on paper. If either of them were unable to remember something, the previous words would trigger the other's memory. If they couldn't remember everything individually, together they would.

The book would be re-born as evil and powerful as it had ever been, and if it had a heart, which it did, a dark vicious despairing one at that, it would have learnt from its previous destruction and be re-born stronger than ever. Nothing would be able to destroy it this time, not even a million readings.