behind all the light. But they didn’t speak of that. Not yet.
‘What about my wife and my daughter?’ asked the Bluejay. ‘Have they … have they already gone?’
‘Gone?’ The Black Prince looked at him in surprise. ‘No. Where would they go?’
Relief and worry were mingled equally in the other man’s face.
‘Sometime I’ll explain all that to you too,’ he said. ‘Sometime. But it’s a long story.’
29
A Visitor to Orpheus’s Cellar
So many lives,
So many things to remember!
I was a stone in Tibet
A tongue of bark
At the heart of Africa
Growing darker and darker …
Derek Mahon,
Lives
When Oss, gripping Farid firmly by the back of his neck, told him that Orpheus wanted to see him in his study at once, he took two bottles of wine with him. Cheeseface had been drinking like a fish ever since their return from the graveyard of the strolling players, but the wine didn’t make Orpheus talkative like Fenoglio, just extremely malicious and unpredictable.
As so often, he was by the window when Farid entered the study. He was swaying slightly, and staring at the sheet of paper that he’d studied over and over again these last few days, cursing, crumpling it up and then smoothing it out again.
‘There it is in black and white, every letter perfect as a picture, and it sounds good too, it sounds damn good!’ he said thickly as his finger kept tapping the words. ‘So why, by all the infernal spirits, did the bookbinder come back again too?’
What was Cheeseface talking about? Farid put the wine bottles on the table and stood there waiting. ‘Oss says you want to speak to me?’ he asked.
Jasper was sitting beside the jug of pens, making frantic signals, but Farid couldn’t work out what they meant.
‘Ah yes, Dustfinger’s angel of death.’ Orpheus put the paper down on his desk and turned to him with a nasty smile.
Why on earth did you come back to him? Farid asked himself, but he had only to think of the hatred on Meggie’s face in the graveyard to answer his own question. Because you didn’t know where else to go.
‘Yes, I sent for you.’ Orpheus looked at the door. Oss had followed Farid into the room, more silently than you would have thought possible for a man of his size, and before Farid had time to realize why Jasper was waving to him so frantically, Oss’s meaty hands had seized him.
‘So you haven’t heard the news yet!’ said Orpheus. ‘Of course not. If you had I’m sure you’d have gone chasing straight off to him.’
Off to who? Farid tried to wriggle free, but Oss pulled his hair so hard that tears of pain came to his eyes.
‘He really doesn’t know. How touching.’ Orpheus came so close to him that the smell of the wine on his breath made Farid feel sick.
‘Dustfinger,’ said Orpheus in his velvety voice. ‘Dustfinger is back.’
Farid immediately forgot all about Oss’s rough fingers and Orpheus’s unpleasant smile. There was nothing in him but joy, like a violent pain, too much for his heart to bear.
‘Yes, he’s back,’ Orpheus went on. ‘Thanks to my words – but the rabble out there are saying the Bluejay brought him back!’ he added, with a dismissive gesture to the window. ‘Curse them. May the Piper make maggot-flesh of them all!’
Farid wasn’t listening. His own blood was roaring in his ears. Dustfinger was back! Back!
‘Let go of me, Chunk!’ Farid drove his elbows into Oss’s stomach and tugged at his hands. ‘Dustfinger will turn his fire on you!’ he shouted. ‘That’s what he’ll do, the moment he hears you two didn’t let me go to him at once!’
‘Really?’ Orpheus blew wine-laden breath into his face again. ‘I’m more inclined to think he’ll be grateful to me – or do you suppose he’d like you to bring him to his death again, you ill-omened brat? I warned him about you once before. He wouldn’t listen to me then, but he’ll have learnt better now, believe you me. If I had the book you came from here, I’d have read you back into your own story long ago, but sad to say it’s out of print in this world.’
Orpheus laughed. He liked to laugh at his own jokes. ‘Lock him in the cellar,’ he told the Chunk, ‘and as soon as it’s dark you can take him out to the hill where the gallows stand, and wring his neck. No one will notice a few bones more or less up there.’
Jasper put his hands over his eyes when Oss picked Farid up and threw him over his shoulder. Farid shouted and kicked, but the Chunk hit him in the face so hard that he almost lost consciousness.
‘The Bluejay! The Bluejay! I sent him to the White Women! I did it!’ he heard Orpheus’s voice ringing down the stairs after them. ‘So why, by the devil’s tail, didn’t Death keep him? Didn’t I make that high-minded idiot sound tempting enough with the finest words I could write?’
At the bottom of the stairs Farid made another attempt to free himself, but Oss hit him in the face again so hard that blood ran from his nose, and then shifted him to his other shoulder. A maid, alarmed, stuck her face out of the kitchen doorway as he carried Farid past – it was the little brown-haired girl who was always making up to him, but she didn’t help him. How could she?
‘Get out!’ was all Oss growled at her before dragging Farid down to the cellar. He tied him to one of the pillars supporting Orpheus’s house, stuffed a dirty rag into his mouth, and left him alone, but not without giving him another vigorous kick first.
‘See you later, when it’s dark!’ he grunted before trudging back upstairs, and Farid was left behind with the cold stone at his back and the taste of his own tears in his mouth.
It hurt so much to know that Dustfinger was back, and all the same he would never see him again. But that’s how it will be, Farid, he told himself. And, who knows, maybe Cheeseface is right. Perhaps you’d only bring him to his death again!
His tears burnt his face, so sore from Oss’s blows. If only he could have called up fire to consume Orpheus, complete with his house and the Chunk, even if it meant that he too would burn! But he couldn’t move his hands, and his tongue could not conjure up a word of fire, so he just crouched there sobbing, as he had sobbed on the night of Dustfinger’s death, waiting for evening to come and Oss to fetch him and wring his neck, under the same gallows where he had dug up silver for Orpheus.
Luckily the marten had gone. Oss would certainly have killed him too. But presumably Jink had found his way to Dustfinger long ago. The marten would have sensed that he was back. Why didn’t you sense it yourself, Farid? he wondered. Never mind, at least Jink was safe. But what would become of Jasper if he couldn’t protect him any more? Orpheus had often shut the glass man up in a drawer without any light or sand, just for cutting paper clumsily or splashing ink on his master’s sleeve!
‘Dustfinger!’ It did him good to at least try to whisper the name and know he was alive. How often Farid had imagined what it would be like to see him again. Longing made him tremble as if he were shaken by a fever. Which of the martens had jumped on Dustfinger’s shoulder first to lick his scarred face, he wondered, Gwin or Jink?
The hours went by, and after a while Farid managed to spit out the gag. He tried gnawing through the rope that Oss had used to tie him up, but even a mouse could have done better. Would they look for him when he was lying dead and buried on the gallows hill? Dustfinger, Silvertongue, Meggie … oh, Meggie. He would never kiss her again. Not that he’d done that so very often recently. All the same … that bastard Cheeseface! Farid called down every curse he could remember on him – curses from this world, his own world, and the one where he had met Dustfinger. He shouted them all out loud, because that was the only way they worked – and fell silent in alarm when he heard the cellar door above him opening.
Was it evening already? Probably. How could anyone tell in this damp, mouldy hole? Would Oss break his neck like a rabbit’s or simply press his fat hands down over his mouth until he couldn’
t breathe any more? Don’t think about it, Farid, you’ll find out soon enough. He pressed his back against the pillar. Perhaps he could at least kick Oss’s nose in. A well-aimed kick at that stupid face when he was taking off Farid’s bonds, and it would break like a dry twig. He desperately braced himself against the rough rope, but unfortunately Oss was good at tying people up. Meggie! Can’t you send a few words to save me as you did for your father? Fear was making his arms and legs weak. He listened to the footsteps coming down the stairs. They were surprisingly quiet for the Chunk. And suddenly two martens scurried towards him.
‘By all the fairies, that moon-faced fellow really has been making money,’ a voice whispered in the darkness. ‘What a grand house!’ A flame began dancing, then a second, a third, a fourth, a fifth … five flames, just bright enough to light up Dustfinger’s face – and Jasper sitting on his shoulder with a shy smile.
Dustfinger.
Farid’s heart felt so light that he wouldn’t have been surprised if it had simply floated out of him. But what had happened to Dustfinger’s face? It looked different. As if all the years had been washed away, all the sad, lonely years, and—
‘Your scars – they’re gone!’
Farid could only whisper. Happiness muted his words like cotton wool. Jink jumped up to him and licked his bound hands.
‘Yes, and would you believe it – I think Roxane misses them.’ Dustfinger reached the bottom step of the stairs and knelt down beside him. From above, agitated voices came down to them.
Drawing a knife from his belt, Dustfinger cut through Farid’s bonds. ‘Hear that? I’m afraid Orpheus is about to find out he has a visitor.’
Farid rubbed his numb wrists. He couldn’t take his eyes off Dustfinger. Suppose he was only a ghost after all – or even worse, nothing but a dream? But then would Farid have felt his warmth, and the beating of his heart when he leant over him? No more of the dreadful silence that had surrounded Dustfinger in the mine. And he smelt of fire.
The Bluejay had brought him back. Yes, it must have been him. Whatever Orpheus said. Oh, he’d write his name in fire on the city walls of Ombra – Silvertongue, Bluejay, whichever name he liked! Farid put out his hand and timidly touched Dustfinger’s face, so familiar and yet so strange.
Dustfinger laughed quietly and raised him to his feet. ‘What is it? Do you want to make sure I’m not a ghost? I expect you’re still afraid of them, aren’t you? Suppose I was a ghost?’
By way of answer Farid flung his arms around him so impetuously that Jasper, with a sharp little scream, slid off Dustfinger’s shoulder. Luckily he caught the glass man before Gwin did.
‘Careful, careful!’ whispered Dustfinger, putting Jasper on to Farid’s shoulder. ‘You’re still as clumsy as a young calf. You have your glass friend to thank for my being here. He told Brianna what Orpheus was planning to do to you, and she rode to Roxane.’
‘Brianna?’ The glass man blushed when Farid put him on his arm. ‘Thank you, Jasper!’
Then he spun round. Orpheus’s voice came ringing down the cellar stairs. ‘A stranger? What are you talking about? How did he get past you?’
‘It’s the maid’s fault!’ Farid heard Oss protesting. ‘The red-haired maid let him in through the back door!’
Dustfinger listened to the sounds above, smiling the old mocking smile that Farid had missed so much. Sparks were dancing on his shoulders and his hair. They seemed to be shining even under his skin, and Farid’s own skin was hot, as if the fire had been licking it since he touched Dustfinger.
‘The fire …’ he whispered. ‘Is it in you?’
‘Maybe,’ Dustfinger whispered back. ‘I’m probably not entirely what I was, but I can do a few interesting new things.’
‘New things?’
Farid looked at him, eyes wide, but the voice of Orpheus came down again from above. ‘Smells of fire, does he? Let me past, you human rhinoceros! Is his face scarred?’
‘No. Why?’ Oss sounded offended.
And footsteps came down the stairs again, heavy and uncertain footsteps this time. Orpheus hated climbing either up or down stairs, and Farid heard him cursing.
‘Meggie read Orpheus here!’ he whispered as he pressed close to Dustfinger’s side. ‘I asked her to do it because I thought he could bring you back!’
‘Orpheus?’ Dustfinger laughed again. ‘No, it was only Silvertongue’s voice I heard.’
‘His voice perhaps, but it was my words that brought you back!’ Orpheus stumbled down the last few steps, his face red from the wine. ‘Dustfinger. It really is you!’ There was genuine delight in his voice.
Oss appeared behind Orpheus, fear and rage on his coarse face. ‘Look at him, my lord!’ he managed to get out. ‘He’s not human. He’s a demon, or a spirit of the night. See those sparks on his hair? When I tried to hold on to him I almost burnt my fingers – as if the executioner had put red-hot coals in my hands!’
‘Yes, yes,’ was all Orpheus said. ‘He comes from far away, very far away. Such a journey can change a man.’ He was staring at Dustfinger as if afraid he might dissolve into thin air at any moment – or, more likely, into a few lifeless words on a sheet of paper.
‘I’m so glad you’re back!’ he stammered, his voice awkward with longing. ‘And your scars have gone! How amazing. I didn’t write that. Well, anyway … you’re back! This world is worth only half as much without you, but now it will all be as wonderful as it was when I first read about you in Inkheart. It was always the best of all stories, but now you’ll be its hero – you alone, thanks to my art that took you home and now has even brought you back from the realm of Death!’
‘Your art? More likely Silvertongue’s courage.’ Dustfinger made a flame dance on his hand. It took on the shape of a White Woman so distinctly that Oss cowered against the cellar wall in terror.
‘Nonsense!’ For a moment Orpheus sounded like a boy with hurt feelings, but he soon had himself in hand again. ‘Nonsense!’ he repeated, with more self-control this time, although his tongue was still rather thick from the wine. ‘Whatever he told you, it isn’t true. I did it all.’
‘He didn’t tell me anything. He didn’t have to. He was there, he and his voice.’
‘But I had the idea – and I wrote the words! He was only my tool.’ Orpheus spluttered the last word as furiously as if he were spitting it into Silvertongue’s face.
‘Ah yes … your words! Very cunning words, according to all I’ve heard from him.’ The image of the White Woman was still burning on Dustfinger’s hand. ‘Maybe I ought to take those words to Silvertongue so that he can read them once more and find out what kind of part you intended him to play in all this.’
Orpheus stood up very straight. ‘I wrote them like that for you, only for you!’ he cried in an injured voice. ‘That was all I cared about – for you to come back. Why would that bookbinder interest me? After all, I had to offer Death something!’
Dustfinger blew gently into the flame burning on his hand. ‘Oh, I understand you very well!’ he said quietly, while the fire formed the shape of a bird, a golden bird with a red breast. ‘I understand a good deal now that I’ve been on the other side, and I know two things for sure: Death obeys no words, and Silvertongue – not you – went to the White Women.’
‘He was the only one who could call them. What was I supposed to do?’ cried Orpheus. ‘And he did it for his wife! Not for you!’
‘Well now, I’d call that a good reason.’ The fiery bird fell apart in Dustfinger’s hand. ‘And as for the words … to be honest, I like his voice so much better than yours, even if the sound of it didn’t always make me happy. Silvertongue’s voice is full of love. Yours speaks only of yourself. Quite apart from the fact that you’re much too fond of reading words no one knows about, or forgetting a few you promised to read. Isn’t that so, Farid?’
Farid just stared at Orpheus, his face rigid with hate.
‘Be that as it may,’ Dustfinger went on as the flame in his hand lick
ed out of the ashes again, forming the shape of a tiny skull, ‘I’ll take the words with me. And the book.’
‘The book?’ Orpheus stepped back as if the fire on Dustfinger’s hand had turned into a snake.
‘Yes, Inkheart, you stole it from Farid, remember? That hardly makes it yours … even if you seem to be busily making use of it, from all I hear. Rainbow-coloured fairies, spotted brownies, unicorns … they say there are even dwarves in the castle now. What’s the idea of all that? Weren’t the blue fairies beautiful enough for you? The Milksop kicks the dwarves, and you bring unicorns here only to die.’
‘No, no!’ Orpheus raised his hands defensively. ‘You don’t understand! I have great plans for this story. I’m still working on them, but believe me, it will be wonderful! Fenoglio left so much unsaid, there was so much he didn’t describe – I’m going to change it all, I’m going to improve it …’
Dustfinger turned his hand over and dropped the ashes on the floor of Orpheus’s cellar. ‘You sound like Fenoglio himself – but I’d guess you’re much worse than he is. This world is spinning its own threads. The two of you only confuse them – take them apart and put them together again in ways that don’t really fit, instead of leaving it to the people who live in the place to improve it.’
‘Like who, for instance?’ Orpheus’s voice turned vicious. ‘The Bluejay? Since when has he belonged here?’
Dustfinger shrugged his shoulders. ‘Who knows? Perhaps all of us belong in more than one story. Now, bring me the book. Or shall I ask Farid to go and get it?’
Orpheus was staring at him as bitterly as a rejected lover.
‘No!’ he got out at last. ‘I need it. The book stays here. You can’t take it away from me. I’m warning you. Fenoglio’s not the only one who can write words to harm you! I can—’
‘I’m not afraid of words any more,’ Dustfinger interrupted impatiently. ‘Neither yours nor Fenoglio’s. And neither of you was able to dictate how I’d die. Have you forgotten that?’ He reached into the air, and a burning torch grew from his hand. ‘Bring me the book,’ he said, giving it to Farid. ‘Bring everything he’s written. Every word.’
Farid nodded. He was back. Dustfinger was back!
‘You must take the list too!’ Jasper’s voice was as slight as his