And I helped him to disappear into it again, but what about me? Hopeless.” He laughed, a sad and bitter laugh. “I just hope he doesn’t have to die the death that idiot of an author intended for him.
No, he can’t! He’ll be all right, I’m sure he will. After all, Capricorn is dead and Basta’s a coward.
Do you know, I wrote to that Fenoglio, the author, when I was twelve, telling him he must change his story, or at least write a sequel in which Dustfinger comes back? He never answered my letter, any more than Inkheart ever had a sequel. Oh well.” Orpheus sighed deeply.
Dustfinger, Dustfinger . . Elinor compressed her lips. Who cared what happened to the matchstick-eater? Keep calm, Elinor, don’t go off the deep end again, you must be clever now, clever, go carefully. . Easier said than done.
“Listen, if you’d like to be in that book so much” – and this time she really did manage to make her voice sound as if what she was saying didn’t matter all that much to her – “then why not just bring Meggie back? She knows how you can read yourself into a story. She’s done it! I’m sure she can tell you how to do it or read you over there, too.”
Orpheus’s round face darkened so suddenly that Elinor immediately knew she had made a bad mistake. How could she have forgotten what a vain, conceited creature he was?
“No one,” said Orpheus softly, rising slowly and menacingly from her chair, “no one can tell me anything about the art of reading. Certainly not a little girl!”
Now he’ll put you straight back in the cellar, thought Elinor. What am I going to do? Think, Elinor, try to find the right answer in your silly head! Do something! Surely you can think up something!
“Oh, of course not!” she stammered. “No one but you could have read Dustfinger back. No one.
But –”
“No buts. You watch out.” Orpheus posed as if he were about to sing an aria onstage and picked up the book lying on the chair where he had so carelessly put it down. He opened it right where the dog-ear disfigured the creamy white page, ran the tip of his tongue over his lips as if he had to smooth them so that the words would flow freely – and then his voice filled Elinor’s library again, the captivating voice that did not suit his outward appearance in the least. Orpheus read as if he were letting his favourite food melt in his mouth, relishing it, greedy for the sound of the letters, pearls melting on his tongue, words like seeds from which he was making life emerge.
Perhaps he really was the greatest master ever of his art. He certainly practiced it with the utmost passion.
“There is a tale of a certain shepherd, Tudur of Llangollen, who came across a troop of faeries, dancing to the tune of a tiny fiddler.” A faint chirping sound arose behind Elinor, but when she turned around there was no one to be seen but Sugar, listening to Orpheus’s voice with a bewildered expression on his face. ” Tudur tried to resist the enchanting strains, but finally, throwing his cap in the air and shouting, ‘Now for it, then, play away, old devil!’ he joined in. ”
The fiddling grew shriller and shriller, and when Elinor turned around this time she saw a man standing in her library, surrounded by small creatures dressed in leaves and prancing around on his bare feet like a dancing bear, while a step or so away a tiny little thing with a bellflower on its head was playing a fiddle hardly larger than an acorn.
“Immediately, a pair of horns appeared on the fiddler’s head and a tail sprouted from beneath his coat!” Orpheus let his voice swell until he was almost singing. ” The dancing sprites turned into goats, dogs, cats, and foxes, and they and Tudur spun around in a dizzying frenzy. ”
Elinor pressed her hands to her mouth. There they were, emerging from behind the armchair, leaping over the stacks of books, dancing on the open pages with their muddy hooves. The dog jumped up and barked at them.
“Stop it!” Elinor cried to Orpheus. “Stop it at once!” He closed the book with a triumphant smile.
“Chase them out into the garden!” he told Sugar, who was standing there transfixed. Confused, the man groped his way over to the door, opened it – and let the whole troop dance past him, fiddling, screeching, barking, bleating, on down Elinor’s corridor and past her bedroom, until the noise gradually died away.
“No one,” repeated Orpheus, and now there was not the smallest trace of a smile to be seen on his round face, “no one can teach Orpheus anything about the art of reading. And did you notice?
Nothing disappeared! Maybe a few bookworms if there are any in your library, maybe a couple of flies. . ”
“Maybe a couple of motorists down on the road,” added Elinor in a hoarse voice, but unfortunately there was no hiding the fact that she was impressed.
“Maybe!” said Orpheus, carelessly shrugging his round shoulders.
“But that wouldn’t make any difference to my mastery, would it? And now I hope you understand something about the art of cooking, because I’m sick and tired of what Sugar serves up. And I’m hungry. I’m always hungry when I’ve been reading aloud.”
“Cooking?” Elinor practically choked on her rage. “You expect me to act as your cook in my own house?”
“Well, of course. Make yourself useful. Or do you want to give Sugar the idea that you and your stammering friend are superfluous to requirements? He’s in a bad mood, anyway, because he hasn’t yet found anything worth stealing in your house. No, we really don’t want to put any stupid notions into his head, do we?”
Elinor took a deep breath and tried to control her trembling knees. “No. No, we don’t,” she said, turned – and went into the kitchen.
Chapter 32 – The Wrong Man
So she placed the healing herb in his mouth – he slept straightaway. She covered him most carefully. He still slept on the livelong day.
– Wolfram von Eschenbach, Parsifal
Resa and Mo were alone in the cave when they came in: two .women and four men. Two of the men had been sitting by the fire with Cloud-Dancer: Sootbird the fire-eater and Twofingers. His face was no friendlier by daylight, and the others, too, were looking so hostile that Resa instinctively moved closer to Mo. Only Sootbird seemed to feel awkward.
Mo was asleep. He had slept this uneasy, fevered sleep for many days now, and it made Nettle shake her head anxiously. The six strolling players stopped only a few paces away from him.
They loomed between Resa and the daylight coming in from outside. One of the women stepped out in front of the rest of them. She wasn’t particularly old, but her fingers were crooked like a bird’s claws.
“He must go!” she said. “Today. He’s not one of us, and nor are you.”
“What do you mean?” Hard as Resa was trying to sound calm, her voice shook. “He can’t go anywhere. He’s still too weak.”
If only Nettle had been there! But she had gone away muttering something about sick children –
and the root of an herb that might perhaps cure Mo’s fever. The six would have felt afraid of Nettle, they’d have been respectful and timid, but to the strolling players Resa was only a stranger, a desperate stranger with a mortally sick husband – even if none of them guessed just how much of a stranger she was in this world.
“It’s the children .. you must see how we feel!” The other woman was still very young, and she was pregnant. She placed one protective hand on her belly. “A man like him puts our children in danger, and Martha’s right, you don’t even belong to us. This is the only place where they let us stay. No one drives us away, but once they hear the Bluejay is here, that will be over. They’ll say we were hiding him.”