Inkheart (18 page)

Capricorn's men were in a hurry. They led Mo, Meggie, and Elinor back the way Basta had brought them the night before. The flat-faced man went ahead of them and the man with the goatee brought up the rear, shotgun at the ready. He dragged one leg as he walked, but nonetheless he kept urging them on, as if to prove he could move faster than they could even though he limped.

Even by day Capricorn's village appeared curiously deserted, and not just because of the many empty houses, which looked even more dismal in the sunlight. There was hardly anyone to be seen in the narrow alleys, only a few of the Black Jackets, as Meggie had secretly dubbed them, with skinny boys following them like puppies. Meggie only twice saw a woman passing in a hurry. She could see no children playing or running after their mothers, only cats: black, white,
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ginger, tortoiseshell, tabby cats, lying in the warm sun on top of walls, in doorways, on lintels. It was deathly quiet among the houses of Capricorn's village, and everything that went on seemed to be done in secret. Only the men with the guns didn't hide. They hung around together in gateways and at the corners of buildings, leaning lovingly on their weapons as they talked. There were no flowers outside the houses like the flowers Meggie had seen in the towns and villages all along the coast; instead roofs had fallen in and wild bushes were in bloom, growing out through glassless windows. Some shrubs were so heavy with scent that they made Meggie feel dizzy.

When they reached the square outside the church, Meggie thought the two men were taking them to Capricorn's house again, but they passed it on their left and went straight to the big church door. The tower of the church looked as if wind and weather had been wearing the masonry down for a dangerously long time. A rusty bell hung under the pointed roof, and barely a meter lower down a seed carried by the wind had grown into a stunted tree that now clung to the sand-colored stone.

There were eyes painted on the church door, narrow red eyes, and ugly stone demons the height of a man stood on either side of the entrance, their teeth bared like savage dogs.

"Welcome to the devil's house!" said the bearded man with a mocking bow before opening the heavy door.

"Don't do that, Cockerell!" the flat-faced man snapped at him, spitting three times on the dusty paving stones at his feet. "It's bad luck."

The man with the goatee just laughed and patted the fat belly of one of the stone figures. "Oh, come on, Flatnose. You're almost as bad as Basta. Carry on like this and you'll be hanging a stinking rabbit's foot around your own neck, too."

"I like to be on the safe side," growled Flatnose. "You hear strange tales."

"Yes, and who made them up? We did, you fool."

"Some of them date from before our time."

"Whatever happens," Mo whispered to Elinor and Meggie as the two men argued, "leave the talking to me. A sharp tongue can be dangerous here, believe me. Basta is quick to draw his knife, and he'll use it, too."

"Basta's not the only one here with a knife, Silvertongue!" said Cockerell, pushing Mo into the dark church. Meggie hurried after him.

It was dim and chilly inside the church. The morning light made its way in only through a few windows, painting pale patches high up on the walls and columns. No doubt these had once been gray like the flagstones on the floor, but now there was only one color in Capricorn's church.

Everything was red. The walls, the columns, even the ceiling, were vermilion, the color of raw meat or dried blood. For a moment, Meggie felt as if she had stepped into the belly of some monster.

In a corner near the entrance stood the statue of an angel. A wing was broken off, and the black jacket of one of Capricorn's men had been hung over the other wing while someone had stuck a pair of fancy-dress horns on her head, the kind children wear to parties. Her halo was still there
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between them. The angel had probably once stood on the stone plinth in front of the first column; now she had had to give way to another statue, whose gaunt, waxen face seemed to look down at Meggie with a supercilious expression. Whoever had carved it wasn't very good at his trade; its features were painted like the face of a plastic doll, with oddly red lips and blue eyes that held none of the cold detachment that the colorless eyes of the real Capricorn turned on the world. But, to make up for that, the statue was at least twice the height of its living model, and all who passed it had to tilt back their heads to look up at its pale face.

"Is that allowed, Mo?" asked Meggie quietly. "Putting up a statue of yourself in a church?"

"Oh, it's a very old custom!" Elinor whispered back. "Statues in churches aren't often the statues of saints. Most saints couldn't have paid the sculptor. In the cathedral of—"

Cockerell prodded her in the back so roughly that she stumbled forward. "Get a move on!" he growled. "And bow next time you pass him, understand?"

"Bow!" Elinor was going to stand her ground, but Mo quickly made her go on. "Who on earth can take this circus seriously?" she said crossly.

"If you don't keep your mouth shut," Mo told her in a whisper, "you'll soon find out how seriously they take everything here."

Elinor looked at the scratch on his forehead and said no more.

Capricorn's church contained no pews of the kind Meggie had seen in other churches, just two long wooden tables with benches, one on each side of the nave. There were dirty plates on them, coffee-stained mugs, wooden boards where cheese rinds lay, knives, sausages, empty bread baskets. Several women were busy clearing all this away. Without pausing in their work, they glanced up as Cockerell and Flatnose passed with their three captives. Meggie thought they looked like birds hunching their heads down beneath their wings in case someone might knock them off.

Not only were the pews missing from Capricorn's church, but the altar had gone, too. In its place there now stood a massive chair, upholstered in red and with designs carved thickly into its legs and arms. Leading up to it were four shallow steps, carpeted in black. Meggie wasn't sure why she counted them. And, crouching on the top step just a few paces away from the chair, his sandy hair ruffled as usual, was Dustfinger, apparently lost in thought as he let Gwin run up and down his outstretched arm.

As Meggie came down the nave with Mo and Elinor, Dustfinger raised his head briefly. Gwin climbed up to his shoulder, baring his tiny teeth, sharp as splinters of glass, as if he had recognized the hatred in Meggie's eyes as they rested on his master. Now she knew why the marten had horns, and why his twin was shown on the page of a book. She understood it all: why Dustfinger thought the world was too fast and too noisy; why he didn't understand cars and often looked as if he were somewhere else entirely. But she felt none of the sympathy Mo had shown for him. His scarred face only reminded her of the lies he had told to lure her out to him, like the Pied Piper in the story. He had played with her as he played with fire; with his brightly colored juggler's balls: Come along, Meggie; this way, Meggie; trust me, Meggie. She felt like running up the steps and striking his lying mouth.

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Dustfinger must have guessed her thoughts and was avoiding her eyes. Not looking at Mo and Elinor either, he put a hand in his pants pocket and brought out a matchbox. As if unconscious of what he was doing, he took out a match, lit it, and gazed at the flame, lost in thought as he passed a finger through it almost caressingly until it singed his fingertip.

Meggie looked away. She didn't want to see him; she wanted to forget he was there. To her left, at the foot of the steps, stood two drum-shaped iron braziers, rusty brown, with wood heaped up in them: pale, freshly cut firewood, log upon log. Meggie was just wondering what the wood was for when more steps echoed through the church. Basta was walking down the nave with a gas can in his hand. Reluctantly, Cockerell and Flatnose gave way as he pushed past them.

"Ah, so Dustfinger's playing with his best friend again," he sneered as he climbed the shallow steps. Dustfinger lowered the matchstick and straightened up. "Here you are," said Basta, putting the gas can down at his feet. "Another toy for you. Light us a fire; that's what you like best."

Dustfinger threw away the spent match and lit another. "So how about you?" he asked quietly, raising the burning match to Basta's face. "Still afraid of fire, are you?"

Basta knocked the match out of his hand.

"Oh, you shouldn't do that!" said Dustfinger. "It means bad luck. You know how quickly fire takes offense."

For a moment Meggie thought Basta was going to hit him, and she wasn't the only one. All eyes were turned on the two men. But something seemed to protect Dustfinger. Perhaps it really was the fire.

"You're lucky I just cleaned my knife!" spat Basta. "One more trick like that, though, and I'll carve a few nice new patterns on your ugly face. And make myself a fur collar out of your marten."

Gwin uttered a soft, threatening snarl and wrapped himself around Dustfinger's neck. Dustfinger bent, picked up the spent matches, and put them back in the matchbox. "Yes, I'm sure you'd enjoy that," he said, still without looking at Basta. "But why would I want to light a fire just now, I wonder?"

"Never you mind that, just do it. Then the rest of us can keep it fed. But make sure it's a large, hungry blaze, not one of the tame little fires you like to play with."

Dustfinger picked up the gas can and slowly climbed down the steps. He was standing beside the rusty braziers when the church door opened for the second time.

Meggie turned at the sound of the heavy wooden door creaking and saw Capricorn appear between the red columns. He glanced at his statue, as if to make sure it still gave a flattering enough image of him, then strode quickly down the nave. He was wearing a suit as red as the church walls. Only the shirt beneath it was black, and he had a black feather in his buttonhole. A good half-dozen of his men were following him, like crows following a peacock. Their steps seemed to echo all the way up to the ceiling. Meggie reached for Mo's hand.

"Ah, so our guests are here already," said Capricorn, stopping in front of them. "Did you sleep well, Silvertongue?" He had curiously soft, curving, almost feminine lips, and as he spoke he kept running his little finger along them as if to trace them. They were as bloodless as the rest of his
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face. "Wasn't it kind of me to reunite you with your little girl last night? At first I meant it to be a surprise present for you today, but then I thought: Capricorn, you really owe that child something for bringing you what you've wanted so long, and of her own free will, too."

He was holding
Inkheart.
Meggie saw Mo's gaze linger on the book. Capricorn was a tall man, but Mo stood a few centimeters taller, which obviously displeased Capricorn. He stood very upright, as if that would make up for the difference.

"Let Elinor take my daughter home with her," said Mo. "Let them go and I'll try to read you back again. I'll read you anything you like, but let the two of them go first."

What was he talking about? Meggie looked at him in horror. "No!" she said. "No, Mo, I don't want to go away." But no one was paying any attention to her.

"Let them go?" Capricorn turned to his men. "Hear that? Why would I do such a crazy thing now that they're here?" The men laughed. But Capricorn turned to Mo again. "You know as well as I do that from now on you'll do whatever I want," he said. "Now that she's here, I'm sure you won't go on denying us a demonstration of your skill."

Mo squeezed Meggie's hand so hard her fingers hurt.

"And as for this book," said Capricorn, looking at
Inkheart
with as much dislike as if it had bitten his pale fingers, "this extremely tedious, stupid, and extraordinarily long-winded book, I can assure you I have no intention of ever again letting myself be spellbound by its story. All those troublesome creatures, those fluttering fairies with their twittering voices, the swarming, scrabbling, stupid beasts everywhere, the smell of fur and dung. All through this book you kept falling over bandy-legged goblins in the marketplace, and when you went hunting the giants scared the game away with their huge feet. Talking trees, whispering pools — was there anything in that world that didn't have the power of speech! And then those endless muddy roads to the nearest town, if it could be called a town — that pack of well-born, finely dressed princes in their castles, those stinking peasants, so poor there was nothing to be gotten out of them, and the vagabonds and beggars with vermin dropping from their hair — oh, how sick I was of them all."

Capricorn made a sign, and one of his men brought in a large cardboard box. You could see from the way he carried it that it was very heavy. The man put it down on the gray flagstones in front of Capricorn with a sigh of relief. Capricorn handed Cockerell, who was standing beside him, the book that Mo had kept from him for so long, and bent to open the box. It was full to the brim with books.

"It's been a great deal of trouble finding them all," said Capricorn as he reached into the box and took out two books. "They may look different, but the contents are the same. The fact that the story has been printed in several languages made the search even more difficult — a particularly useless feature of this world, all those different languages. It was simpler in our own world, wasn't it, Dustfinger?"

Dustfinger made no answer. He stood there holding the gas can and staring at the box. Capricorn strolled over to him and threw the two books into one of the braziers.

"What are you doing?" Dustfinger tried to snatch them out, but Basta pushed him away.

"Those stay where they are," he growled.

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Dustfinger stepped back, holding the can behind his back, but Basta grabbed it from his hands.

"Why, it looks as if our fire-eater would rather let someone else light the fire today," he mocked.

Dustfinger cast him a glance full of hatred. Face rigid, he watched Capricorn's men throw more and more books into the braziers. In the end there were more than two dozen copies of
Inkheart
on the piles of firewood, their pages crumpled, their bindings wrenched apart like broken wings.