Unwritten Books 1 - Unwritten Girl (6 page)

“Wait for what?” demanded Rosemary. “Where’s my brother?”

“Across the sea.” Puck turned Rosemary and Peter by the shoulders and placed his head between theirs. He pointed across the black sea to a speck of colour on the horizon. “There, my friends, look there. That is the Land of Fiction.”

“There?” said Rosemary. “How are we going to get over there? You were supposed to bring us
there
! We’re going to need a boat.”

“We have a boat, wise one,” said Puck. “We must wait for the Ferryman.”

“The Ferryman?” Peter repeated.

Carrying the white fruit, Puck led the two along the beach. A jetty came into view. No boats were in sight.

Puck sighed. “The Ferryman is never here when one needs him.” He flung the white fruit on the ground.

Peter and Rosemary scrambled back, expecting it to splatter. The fruit bounced, changing colour as it hit, swirling like an oil slick on water. The swirls shook as Puck bounced the ball again.

“What is that?” asked Peter.

“An idea — the fruit of an idea tree.” Puck grinned.

“Ideas grow on trees?” said Rosemary.

“Where else would they be?” said Puck. “Tis a shame they are not more common.” He bounced the ball once and twirled it to Peter and Rosemary.

Written in black text on a white stripe were the words, “What if rugs could fly?”

Puck bounced the ball again.

The words now said, “What if we could make time run backwards?”

“Ideas fall from the trees and are blown across this beach,” said Puck, “and into the great black sea that
surrounds the Land of Fiction. In time, they build the Land itself.”

Peter reached for the ball. “Let me try!” Puck handed it to him. Peter bounced it.

“What if we could travel at the speed of thought?”

Rosemary stared at the swirling fruit. The words from a book echoed in her mind. She shivered.

“Neat,” said Peter. “But why is this ‘fruit’ made of rubber?”

“So I can do this,” said Puck. He snatched up the ball and bounced it off of Peter’s head.

He ducked away. “Hey! What are you doing?”

“I am bouncing an idea off you!” Puck held it up. It read: “What am I doing here?”

Peter gaped. “What?”

“Some ideas can be specific to the individual,” said Puck. He moved to bounce the ball again.

“Give me that!” Peter grabbed the ball and bounced it off Rosemary’s head.

The ball swirled, and a line of text took shape. “What if I can’t get Theo back? What if we get stuck here? What if we get hurt? What if we can’t —” The line wound around and around until it was like a ball of string.

Puck pulled the ball away. “You are indeed wise, Sage Rosemary. Your mind is full of many thoughts.”

Rosemary gaped. “Wait —”

But Puck tossed the ball high into the air. It arced over the beach and landed in the sea. It bobbed on the surface for a few seconds before sinking beneath the waves. “We’ve had our fun,” he said, waving them forward, “but now our ride has come. Move along, my children, along!”

Peter and Rosemary saw movement on the black sea. A boat was gliding across the surface, and a shrouded figure was standing on the prow.

The boat pulled up to the jetty and stopped. The figure floated off. Covered from head to toe in a black cloak, he advanced on the party as though he were gliding on air, though they heard the boards creak beneath him over the slap of oily waves. Peter and Rosemary backed into Puck.

The Ferryman stopped. “Who asks for passage across the Sea?” The voice boomed from the dark space under his hood.

Puck nudged Rosemary forward. She swallowed hard and tried her best to curtsy. Her jeans made it feel silly. “I do.”

“And who are you?”

“Rosemary Ella Watson.”

“And who are your companions?”

“Robin Goodfellow, her guide,” said Puck.

There was a moment’s silence, then Puck nudged Peter. He started. “Peter Calvin McAllister.”

“The lady’s champion,” Puck finished.

“What?” squawked Peter.

“And why do you seek to cross?”

Rosemary looked to Puck. He nodded. She turned back to the Ferryman. “To rescue my brother from the Land of Fiction.”

“That is worthy,” said the Ferryman. “You may now pay the fare.”

“The fare?” said Rosemary. “I didn’t bring much money —”

“The fare is not money. You must each submit a verse of your own. If I find the three verses good, then all three may cross. If not, another fare is required.”

“Oh!” said Puck. “I’ll start.”

If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended,
That you have but slumber’d here
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream,
Gentles, do not reprehend:
if you pardon, we will mend:
And, as I am an honest Puck,
If we have unearned luck
Now to ’scape the serpent’s tongue,
We will make amends ere long;
Else the Puck a liar call;
So, good night unto you all.
Give me your hands, if we be friends,
And Robin shall restore amends.

“Hey!” said Peter. “You didn’t make that up — William Shakespeare did!”

Puck smiled. “Yes, but those few words first did come from my lips.”

The Ferryman bowed. “I accept your verse. Who goes next?”

“I guess I will,” said Peter. He took a deep breath.

There once was a bright boy from Clarksbury
w-who was confronted with much sound and fury ...
He did his best ...
To keep up with the ... rest?
Cause he wanted to go home in a hurry.

The Ferryman considered for a moment, then said, “I accept your verse. And now you, girl.”

Rosemary stood, wide-eyed. She opened her mouth, but no words came.

“Rosemary?” said Peter.

She shot him a look of desperation.

Peter stepped towards the Ferryman. “I can do another one.”

“No!” The Ferryman pushed Peter back. “It has to come from her.”

Rosemary swallowed hard. “One proton, two proton, three proton, four ... hydrogen, helium, lithium ... more?”

The Ferryman looked at her with thundering silence.

Rosemary drooped. Then she looked up. “You said there was another fare?”

“Failing the first fare, instead of three tasks between you, you now have six.”

Rosemary went white. “
Six poems
?”

“No. You must show me that you believe in six impossible things before you may cross.”

“Like Alice in Wonderland,” Peter muttered.

“The White Queen, actually,” said Puck. “I’ll start. I live within a house the size of a thimble, and I believe that all that I say is a lie.”

“Hey!” said Peter. “If everything you say is a lie, then how —”

“Shh,” said Puck. “Your turn.”

Before Peter could say anything, Rosemary jumped in. “Well, I’m standing right here, and that’s impossible.”

“Go ahead, take the easy one!” Peter looked as if smoke was going to rise from his head. He turned away and gnawed a knuckle before snapping his fingers.

“Bumblebees!”

“What?” said Rosemary.

“They say it’s impossible for bumblebees to fly, but they do!”

“That’s because they flap their wings,” huffed Rosemary. “If they didn’t, they’d drop like stones.”

The Ferryman’s voice cut between them. “Two more.”

They stood in silence, looking around for inspiration. Peter stuffed his hands in his pockets, digging a toe in the paper-coloured sand. The waves slapped the shore. Suddenly he blurted out, “I ... I believe my parents are alive. I wake up and I think that they’re downstairs making breakfast and then I ... is that okay?”

“And you?” The Ferryman turned towards Rosemary.

Rosemary had been staring at Peter; she jerked up at the Ferryman’s voice. Everyone stood still and silent. Finally a small smile dawned on her face. She took a deep breath. “I believe I can save Theo.”

The Ferryman put forth a long hand to the boat. “Board.”

They clambered aboard. Peter and Rosemary jammed themselves into a narrow bench while Puck lounged on the remaining seat. The Ferryman stood at the prow. Without oars or sails, the boat glided forward into the sea. As Rosemary glanced at the grey-on-black
horizon, Peter nudged her. “Um, the fare ... isn’t saving Theo the reason we’re here?”

She looked at him. “So?”

“So? Well, if you believe it and it’s impossible ... aren’t we in trouble? Or isn’t it impossible?”

“Do you want off this boat?” asked Rosemary.

“Just asking!”

Rosemary turned away. She dipped her hand in the water and wrinkled her nose at the faint chemical smell, like permanent markers. “Why is this water so dark?”

“Water it is not, Rosemary,” said Puck. “This is the Sea of Ink.”

She pulled her arm out. It was black to her elbow. “This is ink?”

“Indelible ink, I fear.”

She tried to wipe her arm clean on her jeans, but only smeared them. “Great,” she muttered. “Just great.”

“The Sea of Ink surrounds the Land of Fiction,” said Puck. “It would be wise to keep your hands within the boat. You too, Peter.”

He pointed to a wave on the sea. Then Rosemary saw that it wasn’t a wave, but the silhouette of a girl, a few years younger than she was, rising out of the water. Her black mouth was open, taking in a great gulp of air before she sank back beneath the waves.

“A character is born,” said Puck.

Rosemary shuddered.

Something bumped the boat. Peter and Rosemary looked over the side and saw the dorsal fin of a great black shark sink below the surface. Peter pulled his arm away from the edge. “Can they capsize the boat?”

“No, I think not,” said Puck. “The Ferryman has crossed this sea since I was put to paper. Few of his fares have been lost.”

“Few?” squeaked Peter.

“The sea is getting thick with characters,” said Rosemary.

Other shapes bobbed on the waves. The silhouette of a man in a bowler hat and a suit, carrying a long, black umbrella, walked upright on a swell. He tipped his hat to a teenage girl who cartwheeled past, half submerged. Nearby, a warrior held his black sword high as he sank beneath the surface.

“All the characters in fiction come from here?” asked Rosemary.

“Most,” said Puck. “Legendary characters are uncertain of birth, but King Arthur rises every fortnight.”

Peter pointed ahead. “I see the other jetty.”

The boat coasted up to the jetty and stopped with a crunch against the shore. The beach of white sand stretched ahead for several feet before becoming darker and stonier. Trees rose up further inland, and a forest stretched into the distance.

Puck leapt lightly out and helped Rosemary and Peter step onto the jetty. Then he crossed his arms and bowed low to the Ferryman. He gave Peter and Rosemary a glance, and they mimicked the gesture. The Ferryman bowed in return.

Rosemary started up the beach, with Peter close behind, but Puck stopped them and turned them back to the sea.

“Look,” he said. “New characters begin their stories.”

Black shapes surfaced from the ink and crawled onto the shore. There, the ink dried on them, changing colour, and they got to their feet as princes and princesses, dwarfs and elves, orphans and detectives, monsters and villains. From the shore, they walked in straight lines to their destinies.

Peter and Rosemary stared after them, awed.

“Come,” said Puck, nudging them forward. “Let us begin our own story.” And they crossed the beach and slipped in among the trees.

INTO THE WOODS

“What did she ever do to you?”

— Theo Watson

F
ive steps into the trees, Rosemary froze. Peter bumped into her. They looked up and around at the dense canopy and the little slivers of sky. Already they couldn’t see the beach that had been behind them. The scenery had changed as completely as if somebody had turned a page.

Puck bounded ahead of them, not bothered by the dense forest. Peter started after, but Rosemary pulled him to a stop. “Wait! Where are we going? What do we do?”

Puck stopped and came back, hunching down to Rosemary’s height, his hands on his knees. “The Land of Fiction is a patchwork of stories,” he said, “each with its own setting and its own challenge to face. We proceed through them until we find and rescue Theo.”

“But where is Theo?” asked Rosemary.

“That’s easy,” said Peter. “If he’s a prisoner in a storybook, then he is in a dungeon, right? How many dungeons are there in the Land of Fiction?”

“Four hundred and sixty-two thousand, five hundred and ninety-three,” said Puck.

Peter’s face fell.

“But we will not find Theo in a dungeon,” said Puck. “Find one and you will find them all; it is too insecure. No, to find Theo, we must proceed to the centre of the island.” He waved them forward.

Rosemary didn’t move. “Why the centre of the island?”

“Because it is the highest point of land,” said Puck. “It is a goal to strive for. Once we reach the peak, we will come to the climax of our story, and you will find Theo.”

“That’s kind of stupid,” said Peter.

“Tsk, tsk! Trust your native guide!” Puck beckoned Peter and Rosemary forward.

Peter and Rosemary glanced at each other, and then stopped in their tracks. They stared at each other, then at themselves.

Their clothes had changed. Instead of jeans and a winter coat, Peter was wearing a medieval tunic and stockings, leather shoes, and a leather cap with a feather sticking out of it. Slung over his shoulder was a longbow.

Rosemary was in a pink and white dress that stretched to her ankles. There was something on her head. She tried to yank it off. “Ow!”

After pulling off the pins, she disentangled a cone-shaped storybook princess hat. “I look like a fairy godmother! A
short
fairy godmother!”

Puck sighed and stepped back.

“Why did our clothes change?” asked Peter.

“To make you more suitable to the setting,” said Puck.

Rosemary cast aside her cone hat. She poked her foot out from beneath the hem of her dress and peered at her cloth slippers. “How am I going to get through the forest in this?”