by Toby Forward
“Herded and led,” said Cabbage. “Better do as he says.”
So they followed.
“Does he know what he’s doing?” asked Jackbones.
“Of course,” said December.
“You know better than to ask,” said Cabbage.
It was still early when they saw the smoke from the house. Sam’s face in the window. Tamrin felt December’s eyes search her out. She felt the woman’s sense of sorrow as she saw that Tam had not known that Sam was there.
Tam looked up to avoid her eyes. Starback hovered, dipped, flapped his huge wings, and soared away, too fast to follow.
Tadpole tried to reach for his knife,
and his hand wouldn’t do as it was told. He couldn’t move. He clutched the top of the roffle pack with both hands and anchored himself to it.
He stared ahead, eyes wide, mouth tight shut.
The lace dangled against his ear and whispered. “Once you’re inside Boolat, you never get out.”
Tadpole was holding his body so rigid that it hurt. His muscles were stone. His jaw was straining to remain still and not chatter with terror.
“Come on.” The fragile membrane trembled against his cheek. “Do you want to see Ash? I’ll take you to her.”
This unlocked Tadpole. He jumped from the roffle pack, seized his knife, stabbed out at the thing that was tormenting him. His hand met no resistance, yet he felt a damp wisp drag over his wrist. He stabbed again, into empty air.
“That won’t hurt me,” it whispered.
Tadpole steadied himself by resting his staff on the floor. Some light penetrated the darkness. There were gaps in the stonework. Mortar had crumbled, but it was dark outside and could not be coming from there. He looked up. High above his head a series of gratings opened, on to rushlight or tallow candles, perhaps. He took stock of his surroundings. The roffle door had led straight into the walls of the castle. Though the passageway was narrow, it was high. Dry enough, here, at any rate, though he could smell damp further off.
“I’m leaving now,” he said. “Don’t try to stop me.”
It brushed his face again. He swivelled his neck, trying to find it, looking for something. It seemed almost possible to make out a shape, thin and insubstantial. “Stay,” it said. Now that it spoke and he was waiting for it, he could see it.
It had a face. Small, thin and sad. Tadpole felt the fear pour out of him and he was filled instead with a heavy pity.
“Who are you?” he asked.
The face had a body. Tadpole was growing used to it. It reminded him of something. The face wrinkled up.
“What’s the matter?” asked Tadpole.
“Thinking. Wait.”
Tadpole used the time to make a more careful examination of it. Him, really. For he was definitely a person. Almost certainly a boy. About his own age.
“Maddie,” he said.
“What?”
“I’m Maddie. No, I’m not. Wait.”
He wrinkled his face again and thought harder. At last he smiled in triumph, and Tadpole waited for the answer.
“Who are you?” asked the boy.
“Tadpole.”
“Tadpole?”
“Yes.”
“Like the pond thing? The frog thing?”
“Yes.”
The boy put his hands on his head and Tadpole could see that the bones showed through the flesh. Even the bones were insubstantial, and Tadpole knew why it felt like lace.
“You’re not going to be a frog?”
“No. It’s a nickname.”
“What’s your proper name?”
“Doesn’t matter. What’s yours?”
“Taddie.”
“No, it’s not. That’s just a bit like mine.”
“Oh, is it?” His face showed deeper thought. “Mattie,” he said. “I’m Mattie.” Joy poured over his features and Tadpole wanted to cry.
Mattie leaned in and whispered to Tadpole. He felt the brush of lace against his ear. “No one talks to me,” he said. “I forgot it.”
Tadpole didn’t take his head away, even though the sense of damp lace was unpleasant. He didn’t want to hurt Mattie’s feelings.
“Tadpole?” said Mattie. “Why do you have a nickname?”
“All roffles do. Our real names are too long.”
A sly look came over Mattie’s face. “Wizards have different names,” he said. “Are you a wizard?”
“I’m a roffle. Roffles can’t be wizards.”
“Can’t they?”
“No.”
“Do you know why wizards have different names?”
“No. Why?”
“Do you want to see a wizard?”
“Here?” Tadpole felt alarmed at the thought of seeing Ash, excited that there might be a better wizard. Perhaps Sam had managed to get in. He gave Mattie a cautious reply. “Who is it?”
“Come and see.”
“No. Tell me. Is it Ash?”
Mattie rose from the floor and hovered. He weighed nothing at all, or near to nothing.
“Ash? No. A different wizard.” He settled back on the floor. “I can show you Ash. Do you want me to?”
“No. Are you her friend?”
Mattie rose again, higher this time, and took longer to get back down. He leaned in even closer and his face touched Tadpole’s. “She’s bad. I’m frightened of her.”
“Why would you show me, then?”
“Come on. See the wizards.”
Tadpole had no choice. He half-ran to keep up. Mattie swept through the hidden passageways. Soon, Tadpole had lost track of which way they had come. All he knew was that there were lots of different ways and that they had gone down many steps. The walls were damp now, slimy and glowing with green mould.
Mattie waved a warning hand to Tadpole. He slowed down and crept towards him. Mattie revealed a narrow opening from the passageway in the walls through into the corridors of the castle itself. It was a kitchen.
“Are they real people?” he asked.
“They used to be,” said Mattie. “Captured from villages, brought here as slaves. Kept alive by Ash’s magic. They live longer than people do usually.”
“And they’re cooking…”
“Yes. That’s right. That’s what they’re cooking. The takkabakks and the kravvins like it. And it amuses Ash.”
“Does she eat it?”
All the rules of kitchens were upside down. Tadpole could see rats running over tabletops and along the floor. Lice and cockroaches scuttled everywhere. They dropped from the ceiling into the vast boiling pans and died with a forlorn whistle. Hunks of rotting meat — from no animal that ever grazed a field or was penned in a farmyard — littered the tables. The cooks, great-muscled men and women with filthy hands and faces, their own flesh rotting on their bones, hacked at the joints, tossed them into roasting pans, speared them on spits. Noise and heat and rush and rot.
“Ash doesn’t eat,” said Mattie. “Not really. She just likes to see this. She comes down here sometimes to feed her pets.”
He tugged Tadpole’s sleeve and they moved on. The next gap took them into a small cell. The door was ajar, letting light in from the corridor. There was no window.
“Here’s a wizard,” said Mattie.
Tadpole couldn’t see anyone. Just a filthy heap of straw in one corner.
“There’s no one here,” said Tadpole.
Mattie drifted over to the straw. He leaned over and pulled it away. An old man, skin drawn tight over bone, lay curled up, like a mouse in a nest.
“Dead,” said Mattie. “They all die.”
Tadpole stayed back. “He was a wizard?”
“Yes. He came here to save someone, and was trapped. Ash made him take a long time to die.”
“I want to go,” said Tadpole.
“There’s another one.”
“Dead?”
Mattie made his thinking face again. “I don’t know. I haven’t looked for a while.”
“How lo
ng since you looked?”
Mattie giggled. Tadpole didn’t like the sound.
“How long?” asked Mattie. “For ever. Come and see.”
He slid back into the passageway. Tadpole thought that they only walked far enough to get to the next cell before they stepped out again.
“Is this a dungeon?” he asked.
“Used to be cellars. Storerooms. No dungeon in the palace. But they’re dungeons now.”
This time there was a real person on the heap of straw. Tadpole had never seen anything like him. He was thin — starved thin. But it was his skin that was odd. He was the colour of old, polished oak. And he stared. Not at anything. Not at Tadpole. He didn’t turn his head. He made no move. His eyes were fixed on a spot just short of the wall opposite him.
“He doesn’t look like a wizard,” Tadpole whispered.
Though the man made no sign at all, no movement, Tadpole knew that he had heard, and he felt ashamed, talking about him.
“Hello,” he said. “I’m Tadpole.” And immediately felt foolish. It wasn’t a party.
The man didn’t turn his head. His gaze didn’t flicker from its invisible object. “Are you?” he said. “And what do you want here, Tadpole?”
“He’s a wizard,” said Mattie. “I told you.”
Tadpole moved towards him, knelt down, so their faces were level.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know why I’m here. Who are you? What did you do wrong?”
“Let’s go,” whispered Mattie. “I don’t talk to them.”
“He doesn’t,” said the man. “He never speaks. Just flits through and watches.”
“He’s called Mattie,” said Tadpole. “Who are you?”
“I’m Khazib,” he said, looking at Tadpole at last. “And I’m going to kill Ash.”
Mattie made a high moaning noise and slipped out of the cell, back into the hidden passageway.
“Are you really a wizard?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you just use your magic to escape?”
Khazib put his hand on Tadpole’s arm. His sleeve fell back and Tadpole could see his bones through the skin.
“Magic goes wrong in here,” he said. “It comes back to hurt you. Unless you’re Ash. And then it hurts everyone else.”
Mattie’s face appeared, through the gap. He was whimpering.
“Your friend wants to go,” said Khazib. “Go on.”
“What about you?”
Khazib smiled. “I was boasting,” he said. “When I said I was going to kill Ash. I don’t think I’ve strength enough for many more days.”
“You have,” said Tadpole. “I’ll come back for you. We’ll kill her together.”
Khazib took his hand away and looked again into the space between his eyes and the wall.
“Come on,” said Mattie. “Please.”
Tadpole hesitated a long time before he left Khazib.
Mattie had already moved on when Tadpole slipped back into the narrow gap. The roffle hurried to keep up.
Stairs up, now. The walls grew drier. The air cleaner. It was no effort for Mattie, light as a ghost. Tadpole began to pant with the effort and to sweat. He slowed down.
“Wait.”
Mattie carried on.
Tadpole started to move, balanced against the wall with one hand, and sat down on the step. He wiped his sleeve across his brow. It was a bit crowded, with his cloak, his roffle pack and his staff. On the other hand, he was pleased and interested to see that the cloak, rather than making him hotter, seemed to be cooling him.
He looked up the stairs, waiting for Mattie to come back. Air stroked his face, moving up, sucked in from some vent. He put his ear to the wall. Scratching. Takkabakks moving around. And harsh muttering. “Kill.” “Eat.” Tadpole wondered whether there was anything there for the kravvins to kill, or whether they always chanted like that, as lambs baa and birds sing.
“Mattie,” he whispered. “Mattie? I’m frightened. Come back.”
He listened again. Did the takkabakks hear him? No difference in the scratching.
“Mattie. I want a drink. I’m thirsty.”
For the first time since he had made his way Up Top there was no escape for Tadpole, no way back. No roffle doors up here. Only the steep straight stairs and the stone walls, pressing close on either side. Down was the dungeons. And up? Up, he guessed, was Ash. That was where Mattie was leading him.
“Mattie?” he whispered. “Please. Don’t leave me alone. Please.”
When no one came, Tadpole decided
he would just stay where he was. For ever if he had to.
Better to die of starvation on the stairs than to be killed by kravvins or to have to face Ash.
He tried making magic again. Just in case. He tapped the staff against the wall, thinking at the same time that he would like to see a window appear. He tried with his eyes open. Nothing. He tried with his eyes shut. Nothing. He tried whispering a spell. “Light, bright, shine tonight — window!” Nothing.
Perhaps it was too ambitious for a start? He pointed the staff down the stairs and, remembering what he had seen the other wizards do, he puffed out his cheeks and blew, thinking hard of stars, tumbling from the ceiling. Nothing.
He leaned the staff against the wall and opened his roffle pack. The inside was illuminated with roffle light. He took out Megapoir’s guide book.
He started to read the introduction, but he couldn’t carry on. Tears blurred his eyes.
INTRODUCTION
Many roffles have returned from Up Top with travellers’ tales of what life is like there. It is the way with travellers to, shall we say, forget, become uncertain about such small details as size, number, times, places, people, animals, magic, buildings and other things.
To be short about it, travellers make up as many stories as they tell the truth. Sometimes, they do it because they really do get mixed up. Sometimes, to impress. Sometimes, to frighten. To amuse. To instruct. To warn. To gain profit. To hide opportunities for riches. To send fortune seekers in the wrong direction. For good reasons and bad, they do not always tell the truth.
This guide is an attempt to give a full, true and clear description of what a young roffle will find when he first ventures Up Top.
If I have not actually seen and visited a place, then I only write about it if I have heard the same thing about it from at least three roffles who have been there separately.
For the most part, these are the accounts of my own travels, my own experiences and my own findings. Especially I remember that I once had a friend Up Top, the closest I ever knew.
I give this to my family, in the hope that it will serve them.
If you are reading this, then I shall be dead, and you will be about to embark on a great adventure, the most exciting journey a roffle ever makes.
I hope that my guide helps you, and that you remember Megapoir, who went there before you and saw wonders and magic and marvels beyond anything pen can write. Perhaps you, too, will make a friend.
And the stars. No roffle ever forgets his first sight of stars. Of all the beauties of the Deep World and Up Top, nothing matches them. They are the difference between us and the people there. We live with a boundary to our sky. Theirs has none, only the endless sea of lights above.
You will not let me down. You will not let your family down. You will not let yourself down.
Never forget, whatever beauty and magic you see Up Top, however much you love that world and its people, it is not your home, and it is not as lovely as the Deep World, where you belong.
Go well.
Come home.
Be cautious.
Be courteous.
Be courageous.
And never forget to look out for wizards.
He closed the book and dried his eyes. It didn’t matter. He knew the words by heart anyway, so he didn’t need to read them. He put the book away carefully and looked for other things.
The shield made him t
hink of Delver and the old roffle’s cottage with its higgledy-piggledy homeliness. He laid it on the step above him. There was a spare pair of shoes. He put those next to the shield. A handkerchief. He wiped his eyes, blew his nose and dropped it back into the pack. A cheese sandwich wrapped in greased paper. A small flask of water. He put these inside the curve of the upturned shield. He reached down for one more item amongst his travelling kit, leaning over to get to it, and felt the brush of lace against his neck.
Tadpole banged his head on the hard rim of the leather barrel in his speed to get clear. He slammed the lid on, before Mattie could look inside.
Mattie slipped past him and stood on the stair below, looking up.
Jackbones. That’s what the boy reminded him of. The old librarian had grown more solid after leaving the library. Mattie had the same gauzy look. Fragile and fading, rotting away. Not as fruit does, but like old cloth or wood, becoming dry and brittle, crumbling to dust.
It was like looking in the mirror. In Mattie’s look of deep, never-ending sadness, Tadpole saw himself reflected.
“What are we doing here?” he asked. “The two of us? We shouldn’t be here.”
Mattie stared back. His face wrinkled and Tadpole recognized the look of the boy thinking. He waited.
“I’ve always been here,” said Mattie.
“No, you haven’t. You can’t have been.”
“I have, though.”
“Think,” said Tadpole. “What did you do before you came here? Why did you come?”
Mattie took his time. Tadpole thought he wasn’t going to answer at all. He put out his hand for the packet of sandwiches, unwrapped it and bit into one half, without thinking.
It was old, getting stale, but the roffle pack helped to keep it fresher than it would have been, so it was perfectly eatable. If you didn’t mind. Tadpole didn’t.
He had nearly finished the first half when he remembered his manners.
“Sorry,” he said. He swallowed the last piece, wrapped up the other half and lifted the top of his roffle pack.
“Aren’t you going to share?” asked Mattie.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“It’s roffle food.”
Mattie thought about it.