by Paul Stewart
Down, down, into the sunken bowels of the palace Rook went. Beneath his feet the wooden stairs - simple boards set into the stone of the palace's supporting walls - were worn and slippery. They creaked and bounced and he had to take enormous care not to lose his footing. As he went deeper, so the air grew hotter and steamier, and filled with a strange odour that Rook was unable to identify. It grew increasingly pungent with every successive step he took; now sour, now metallic, now laced with acrid smoke which coiled up thickly and fuzzed the brightening orange glow.
As he neared the bottom of the stairs, he glanced back and was shocked to see just how far down the rickety open staircase he'd come. The top was swathed in darkness and he couldn't even see the little door. It was a wonder he hadn't broken his neck, he thought giddily as he went down the last few steps.
On solid ground at last, Rook looked round and gasped. He was standing in a vast, seething kitchen. Supported by an intricate brickwork structure of stout pillars and curved arches which criss-crossed above his head, the underground chamber wheezed and heaved with heat and noise, while the intoxicating fumes were stronger than ever. They seemed to be coming from the far side of the kitchen, where the orange-yellow glow was brightest.
Just ahead of him was a long table, its surface gouged and scorched by years of misuse, overflowing with a seeming chaos of utensils, equipment and convoluted paraphernalia. Ladles, spoons, mortars and pestles, stacks of trays and sheaves of paper; scales, scissors, phials of tincture and pots of oily creams; boxes, beakers, skewers and cleavers; rulers, funnels, candles and pipettes…
The jumble wasn't limited to the table. The floor around it was littered with crates and sacks, each one overflowing with Deepwoods’ fauna and flora; everything from dried razorflit wings to shrivelled globes of pus-fungus. Bundles of herbs and leafy branches and bunches of dried flowering shrubs hung from every wall, every arch and every pillar, giving the whole place the appearance of a vast upside-down forest. There were cupboards and cabinets; their drawers bursting with dried lichens, mosses and various desiccated remains. Racks, stacks and rows of shelving, crammed full with countless bottles - both large and small - all filled to the brim, stoppered and labelled. Some contained bark-chippings, identified by spidery writing - Lufwood, Leadwood, Lullabee, Sallowdrop, Blookoak… Some contained berries; dried, pickled, steeped in oil; some had nuts, some seeds. Some contained leaves - from the tiny spiky grey foliage of the creeping woodthyme, to the vast heart-shaped leaves from the sweetly aromatic, yet deadly poisonous, black-bay
Rook frowned. What was so dangerous a herb doing in a kitchen? he wondered. And as he moved slowly round, inspecting the shelves and cabinets more closely, he saw other suspicious ingredients.
A barrel of venomous rosy heartapples; a flagon filled with deadly scrapewortberries, half a dozen of which he knew could kill a fully grown hammelhorn …
This kitchen was a poisoner's paradise¡
Just then, a thin, wheedling voice rang out. ‘Who's creeping round my kitchen? Is that you, Speegspeel, my old loverly … I've warned you about creeping round my kitchen, haven't I? Don't want another stomachache, do we, dearie?’
Rook's heart missed a beat. He screwed up his eyes and stared in the direction the voice had come from.
In front of him, set on dumpy legs against the blackened back wall, he could see a gargantuan pot-bellied furnace, its glass door at the front seeming to wink at him like a great orange eye. Ornately handled bellows stuck out from a hole in the grate-cover at the bottom; a black, twisting chimney emerged from the top and disappeared into the wall high above. To the right of the furnace was a towering heap of logs; to its left, an even higher pile of uncut branches and trunks - together with the saws and axes to turn it from one to the other. And to the left of that, set into the wall…
Rook gasped with amazement. Huge, luminous bell jars fizzed and bubbled above acid-yellow flaming burners, all connected by a seemingly chaotic jumble of interconnecting pipes and tubes which coiled and looped and doubled back on themselves before coming down in a neat row where they dripped slowly into a line of glass pots below them. Rook leaned forward and raised his fingers to the small brass spigot at the end of one of the pipes.
‘Don't touch that, dearie,’ wheedled the voice. Rook started back. ‘Come over ‘ere and let me look at you, my loverly!’
A short, wrinkled old crone stepped out from behind the forest of pipes and tubes. Rook recognized her at once from the market; a short, dumpy goblin with grey skin and heavy-lidded eyes. She was clothed in chequer-board livery, a stained pinafore, and a white cowlcap -the high, arched headgear favoured by goblin matrons - on her head. In one hand, she was clutching an opened bottle; in the other, a tiny measuring spoon. She glanced up at Rook.
‘Hestera Sp … Spikesap?’ Rook asked.
That's right, dearie, she told him. ‘Wait a second. Can't you see I'm trying to concentrate?’
Returning her attention to the bottle, she tipped a level spoonful of red powder down the slender neck. Then another, and another, counting off as she did so. ‘… Six. Seven. Eight.’ She stopped and returned the spoon to the small pot. Then, having corked the bottle and shaken it vigorously, she held it up to the light. The colourless contents had turned red. With a satisfied smile playing over her thin lips, Hestera picked up her quill, dipped it in the ink-well and wrote on the label - in the same spidery writing that Rook had noticed before - a single word: Oblivion.
‘Oblivion?’ Rook murmured.
‘Never you mind about that, dearie,’ Hestera said, putting the bottle to one side and bustling round the table. ‘Let's have a good look at you, my loverly’ She dragged him to the light; pinched him and prodded him with her sharp little fingers. ‘Wiry but strong,’ she said. T think you'll do.’ Her small eyes narrowed as she twisted his head round. ‘You've taken a nasty blow, dearie? Does your head pain you?’
Rook nodded.
Hestera reached up and placed the flat of her palm across his forehead. It felt oddly dry, like parchment -but pleasantly cool. She nodded, turned away, and Rook heard the sound of clinking glass, pouring liquids and the metallic clatter of stirring. She turned back, and held out a glass of frothing green liquid.
‘Drink this, dearie, she told him.
Rook stared nervously at the glass in her outstretched hand. What was in it? Nectar of rosy heartapple perhaps? Or scrapewortberry juice?
‘Go on, my loverly, said Hestera, thrusting the glass into his hand. ‘It won't kill you.’
Slowly Rook raised the glass to his mouth and sipped. It tasted delicious - a tangy mix of flavour after flavour. Pineginger. Rocklime. Dellberry and anisleaf …’
‘That's right, said Hestera. ‘Every last drop, dearie.’
As the liquid coursed round his body, Rook felt himself being reinvigorated and, by the time the glass was empty, not only had his head stopped throbbing but he had begun to feel fit and well once more. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and placed the glass down on the table.
‘Amazing, he said. ‘What is it?’
‘Just one of my little concoctions, my loverly, said Hestera, testing his forehead for a second time. ‘Feeling better, are we?’
Rook nodded. ‘Much better, thank you.’
Hestera smiled, a nasty glint in her eyes. ‘Good, then you can get to work and build up that fire!’ She strode over to the pot-bellied stove. ‘Look at it, she said. ‘It's glowing orange, dearie. Orange¡ It hasn't been touched for three days. Not since Huffknot went missing. And now it needs tending, She wrapped her shawl tighter about her shoulders. ‘My kitchen is growing cold. Can't you feel the chill, my loverly? Why, my teeth are beginning to chatter … Feed the furnace¡ Feed it until it glows white hot¡ Just the way I like it, dearie.’
Rook picked up a log from the pile and was just about to take it towards the glowing furnace when a voice inside his head spoke. Not so hasty, my young furnace-keeper¡ it said.
Rook froze.
The log clattered to the floor. It was as if icy fingers were probing his brain, causing a stabbing pain behind his eyes and making it difficult for him to think clearly.
‘I was just getting him to stoke up the furnace with a few logs, dearie,’ Hestera protested indignantly. ‘Where's the harm in that, Amberfuce? It's freezing in my kitchen. Tell him, Flambusia; freezing!’
The unpleasant chilled sensation in Rook's head abruptly stopped. He turned to see not one but two figures standing in the shadows behind him. One was a hulking great creature - possibly of cloddertrog-extraction, and made bigger still by the stacked sandals on her feet and winged hat upon her head. She was dressed in voluminous robes which fluttered and shimmered in the trembling heat. Before her, seated in a buoyant sumpwood chair, was an ancient-looking ghost-waif, hunched and shaking; his skin pale and mottled; his eyes dull and half-closed.
‘My dear Hestera Spikesap, he croaked, his drooping ears and limp barbels trembling. ‘How many times must I remind you? We really can't be too careful. If you must go shopping at the slave auction, please, please, please bring your purchases directly to me!’ His sunken cheeks sucked in and out alarmingly.
‘I was going to, dearie,’ said
Hestera, pushing Rook towards
the tiny waif. ‘But he's only
just arrived. And it's so cold-
I thought he could feed the
furnace first, and then …’
‘No, no, no, Hestera!’ The waif fell back in the chair exhausted, choking and gasping for breath. His companion, Flambusia, leaned round.
‘Lawks-a-mussy!’ she exclaimed. ‘You're vexing yourself again. And what did I say about vexing yourself?’ She pulled a cloth from her sleeve and mopped Amberfuce's glistening brow. ‘Nursie said, don't¡ It isn't good for your constitution. And nursie knows best.’
The waif closed his eyes. His ears rippled strangely. His breathing became slower, more regular. ‘You're right, of course, Flambusia,’ he said at last, his words breathy and snatched. ‘It's just…’ He flapped a bony arm in Hestera's direction. ‘This … this creaturel She's a law unto herself …’
Hestera folded her arms. ‘Well, he's here now,’ she said sharply. ‘What are you waiting for?’
‘Bring him closer, Hestera,’ said Amberfuce wearily.
‘Go on, dearie,’ said Hestera, shoving Rook in the back.
Rook stumbled across the tiled floor, and stopped in front of the buoyant chair. An unpleasant smell hung round the sickly-looking creature, a curious mixture of stale milk-rusks and antiseptic which grew stronger as Amberfuce leaned forward in his chair.
‘Kneel,’ he croaked.
Rook did as he was told. The waif grabbed him by the collar, pulled him closer and stared deep into his eyes. For a second time, Rook felt the icy tingling inside his head.
Let me in, whispered a voice. Let me in, Rook Barkwater, librarian knight…
The tingling grew more intense. Chilled, numbing; it was as if the icy fingers were searching his mind and reading his thoughts, turning them over like the pages of a book.
A librarian knight… Lake Landing … the voice inside his head said. A skycraft; the Stormhornet… An approaching storm, a rippled lake … The ancient waif closed his eyes, and his back arched as he threw himself back in the chair. An under-librarian¡ The voice was strong now, insistent. A lectern-tender, a chain-turner… Deep, deep sorrow … The waif gripped Rook's cuffs tight and pulled him closer. Tears… Pain… Bad dreams …
Rook shuddered.
Let's clear them all away, the voice inside his head told him. Let them all go. Give them to me. That's the way. Let all those troubled thoughts disappear for ever …
Rook's head swam as his memories slipped away, one by one, little by little. Soon there would be nothing left.
‘No,’ he groaned, jerking back and trying to push the numbing fingers away with his thoughts.
Don't fight me¡ Rook heard inside his head, and he felt the fingers tighten their grip as they continued their searching.
It was tempting to do as the waif had instructed. Anything to bring a hasty end to the terrible jarring of those ice-cold fingers, scraping and scrabbling inside his head. Yet, if he didn't fight…
His mind was already beginning to resemble a barren landscape of snow and ice. Impressions, thoughts, feelings - Rook seemed to see them staggering across the empty wasteland only to be seized by the probing fingers and frozen solid.
Must try to hide from the icy fingers, Rook thought. Must hide myself. Rook. Rook Barkwater …
Like a great searchlight, the waif's probing thoughts swept across Rook's mind, poking into nooks and crannies, prising open cracks and crevices and unlocking door after door after door, on down into the deepest of his most distant thoughts.
Still on his knees, Rook swayed back and forwards, his head lolling from side to side. It was so hot in the kitchen; stiflingly hot, the air laced with miasmic fumes from the furnace.
Yet inside his pounding head, it was cold - bitterly cold - as the icy fingers delved deeper, freezing every part of him.
I… am … Rook …
A blizzard wind seemed to whip away his memories and thoughts like so many snowflakes. Rook … I'm Rook … He ran away from the icy, probing fingers and fell into the arms of something soft, something warm; something from his earliest memories. A banderbear. His banderbear.
The great creature raised a warning claw to her lips, pulled him down into a mossy hollow and wrapped her arms around him. Rook curled up and hid himself away inside the huge creature's warm, furry embrace.
He couldn't be found now. He was safe. Secure …
With a jerky shake of his head, Amberfuce sat up straight. His eyes snapped open.
‘Well?’ said Hestera.
Oh, I think you'll find he'll be compliant now,’ the waif said, as Flambusia mopped his glistening brow. ‘His mind has been cleared. A blank slate, so to speak, He frowned, and flapped the nurse away irritably. ‘A fine mind it was, it must be said, he remarked thoughtfully. ‘A strong mind. It seems such a shame to take all those brave thoughts and noble memories from such an intrepid young lad. Still, Hestera, I'm sure you'll soon teach him afresh - particularly if you treat him as casually as all the oth… oth… others … His words collapsed into a fit of coughing. He wheezed and gasped for breath.
Flambusia patted him gently on the back. ‘There, there, she said soothingly. ‘You've been overdoing it again.’
‘Medicine …’ Amberfuce croaked. ‘My … medicine …’ The coughing resumed, louder than ever.
‘At once, said Flambusia, grabbing the buoyant chair and steering it away. Just before she disappeared from sight, she turned and flashed a smile at Hestera. ‘I don't know where we'd be without your medicine, she said.
As the two of them left, Hestera turned her attention to Rook. He was still on his knees, head slumped and eyes staring blindly ahead. She raised his chin with one hand and clicked her fingers with the other. ‘I only hope Amberfuce hasn't gone too far, she muttered. ‘It wouldn't be the first time.’ She stepped back. ‘Stand!’ she commanded.
Rook struggled to his feet. ‘Yes, he intoned obediently.
‘Good, dearie, muttered Hestera. ‘Right, you've got to work if you want to earn your daily gruel. To the furnace with you. Stoke the fire¡ Stoke it up high!’ ‘Yes.’
‘Very good, said Hestera. She pulled on a heavy glove and opened the door at the front of the furnace. A blast of scorching, sulphurous air struck Rook full in the face. He recoiled - but said nothing. ‘Yes, very good, indeed, said Hestera. ‘Amberfuce has done well. Very well.’
Rook stood before the furnace, stock-still, unblinking. His mind was blank; so blank that he wasn't even aware that he didn't know what to do next.
‘The logs,’ came Hestera's voice. ‘Take the logs from the pile and feed the fire.’ ‘Yes.’
He crossed over to the towering heap of logs and seized the one closest to him. It was large,
unwieldy, and almost twice his own weight. He dragged it across the floor, grunting and groaning with effort. In front of the furnace, he caught his breath before reaching down, clasping the rough bark and hefting the whole lot up into the air. The log rested pre cariously on the lip of the circular door-frame for a moment, threat ening to fall back and crush him - then keeled forwards onto the glowing embers inside.
‘That's it,’ Hestera told him. ‘Now pump the bellows - up, down, up, down; that's the way … Then fetch another log. And then another, and another - and you keep on fetching them and feeding them to the fire until I tell you to stop. Understand?’
‘Yes, I understand.’
The work was back-breaking. Time and again, Rook dragged the heavy logs across to the great furnace, hoiked them up and tipped them in. With each one, the fire blazed hotter and hotter. It scorched Rook's lungs and skin. It singed his hair …
Yet inside his head it was all still a frozen wasteland that the flames could not touch. Though his body was suffering, his mind was unaware of anything beside the sound of Hestera's voice.
‘Another log!’ she rasped. ‘And hurry¡ You're slowing down!’
‘Yes, Hestera.’ He doubled his efforts.
But in the emptiness within, something stirred - a tiny movement in the snow as a buried speck of consciousness flickered. The banderbear's embrace warmed his spirit.
Rook, it whispered. You are Rook.
He was curled up in a foetal ball, protected from the arctic chill by the banderbear's reassuring embrace. The waif's icy fingers had taken his memories, his thoughts, his hopes and fears, his nightmares and dreams … But there was one thing that had remained out of reach; that most important and precious thing of all. The seed of his existence, the essence of himself - in short, the knowledge of who he was.
Rook Barkwater.
He was still safe in the warm embrace of the bander-bear that had once protected him as a child, lost and alone in the Deepwoods …