‘I keep telling you. She was missing and I wrote about that on her typewriter and that’s why I came here.’
‘Exactly.You wrote about it and then you came here. You came here … but is it not within the realms of possibility, Tuesday McGillycuddy,’ said the Librarian slowly and with a knowing look, ‘that your mother – or should I say Serendipity Smith – has returned home while you, in fact, have been busy here?’
Tuesday gazed into the Librarian’s animated face.
‘You knew!’ she said to the Librarian. ‘You’ve known all along who my mother is. And you knew all along that she wasn’t here.’
‘Dear Tuesday, it’s my business to know all that goes on in this place. But what kind of story would it have been, hmm? Girl arrived in a strange and wondrous world looking for her mother, and the first person she meets says: ‘Oh, your mother, she’s gone home.’ And the girl goes home, and there’s her mother. Tut, tut, Tuesday McGillycuddy. Where would the world be with stories like that?’
The Librarian turned on her slippered heels and began walking at a cracking pace beside the bookshelves. ‘Come!’ she called behind her.
‘Wait!’ said Tuesday. ‘You let me go out there into a dangerous world where Baxterr nearly drowned. Then we met Mothwood – who by all rights should be dead – and his vicious pirates. He’s captured my dog and wants to kill Vivienne Small. He might have killed me for all I know, and all along you knew that my mother wasn’t even here. They’re still out there on Mothwood’s ship with no help at all. Vivienne could be dead by now and … what kind of person are you?’ she demanded, surprised at the rage she suddenly felt.
‘Well, in my defence, Tuesday, Carsten Mothwood’s resurrection was somewhat unexpected,’ the Librarian said with a sheepish shrug. ‘But in answer to your question, I can tell you that I, the Librarian of the one Great Library, am nothing more and nothing less than a lover of stories, of books, of the world of imagination. And I think you are, too. And tell me, honestly now, would you truly change a thing? Would you miss meeting Vivienne Small, or learning to sail, or discovering that dear Baxterr is in fact a legendary Winged Dog?’
The Librarian glanced at her with twinkling eyes as she led Tuesday through a door and across a sitting room. The Librarian swept back the long drapes and opened a set of French doors onto the balcony of the Library.
‘What do I do now?’ Tuesday asked.
‘What you must do is find the ending for your story, before I change my mind,’ said the Librarian.
She almost shooed Tuesday out of the door.
‘But I came here for help,’ Tuesday said desperately.
The Librarian sighed.
‘Come here, child,’ she said, beckoning Tuesday to a white marble bench seat that overlooked a fountain and the gardens of the Library. They sat and the Librarian laid a tiny hand on Tuesday’s knee.
‘Do you know what serendipity is, Tuesday?’
Tuesday startled at the mention of her mother’s name. But before she could speak the Librarian continued, ‘A story is like a giant jigsaw puzzle: a jigsaw puzzle that would cover the whole floor of a room with its tiny pieces. But it’s not the sort of puzzle that comes with a box. There is no lid with a picture on it so that you can see what the puzzle will look like when it’s finished. And you have only some of the pieces. All you can do is keep looking and listening, sniffing about in all sorts of places until you find the next piece. And then you’ll be amazed where that next piece will take you. Suddenly your puzzle can have a whole new person in it, or it can go from being on a train to a hot-air balloon, from city to country, from love to sadness to loneliness and back to love. Pieces can come to you at any time. When you’re having a cup of tea or sitting on a bus or talking with a friend. It will be like a bell going off in your head. ‘That’s what comes next!’ you’ll think. And that’s why it’s serendipity. Serendipity is luck and chance and fate all tumbled into one.’
‘But how do I end my story?’ Tuesday asked. Her eyebrows scrunched together as she thought deeply about all the Librarian had said.
The Librarian smiled. ‘I cannot answer that question. I am a reader.You are the writer, Tuesday. This is not your mother’s world anymore. You’ve made it your own. So it is up to you to find an ending that makes your eyes sparkle and your heart race. That, dear girl, is the way to The End!’
Tuesday nodded.
‘Imagine,’ the Librarian whispered. ‘Now off you go. Make me proud.’
‘I will, I promise,’ said Tuesday, getting to her feet. She was beginning, at last, to understand what she must do.
‘And mind you take care of your thread,’ the Librarian said. She smiled as she produced a much larger silvery ball of string from the pocket of her dressing gown. ‘As you get more experienced, you’ll get better at coming and going.’
‘Oh!’ said Tuesday, somehow very relieved to see it. It had a tiny cardboard tag attached to it, with the initials TM in very small letters.
‘If you lose it, there’s no way home,’ said the Librarian.
‘Oh, thank you!’ Tuesday said, and impulsively she threw her arms around the Librarian.
‘Yes, yes, very good dear,’ said the Librarian, fending her off.
‘If I wanted to, I could throw this up in the air right now and I’d be back in Brown Street?’ Tuesday asked.
‘You could,’ agreed the Librarian.
Tuesday thought of a great many things at once: of her mother’s worried face, of her father’s blueberry pancakes, of Mothwood reaching out to pat Baxterr, of Vivienne beside the fire telling Tuesday she’d come from an egg, of Baxterr towing her home from school on her rollershoes.
‘But I won’t,’ Tuesday said, pushing the ball into her jacket pocket.
‘I have a good feeling about you, Tuesday McGillycuddy. Now go!’ said the Librarian briskly. ‘There’s no time to lose!’
Tuesday walked towards the doors back into the dining room, planning to return to Vivacious through the trapdoor in the floor.
‘No, no, not that way. Use the stairs, much easier!’ said the Librarian, pointing the way. ‘Ladders! Of all things!’
Tuesday sprinted to the side of the Library and, using all the speed her legs possessed, she ran down the long flight of curving stone stairs. At the bottom, instead of the fields that had met her on her first morning, and the view across to the Peppermint Forest, there was a small jetty and a grassy shore. Waiting patiently, her sails already billowing in the new light, was Vivacious.
Chapter Twenty
Soon Vivacious was scooting across the Restless Sea. Yesterday’s mist was nowhere to be seen. The sky was still dotted with stars, but they were fading. The moon had slipped far into the west. When Tuesday looked behind her, there was no sign of the steps she had climbed, nor the vast Library, only high green hills rising up from the sea. This time Tuesday was not troubled by the disappearance. She turned to the waters ahead and scanned for any sign of The Silverfish.
As she sailed, a dawn broke across the sky that was identical to the one she had seen the morning before. It began with the same pink and red spears, the same hushed beauty. And then a beam of golden light shot up into the sky and Tuesday was beset by the odd feeling that no time at all had passed since she had sailed away from The Silverfish. This was, of course, ridiculous because it had been sunrise when she had made her escape, and here again was the sun, rising again. In anyone’s language, a whole day and night had passed. Nevertheless, Tuesday had a curious feeling of déjà vu.
And then the dark silhouette of The Silverfish loomed ahead of her. It was still at anchor! Tuesday’s heart hammered in her chest. There was no way for her to hide her approach. Still, she sailed as stealthily as possible, bringing Vivacious alongside The Silverfish and securing the boat to the same metal ladder fixed to the side of the ship. No cries arose on deck. No one sounded any alarm. Tuesday climbed quickly, slipping over the railing. She darted again to the side of the wheelhouse and, creeping al
ong its length, peered out over the deck.
Tuesday blinked. Was it possible? Everything was just as she had left it. There was Mothwood, hideously returned from the dead, and his men about him. Vivienne and Baxterr were both in the exact same position as before, as if Tuesday had simply blinked in her hiding place and not slipped away for a whole day.
Mothwood scratched Baxterr’s ear with a malformed hand, his gaze fixed on the crumpled figure of Vivienne Small on the deck.
‘Oh, do let’s drop her,’ he chuckled to his men. ‘I would so love to see those little wings all bent and broken. Or will she tell me the dog’s name?’
Vivienne, trussed in ropes and held tight by Phlegm, was silent.
‘His name,’ he repeated, his voice quiet and deadly.
Baxterr, hobbled and muzzled, sniffed the air and spotted Tuesday. Tuesday could see in his eyes that he didn’t think no time at all had passed. Despite his undignified bindings, he wagged his tail, and indeed his whole body, with joy. Tuesday stepped boldly out onto the deck. For a moment Mothwood’s men stared at her, and then they were upon her, grabbing her arms and marching her towards the tower of Carsten Mothwood.
‘Ah, not another one,’ he sighed, inspecting Tuesday with his mismatched and malevolent eyes. ‘And what species are you, midget or mouse?’
Tuesday said nothing, only gasped at the stench of his breath. It was a damp, rotting smell that seemed to contain scents of mouldering food, dead animals and the insides of drainpipes.
Baxterr barked.
Mothwood glanced at him, and registered the dog’s delight at seeing Tuesday.
‘So,’ he said, ‘the dog does not belong to Vivienne Small after all. He is yours.’
‘He is my dog,’ Tuesday said, with as much courage as she could muster. ‘You will give him back to me, and release Vivienne Small.’
Ignoring her request, Mothwood lowered himself to her height. His voice grew gentle, consoling.
‘He’s a fine dog,’ he said, a hideous version of a smile spreading across his face. ‘What’s his name?’
‘No, Tuesday, don’t tell!’ Vivienne yelled. ‘He’ll …’ Phlegm’s great hand was clapped roughly over Vivienne’s mouth before she could finish.
‘Shut her up! Make sure she cannot utter a word,’ Mothwood ordered.
Phlegm took a handkerchief from his pocket, none too clean, and bound it about Vivienne’s mouth, gagging her.
‘Due south, lads, full sail, on the double,’ instructed Mothwood, and every sailor save those holding Vivienne, Tuesday and Baxterr leapt to their stations.
‘No,’ said Tuesday. ‘NO!’
Mothwood chuckled.
‘Ah, so you don’t want to go south? Then tell me the name of your dear dog.’
Above Tuesday’s head, the mildewed sails of The Silverfish cracked as they unfurled. There was the screech and creak of rigging taking weight, and the yells of sailors at work. A great rattling noise at the bow indicated the anchor was being hauled up. Tuesday thought again of how Vivienne had brought Baxterr back to life after he almost drowned. There are people who would kill to have a Winged Dog, she had said then. If the wrong person learned his name then you could lose him forever. It’s part of a Winged Dog’s magic. Their name is like a key, and you have to keep it safe.
As if he could see all these thoughts as he looked into Tuesday’s face, Mothwood smiled and his smile was full of malice.
‘Not going to tell? What a shame,’ he said.
The Silverfish was leaving the Cliffs of Cartavia behind, and to Tuesday’s dismay, the tiny Vivacious was cast adrift and left to bob alone on the sea. They were sailing south. South towards the dark dangerous waters Mothwood knew all too well. It would be impossible for Vivienne and Tuesday to return from there without Vivacious and even then it would take every stick of Vivienne’s skills as a sailor. But Vivacious was lost. Why had she come back without help? What good could she possibly do here?
‘The rat trap!’ Mothwood demanded, and one of his crew swiftly brought out a wire cage, affixed to the top of which was a length of rough, fraying rope.
‘Perfect accommodation for Miss Small, don’t you think, girl? Well, come on, men, look lively! In she goes.’
Vivienne’s face was unreadable as the men roughly crammed her into the cage, which was just big enough to contain her. When the cage door was bolted, Mothwood made a gesture to his men, who hurled the contraption over the side of the boat. Tuesday ran to the railing. Vivienne was suspended just above the waves.
‘Let her go,’ smiled Mothwood, and the men let the rope in the pulleys run. The cage plummeted into the depths below.
‘Stop it! You’ll drown her,’ Tuesday screamed.
‘Tell me the name of the dog,’ said Mothwood.
‘No!’ Tuesday said.
‘So, you want to be stubborn,’ said Mothwood. ‘How long will your friend last, do you think?’
Tuesday couldn’t bear it. The cage was dragging through the water, completely submerged. Tuesday could imagine Vivienne holding her breath, pressed against the metal bars, crushed by the sea.
‘Doggo,’ said Tuesday desperately. ‘Doggo!’
‘Doggo?’ Mothwood enquired.
He looked at Baxterr.
‘Lift the cage,’ he instructed his men.
The men hauled on the rope and the cage was hoisted out of the water to swing just above the level of the deck railing. Still crushed within the mesh, and also sodden, Vivienne glared at Mothwood with an expression of sheer fury. She sent a grim look to Tuesday and almost imperceptibly shook her head. This was Vivienne Small, Tuesday thought. This was the fearless heroine who could get herself out of anything. And Vivienne was quite clearly telling Tuesday that she must not give in.
‘Unbind the dog,’ Mothwood said to Gum. Gum freed Baxterr’s paw from the rope about his neck, and unwound the wire from his muzzle. Baxterr stood quivering, his senses alert.
‘Hello, Doggo,’ said Mothwood, leaning towards him.
Baxterr barked in a friendly way.
‘Sit,’ said Mothwood.
Baxterr sat and wagged his tail.
Tuesday gulped. What had she done?
‘Stand,’ said Mothwood.
Baxterr got to his feet again, tail still wagging.
‘Very good,’ Mothwood smiled.
‘Bite her,’ he said to Baxterr, indicating Tuesday.
Baxterr growled. He bared his teeth. He prepared to spring, but instead of launching himself at Tuesday, he launched himself at Mothwood, knocking him over and seizing Mothwood’s leg between his teeth.
‘Get him off,’ Mothwood cried. ‘Off!’
The men leapt to their captain’s aid, trying to haul Baxterr off, but the dog would not let go. Blood dribbled down Mothwood’s leg. Mothwood continued to scream.
‘Let Vivienne go,’ Tuesday said, in the most commanding voice she could muster.
The cage was dropped to the deck. The bolt was shot and a shivering Vivienne uncurled herself from its confines. Gum removed the gag from her mouth. Only then did Tuesday call Baxterr off. The men lifted their captain back onto his feet. After a few moments Mothwood recovered enough to speak.
‘You will tell me the dog’s name, his true name,’ he said to Tuesday in a voice that was cold with wrath, ‘if it is the last thing you do. And it almost certainly will be.’
Tuesday took a deep breath. She looked up at Mothwood and said:
‘My dog’s name is mysterry, with a double r,
and if he’s your own dog, then he’ll take you far.
He’ll take you far beyond the most distant shores,
but no, Carsten Mothwood, he’ll never be yours.’
Mothwood stared at Tuesday with a mixture of admiration and disdain.
‘What have we here, then?’ he said mockingly. ‘A little poet? Be careful, girl, many have died by taking me on.’
Tuesday wondered, perhaps a little belatedly, if it had been a wise decision to break i
nto verse. Mothwood liked to challenge his victims to a round of rhyming couplets and the price of losing was death. Never in any of the previous Vivienne Small books had any of his victims beaten Mothwood at this game. Not even Vivienne had ever battled Mothwood in this way. She had used every other skill in her armoury to deal with him rather than fight him with words. But Tuesday had begun. She took a breath and lifted her gaze to his cruel, pallid face above her.
‘I’ll take my chances,’ she said boldly.
‘Oh ho! Very well,’ Mothwood said, his eyes sparkling, ‘I challenge you to a duel in rhyming couplets. If I win, you will tell me the name of your dog and he will be mine. And your friend, Vivienne Small, will be my figurehead, lashed to the front of my ship until her bones rot into the sea. As for you, well, I’ll keep the manner of your death a surprise until then. In the highly unlikely event that you win, then The Silverfish and her crew are yours. Do you agree?’
‘I do,’ said Tuesday, though her entire body was tingling with fear.
‘We proceed until one of us fails,’ said Mothwood. ‘I’ll toss.’
He drew a coin from his pocket. ‘I choose heads.’
‘No,’ said Tuesday, who knew Mothwood’s tricks only too well. ‘Not that coin.’
She grabbed it from his hand and turned it over. Sure enough, it had a head on either side.
‘Coin,’ Tuesday called. Quick as a flash, Vivienne dug into her sodden pocket and flicked a coin to Tuesday. It was a gold coin with a mountain on one side and a lion’s head on the other and Tuesday looked at it in wonder.
Carefully Mothwood inspected the coin and, seeing it was indeed a two-sided coin, he tossed it into the air, where it flipped over and over and over, as if in slow motion.
Chapter Twenty-one
‘Lion,’ called Tuesday.
Mothwood lurched to catch the coin, but it slipped through his fingers. Before the coin could hit the deck, Gum caught it and whacked it down on the back of one of his huge hands.
‘Lion it is, Cap’n,’ he growled. ‘The girl starts.’
Finding Serendipity Page 14