Chapter Twenty–three
Tuesday, too, felt the earth shake. Inside Loddon’s box, she braced herself, hands gripping the shredded paper. Was this Loddon returning? Or something worse? Tuesday scrambled across the floor in what she thought was the direction of the trapdoor, but the box was shuddering and swaying. She fell heavily against a side wall, bruising her shoulder and hip. It was as if the earth around the box had become liquid and the box was washing about in it.
‘Help!’ Tuesday called. ‘Help me!’
She scrabbled at the walls, listening to the thundering crashes beyond. She covered her head, heart thudding like a jackhammer.
I’m in a nightmare, Tuesday thought.
Tuesday had been prone to recurring nightmares when she was younger. The worst one was when she dreamed of Baxterr being stolen by a trio of witches who blindfolded him so he could never find his way home.
Tuesday had always been grateful that she didn’t have the kind of parents who turned on the light for just a minute and then said, ‘It’s only a dream, now go back to sleep.’ To deal with the problem of witches, Serendipity had brought home some Witch Repellent. It was a special formula that came in a handy spray pack, was bright yellow and smelled of peppermint essence. The label had looked suspiciously handmade and bore the words, Spray your pet twice every Sunday as required, which, for a long time, Tuesday had done. Baxterr had been unconvinced by this ritual, but Tuesday had found it immensely reassuring.
Denis had always been the type of father who, when required in the night, would sit beside Tuesday until she managed to find her way back to a peaceful sleep. And he had always reassured her that, should the Witch Repellent fail for any reason, Baxterr would find his way home even if he were blind and deaf, because he would be able to smell Tuesday and that would be enough.
‘Please find me soon,’ Tuesday whispered.
The box continued to shiver and shake as the earth beyond it heaved and finally settled. Tuesday imagined her mother holding her, and her father sitting beside her, and Baxterr flying blindfolded all the way to find her, even though she was so far from home.
Chapter Twenty–four
Serendipity sat bolt upright, her heart hammering so hard that it felt as if it would bruise itself against her ribs. Inside her mind, the last pictures of her dream lingered – the earth falling away beneath her feet, and Denis pulling her to safety. It had felt terrifyingly real, but it was all slipping away now, like water over sand. She realised she was in the boatshed, and it was dark outside. She was quite safe. There was no earthquake. But still something felt wrong.
Serendipity threw back the counterpane, leapt out of bed and looked out at the lake. It was utterly still and stars seemed to hover just below the surface of the silky, black water. Definitely no earthquake here. Then came a sound that turned Serendipity’s blood to ice. Aroooo … arooooo … arooooo …
It was a dog, howling as though its heart was breaking. But, Serendipity realised, it wasn’t just any dog.
‘Baxterr?’ she whispered. Although she had never heard him howl in such a desperate way, she would have known the particular tone of his voice anywhere. And if Baxterr was howling, then where was Tuesday? What had happened to her? Why wasn’t she at home? Weren’t they all at home, Baxterr, Tuesday and Colette? Baxterr would only howl like that if something dreadful had happened to the person he loved the most.
Wild and terrible thoughts filled Serendipity’s head. She threw a woollen wrap over the top of her white pyjamas, then she searched about for her boots. She jammed them on and dashed out of the boatshed and into the moonlit night. With determined steps, she hurried up the pathway in the direction of the Library.
Serendipity didn’t pause to admire how lovely the gardens were at night, or to observe the beautiful patterns of the surrounding mist, or to see what was on offer at the dining room buffet. She didn’t even consider stepping into the great book room to gaze on the immense wonder of all the stories of the world collected in a single room. She strode purposefully towards the door of the Librarian’s study and flung it open.
‘And about time, too!’ shrieked the Librarian, who – in her attempts to get free from her cocoon of mauve knitting yarn – had toppled over sideways on her chaise longue. ‘I was beginning to think that I was going to languish here all night! Where, I ask you, are the writers who keep at it until dawn? Hmm? I have been calling and calling, and nobody has come to my aid. What is the world coming to, I ask you?’
Serendipity took in the extraordinary sight of the Librarian. Her silver hair was sticking out erratically and her eyes were dark purple with rage. Serendipity could see that a drink of some sort had been spilled over the mauve damask fabric of the chaise. On the floor were puddles of milky liquid, and a red-and-white drinking straw. The carpet that usually covered the floor was rolled up to one side of the room. In the middle of the polished floorboards there was a trapdoor, flung wide open. She could feel a faint current of cool air drifting into the room, as if from a window left open on a summer’s evening.
Tiptoeing to the edge of the opening, Serendipity was momentarily awed by the spellbinding sight of millions of worlds orbiting in space.
‘Set me upright, for goodness’ sake!’ the Librarian bellowed. ‘And untie me, this instant!’
Serendipity rushed to the Librarian’s side and hefted her back up into a sitting position. The Librarian let out a noise that made Serendipity think of an insulted chicken.
‘What happened?’ Serendipity asked. ‘Who tied you up?’
‘Totally undignified,’ the Librarian moaned. ‘Get me free! Get me free!’
‘I’m working on it,’ Serendipity said. ‘It would help if you sat still.’
After searching for a moment, Serendipity located scissors in a desk drawer and wielded them.
‘Are you a fool?’ said the Librarian. ‘The wool will be useless. Unwrap me!’
Serendipity searched quickly for an end in the yarn and began to unwind it as swiftly as she could. Every so often there were skilfully tied knots that had kept the trussing tidy and effective, despite the Librarian’s struggles.
‘Madame Librarian, who did this? And why?’
‘Well, you are not – as it turns out – innocent in this matter. Some enormous ursine friend of yours, it was.’
‘Ursine?’
‘Bear-like. Feline, canine, ovine, bovine, vulpine … of that word family, you know,’ said the Librarian, who, even in her present state, found it hard to resist spouting a list of useful vocabulary.
‘Bear-like?’
‘Yes, yes. Bear-like. Get on with it, Serendipity.’
Serendipity racked her brain, trying to think of any writers she knew who resembled bears. Or, indeed, any writers that the Librarian might consider to be Serendipity’s friends. But she drew a blank. Then came a thought that made her blood turn to ice.
‘The bear-like person. Was her name Colette Baden-Baden?’
‘I don’t care what she’s called. She has assaulted me and broken every sacred rule of this place.’
‘Colette’s not a writer!’ Serendipity said, her voice shrill with alarm.
‘You don’t have to tell me that, my dear. It’s obvious! She has stolen my platform and made off with it.’
Serendipity glanced at the trapdoor. She tried to imagine what it was that could make Colette so desperate that she would go out there into that sky full of worlds. Her heart pounded.
‘Please tell me Tuesday was with her.’
‘Tuesday? No, that woman – whatever you call her – was quite alone. She was trying to find Tuesday. Wanting to go to the world of Vivienne Small.’
‘So that’s where Tuesday’s gone?’ Serendipity said to the Librarian. ‘That can’t be so bad, can it?’
‘Bad?’ said the Librarian. ‘Of course not. The girl’s writing. Which is exactly what she should be doing.’
Then Serendipity remembered what had brought her running to the Library.
‘I felt an earthquake, Madame Librarian. A big one. And I thought I heard Baxterr. He was howling. Something is terribly wrong. Is Tuesday there?’
‘There was an earthquake of quite considerable magnitude when you lost your Denis. Plunged the world into a bitter winter. I’ve seen it happen before. It’s the shock, you see. And if I’m not mistaken, there was an aftershock a short while ago. Quite natural, I would have thought. I’m anxious to see what Tuesday makes of all this. Could be quite thrilling, don’t you think?’
Serendipity took the Librarian by her still-partly-tangled-up shoulders.
‘But Tuesday, is she there? Why did Baxterr howl?’
‘Heavens! How would I know? I’ve been here, imprisoned,’ the Librarian spluttered. ‘Now can you please concentrate on what you’re doing?’
But Serendipity had dashed out the French doors of the Librarian’s office and onto the balcony. The night was misty and warm and utterly tranquil, but Serendipity had eyes for nothing but the binoculars on the railings. She rushed to the nearest set, but could see only blackness, as if the lenses were capped.
‘Oh, how could I forget?’ she said.
As fast as she had run to the verandah, Serendipity ran back to the Librarian’s study, where the small woman was still working her way free of her bindings.
‘A coin, Madame Librarian,’ Serendipity said, breathless. ‘Quickly.’
But the Librarian only fixed her with a cool stare.
‘You’ve a nerve,’ she said.
‘But it’s my world. I need to get there. Right now,’ Serendipity said, feeling stricken.
The Librarian turned back to untying herself.
‘It took me by surprise, I have to say, when Tuesday first came here and found her way into your world. But find her way there she did, didn’t she? I wasn’t happy about that, as you know, but she proved herself worthy. So, I wonder, Serendipity – whose world is it right now? Yours? Or hers?’
‘Ours,’ Serendipity cried. ‘It’s both of ours. I need a coin, Madame Librarian. I have to go to her.’
‘One writer at a time in a world, Serendipity. Rules are rules.’
‘Please, Madame Librarian. You have to help me. You have to let me in.’
‘I do not have to do anything of the sort.’
‘You must!’
But the Librarian only narrowed her eyes.
‘No, Ms Smith. I must not.’
Chapter Twenty–five
There is a particular texture to true blackness. It is like seeing the beginning of time, long before there were stars or worlds. Seeing that kind of blackness can make you feel very small and very alone.
Tuesday was lying on her back on the shredded paper. There was no sound other than her breathing. Her stomach had given up making pathetic attempts to gurgle because it had finally decided that there was absolutely nothing in it to digest, and all the gurgling in the world wasn’t going to change that. She thought she had just woken up – but it was hard to tell because there was no difference between having her eyes closed and having her eyes open.
She had been having some strange conversations in the darkness. Maybe these had happened in her sleep, or maybe while she was awake. She had gone past being panicked and frightened, and being sad, and being deeply worried, and being terribly lonely, and being completely exhausted. She had banged and scratched and pushed against the trapdoor and the walls of the box, but to no effect. She had called and sung and recited poetry and even danced, because there was nothing else to do in the blackness.
But now she was feeling something else. She wasn’t sure quite what, but if she’d had to name it, she might have said she was calm. Calm while knowing she was in a box, in the earth, at the bottom of a long tunnel carved by Loddon, who had lived in these catacombs for a very, very long time and who had eaten stories for food. Tuesday understood about stories feeling like food, but her body knew the difference. This was why she was lying down. She felt faint whenever she moved.
In this new state of calmness, Tuesday was having a conversation with her mother. She could see Serendipity sitting at her desk at Brown Street typing on her typewriter. Serendipity looked up and smiled as Tuesday approached, and moved back her chair. Tuesday sat on her lap and Serendipity put her arms around her. Even though Tuesday was getting quite big to be doing this, it still felt like a good thing to do. Her mother smelled of the city after rain.
‘Mum, what’s the collective noun for a flock of Winged Dogs?’
‘A purpose,’ Serendipity replied. ‘Remember when I was writing Vivienne Small and the Mountains of Margalov? I said to you “a pack of Winged Dogs can’t be a flock”, and then we talked about other collective nouns. Like a murder of crows, and a misbelief of painters, a parliament of owls …’
‘And a bloat of hippopotamuses,’ said Tuesday.
‘A clowder of cats, but a kindle of kittens.’
‘A smack of jellyfish,’ said Tuesday.
‘Yes!’ said Serendipity. ‘And then you said: “a purpose of Winged Dogs”.’
Tuesday leaned her cheek against her mother’s hair.
‘Mum?’ Tuesday asked. ‘What do I do now? I’m stuck in my story.’
Serendipity said, ‘Sometimes the only thing to do is wait. You can’t rush these things.’
‘What if you’re lost? And where you’re lost is the darkest, most frightening moment that keeps going on forever and ever?’
‘Just wait,’ said Serendipity. ‘The next thing will come. Writing takes a particular sort of courage. The sort of courage nobody understands unless they’ve been stuck in the dark with no way out. I know you have that.’
‘Mum?’ Tuesday whispered. ‘What if waiting isn’t working?’
‘Maybe you need to switch to another scene. Is anything else happening in the book?’ asked Serendipity.
‘I hope so,’ said Tuesday. ‘I hope Baxterr has somehow found Vivienne Small and they are, at this very moment, coming to rescue me.’
‘Or Colette,’ suggested Serendipity.
‘I wish Colette was here right now,’ said Tuesday, ‘ripping Loddon to pieces.’
‘I didn’t mean to invent someone who would cause such problems,’ said Serendipity. ‘He was my friend. He was my first friend. And he loved my stories.’
‘If I really needed you, you would come, wouldn’t you?’ asked Tuesday.
‘Of course,’ said Serendipity.
‘This is the worst place I have ever been and I’m not sure I’m ever going to get out. Even Ermengarde has abandoned me.’
‘Just wait, darling,’ Serendipity said. ‘Right now there is nothing else for it.’
So Tuesday waited. She listened and waited and waited and listened. Nothing happened. She might have slept some more. She might have dreamed. She might have had other conversations. It was too dark and lonely to know. All she knew was that she was sick of being in this box. She was sick of being trapped and frightened. She wanted Loddon to come back and open the trapdoor. She wanted to get out of the paper cavern. She wanted to see Baxterr. She wanted to fly home. She wanted …
And then she heard the unmistakable sound of a match striking. A light swam nearby. Tuesday squinted at the unexpected brightness and sat up.
‘Hello?’ she said. ‘Who’s there?’
‘Anyone for blueberry pancakes?’ asked Denis McGillycuddy.
‘Dad!’ said Tuesday. ‘Dad!’
She leapt up and flung herself into his arms. He wore a pink-and-white striped shirt under a white apron and he looked just as she remembered him best.
‘You came!’ said Tuesday.
‘Of course,’ said Denis. ‘Things were getting desperate.’
Tuesday observed a lantern-lit table set for two, with candles and plates and cutlery. On a large platter was a steaming stack of blueberry pancakes, a jug of maple syrup and a bowl of vanilla ice-cream. Beside the platter was a pitcher of homemade lemonade.
‘Is it breakfast time?’ asked T
uesday, still holding her father, her eyes shining with happiness.
‘It might be,’ said Denis. ‘It could be lunch or brunch or even dessert. It’s hard to tell in the circumstances. But whatever it is, I see, sweet pea, that you’re in stark need of significant and substantial sustenance.’
‘You came!’ Tuesday said again, hugging him even more tightly.
In that long, long hug, Tuesday squeezed in a thousand silent questions and received a thousand inaudible answers.
Eventually Denis said, ‘Let’s not let the pancakes get cold.’
Reluctantly Tuesday relinquished her grasp on him, and together they sat down at the table and began to eat.
Chapter Twenty–six
If you are lucky enough to live with a dog, then you will almost certainly have spent some time watching your dog dream. There they lie, fast asleep, their closed eyelids trembling, paws twitching as if they are in hot pursuit of a warthog on a savannah, or a cat down an alley, or perhaps – in the manner of dreams – a hamburger on a skateboard.
As was her habit, Apache had stretched out on a cowhide rug on the floor of the Conservatory to sleep while the Gardener attended to routine maintenance. He sat hunched over on his high stool, peering down into a world that lay open for inspection on his workbench, scanning the entire scene within the globe, then flicking a couple of levers on the complicated multi-focal magnifying spectacles in order to examine the details more closely. Meanwhile, Apache – deep in sleep – curled back her lip a little and gave a small yip. The Gardener glanced over at her fondly before turning back to the world he was working on. Inside it was an enormous and very old house with stone walls, a slate roof and a number of chimneys. Around the edges of this enormous house were gardens: formal gardens, vegetable gardens, orchards and flower gardens full of wonderful scents. There was also a walled garden, but it didn’t look as if anybody had tended to it for the longest time. The Gardener had only to observe the tangle of overgrown vines to feel his green-tinged thumbs tingle. But he knew to leave the walled garden well alone.
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