“I … don’t wish to fraternize with a … with you. Please be so good as to remove yourself from under my leaves.”
Danny stepped back gladly. At least the tree hadn’t started shouting about anything. Maybe cats were the only other creatures worth talking to.
“D’you reckon there are any more cats around here?” he asked Mitz. “We could ask one for directions.”
Mitz was peering into a hedge. “Sssh!” she said. “Oh, it’s gone.”
“What’s gone?”
“Bah! The mouse. How do you humans ever get any food? You’re so noisy all the time.”
“Same way you do,” Danny pointed out. “We open tins. Doesn’t matter how noisy you are, the tins still open.”
“Oh, but there’s nothing like a fresh, juicy mouse,” said Mitz. “Crunching its little bones between your teeth.… Mmm … beats any of that mushy stuff the servants feed me.…”
She darted away. Danny went after her, not trusting that she’d come back to him again if she got on the trail of a mouse. She hared through a small churchyard and came to a pouncing stop just by the opposite gate, which led out onto a different road. And there it was—a sign tucked away in a hedge. Puddleton Lane.
“Great!” said Danny. “This is it. Puddleton Lane—we’ve found it.”
“Lost that weasel, though,” said Mitz, looking sulky. “A weasel! What a prize that’d have been!”
“You’re bloodthirsty,” said Danny, but he quite liked it. If there was a fight, at least Mitz would get stuck right in, fluff-ball tail and all. Although she’d probably have to spend a week cleaning herself up afterward.
“I,” said Mitz, “am a good cat. One of the best. Although generally there are very few inferior cats.”
Fluffing up her tail again, she flounced off toward Puddleton Lane.
* * *
Puddleton Lane End was a narrow path leading off to the south, about 200 yards outside the village. Danny nearly missed it; it was so overgrown that he had to search in a thicket for the road sign. And walking down it, he became unsure again. It was flanked on both sides by high hedges. There didn’t seem to be any houses at all; if there were, then the hedges were growing over their front gates, because there were no gaps that Danny could see.
He would have missed Storm Cottage completely had he not heard a sudden loud cacophony of squawking and seen a great cloud of crows launch themselves into the air from the boughs of an oak tree. Dangling from one of the branches was a nameplate, tiny and almost invisible between the leaves. The shine of varnished wood flashed once as it caught the sunlight, and Danny read the name with relief.
Storm Cottage was small and white behind a jungle of climbing roses and ivy; purple wisteria hung in giant garlands over the front door. The gate was overgrown with creepers and set on hinges rusted as red as autumn leaves, so he climbed over. If there had ever been a garden path, it had long since been reclaimed by grass and nettles, so he had to fight his way up to the door through the crowding greenery, swishing it aside with a stick.
He knocked at the door and a woman opened it. She was about Danny’s height and had gray hair in a neat bun. She peered at him with a ready smile on her face.
“Yes?”
“Um … I’m looking for Abel Korsakof. Does he live here?”
“Yes, of course. Come in, dear, come in. He’s in his den at the moment.”
The old woman stood aside to welcome Danny into the cottage. He stepped in cautiously, noticing that the walls were covered with paintings: stormy skies, clouds rolling over bleak moorlands, ships being tossed at sea, rain lashing against horses struggling to pull their carts along sodden roads. The kitchen smelled of baking and his stomach rumbled as he thought of dinner.
“You’ll have to go out and find him, dear. He never hears me shout when he’s in his den. Go on, just out the back door and go left across the lawn. Off you trot. I’m just making a pot of tea; tell him I’ll bring it over in a few minutes.”
She indicated the French windows across the room that were open and led out onto a tangled green lawn. Danny crossed the garden and knocked hesitantly on the door of the small shed that stood on the other side.
“Yes?”
He opened the door. Abel Korsakof was crouched on the floor, holding down an enormous sheet of paper with both legs and one hand. With the other hand he was putting detail into what looked like a complicated flow diagram tracing hundreds of pathways over the paper, most of which seemed to originate from a spot hidden underneath his knees.
Abel Korsakof was about the oldest man Danny had ever seen, with a straggling white beard that hung from his chin and folded into a small pile where it fell on the paper. What was visible of his face was wrinkled like a walnut, but his eyes were hard and bright.
“Mr. Korsakof?” Danny relaxed. This man was so old, he couldn’t be scary. It would probably take him half an hour just to stand up.
“Yes, yes! Come in, come in!”
Danny stepped into the shed. The wooden planks creaked underneath his feet. Abel Korsakof’s flinty eyes were staring at him with an intensity that made him wonder if he’d got gravy drying on his chin or had suddenly sprouted a third nostril.
“Sit down, sit down!” said Abel Korsakof.
Why did he repeat everything twice? And why didn’t he ask Danny who he was?
“I’m Danny,” said Danny, to make it a bit less weird. “I think, um, I think you know my parents?”
“Do I? Do I? I do not know if I do. I do not know many people…” said Abel Korsakof.
What was wrong with him? Didn’t he know it was rude to stare? His gaze was so hard that Danny could almost feel it scraping at his face with its teeth.
“Um … yes, I think you do know them.…”
Danny was about to tell him their names when he remembered the bit in the notebook about how the old man had refused to give them the book. It had been a while ago, but you could never be sure what people might remember. Perhaps it wouldn’t be such a good place to start.
He tried again. “Um … I think you’ve got something I need.…”
Where were the biscuits? Where was the cup of tea? Danny glanced over his shoulder, but there was nobody there to help him. Don’t be stupid, he told himself. Just ask.
“I need the Book of Storms,” he said. “You’ve got it, haven’t you?”
Abel Korsakof rose to his feet. It took him so long that Danny had almost lost his nerve again by the time the old man was upright. The ancient face had taken on a look of panic, but the eyes were still staring.
“What for?” he demanded.
He didn’t even ask how I know about it, thought Danny. It’s like he saw me coming a mile off. It’s like he’d known I was coming, although he couldn’t have.
But at least he hadn’t said no.
“To find my parents,” Danny said. “I think they went to see a storm, or something, and got lost. I need to find out how … and where…”
“I see,” said Abel Korsakof. Then he cleared his throat. “In that case, you must certainly have the book. Sit down. Let me find it for you.”
He indicated the single chair, and Danny perched on the edge of it, taking a closer look at the papers on the floor.
“What’s that?” he asked.
Abel Korsakof went over to the bookshelves behind Danny and started to turn books over, looking for the one he wanted. “A map,” he said. “The work of my life. A map of the various processes of storm formation.” He turned over another couple of books, examining the spines.
Danny peered at the words on the map. Most of them were at least fifteen letters long. There were a few drawings—bad drawings: he could have done better himself—but they didn’t help to explain any of the words. Was it storm language? How did storms even speak? Would he, Danny, have to try talking to one? He tried to memorize a couple of the words just in case they came in useful someday, then realized they were probably just a normal foreign language. Hadn’t the not
ebook mentioned something about the old man being Polish?
“It looks complicated,” he said, to try and sort of praise Abel Korsakof so he might remember about biscuits. The pasties seemed a long time ago.
“It is complicated!” the old man snapped, and then hurriedly added, “but I am sure a clever boy like you could learn about it, if you wanted to.”
Well, that’s stupid, thought Danny. For a start, he doesn’t know if I’m clever or not. He doesn’t know anything about me.
For a moment he was tempted to open his mouth and say that actually he wasn’t very clever but that he could do some much better drawings of all those flashes of lightning and mountaintops that were dotted around the paper, if the old man wanted him to. But there was definitely something a bit missing about Abel Korsakof, like he didn’t really know much about what was going on around him. He was probably just thinking about something else. Well, that was fine. As long as he handed over the Book of Storms. What would it be like? Big and leather bound, with gold lettering? Or small and darkly mysterious?
So Danny kept quiet and waited.
* * *
Abel Korsakof found what he was looking for. He opened the book and ran his fingers inside the cut-away pages.
It was his elder brother’s army knife. Thick handled, with a wide, short blade—perfect for slicing or stabbing. It had been hidden in the book of Polish fairy tales ever since Abel had stolen it, seventy years ago. His elder brother had hated fairy tales.
All he had to do was lean around the boy and drag the blade across his throat. There would be blood, but Sammael was sure to deal with all that. Or would he? If Korsakof had only fifty years more to live, he didn’t want to spend half of them in prison. Sammael did look after his own, but maybe he’d better do it a cleaner way, just to be sure.
Stab him in the neck, then. Or in the back. No—that was too difficult. He might hit a rib. The neck it was.
The old man looked at the boy’s neck. Danny’s head was bent over the map, reading its symbols. He seemed to be offering up that patch of exposed skin to Korsakof’s knife.
He wants me to kill him, thought Korsakof. Else why walk in here, asking for the Book of Storms? He must know whose it is. He’s probably trying to outwit Sammael in some way. It is my duty to help Sammael, in return for all he has given and promises yet to give me. It is my duty to kill this boy.
He gripped the knife as he closed the hollowed-out book and replaced it on the shelf. Then he took a single step, which brought him close to Danny, and raised his hand. Let it be quick, he prayed. Let him not say anything to me when he knows he is about to die.
Korsakof closed his eyes and swung the knife.
* * *
The cat appeared as if fired from a crossbow and flung itself against the old man’s arm, sending him jerking backwards. Danny swung round and scrambled to his feet. Korsakof’s arm flailed in the air, reaching out toward him, trying to grab him. Fingers touched his shoulder, and the knife swooped down again, catching a glint of the evening sun as it fell.
Danny ducked and threw himself sideways, but the shed wall was too close and he couldn’t get far enough away. The knife sliced toward him again, and he crashed against the small table.
The table! He could use it as a shield! He scrambled underneath it and heard the knife rattle against its top, inches from his head.
“Stop!” he yelled. “Stop it! Don’t!”
His ears buzzed. The old man’s feet shuffled toward him. He was wearing leather sandals and brown slacks.
Without thinking, Danny reached up and gripped the edge of the table, then shoved it toward the brown slacks. It caught them just above the knees, sending Abel Korsakof tumbling to the floor. The table fell over on top of the old man and he wriggled, struggling to free himself with a moaning cry.
But he couldn’t do it one-handed. He had to drop the knife for a moment. He was very old, older than most people ever got, and he hadn’t much more strength than even twig-armed Danny.
So Danny leaned hard on the table, pressing it down into Korsakof’s stomach. The old man cried out in pain.
“Oh! Do not! Do not crush! Let me up!”
Danny didn’t care. An angry flush sprang onto his face. He wanted to push the table again, to pin Abel Korsakof down until he was begging for mercy.
“You tried to kill me!” he gasped. “You’ll only do it again if I let you go!”
“No…” moaned Korsakof, “no, I promise … I will not. Please.”
Danny stuck out a foot and dragged the knife toward him, keeping his eyes on the old man in case he tried to grab it on the way.
Once he had the knife safely in his hand, Danny looked at Abel Korsakof’s face again. This time he saw the wrinkles and the straggly beard. Korsakof wasn’t staring at him anymore. His eyes were half closed.
Danny curled his fingers around the solid handle of the knife. Standing back, he tipped the table up and freed the old man.
“Don’t do anything,” Danny said, holding the knife before him. “You can get up, but don’t do anything.”
It took Korsakof even longer than before to get up. He had to have a break halfway, when he was on his knees. Seeing him kneeling, wheezing, and trembling, his shuddery old arms shaking as though he’d been working a pneumatic drill, Danny wanted to help him. He’d helped his Gran when she’d fallen over a couple of times. It was a kind thing to do. But there was no way he was going near this old man, not any nearer than he had to.
Korsakof finally made it upright. His feet wouldn’t hold him; his bandy legs crept farther and farther apart, and he reached for the chair. The knife handle grew clammy, but Danny didn’t relax his grip.
Finally, Abel Korsakof put his face in his hands and pressed his bony fingertips against his skull. He was silent for a long, measured breath, then he dropped his hands down, looking at Danny in an almost normal way for the first time.
“I am sorry,” he said. “I will not try to hurt you again.”
“You couldn’t,” said Danny. “I’ve got this.” He was still holding the knife braced in front of him, ready to slash at the first sign of another attack.
“Yes,” said Abel. “Keep it. But you will not need to use it again. Not on me, for certain.”
“I want the Book of Storms,” said Danny. “Don’t move. Tell me where it is and I’ll get it.”
“It is not here,” said the old man. “I cannot keep it here. It is not the kind of thing you wish to have around you for very long.”
“Tell me where it is, then.”
Korsakof shook his head. “I cannot betray him,” he said. “He may be terrible in many ways, but he is always honest, and it is his book.”
“What?” said Danny. “What are you talking about? Whose book?”
“Sammael, of course. I take it that is why you want it—you think it has some secret in it that will help you destroy him. He said you had found a way to discover it. There is nothing in the Book of Storms about him, though. I can tell you that for certain.”
Danny’s stomach scrunched itself into a knot. Sammael. That was the name the dying sycamore had gasped out, with its warning about being careful, and something about dreams. But surely that couldn’t help him find his parents? No—it was just this horrible old man trying to make him scared.
He pushed away the thought, as sharply as he could. “I’ve got no idea what you’re on about,” he said. “I told you, I want the book to help me find my parents. They’ve disappeared and I want to find them—that’s all I want. And then you try to kill me! And I just thought you’d give me biscuits!”
They stared at each other. Abel swallowed and rested a frail hand on one of his worn-out knees.
“Let us start again,” he said. “I did not want to kill you. Sammael told me you were coming and that I had to. And you know what he is like. He has ways.”
“I don’t know what he’s like,” said Danny. “I don’t know anything about his ‘ways.’ I’ve only ever h
eard his name once before. And that was from a—” He stopped himself quickly, not wanting to say “tree.” Why did he have to know things that nobody else would ever believe?
“But … you are looking for your parents, are you not? And you know they are alive, because you know Sammael has done something to them. Is that not right?”
Danny ground his teeth. “No! Stop trying to confuse things! I didn’t say anything like that. They went off in a storm. It was nothing to do with Sammael.”
“But of course it was. Sammael can control the storms—you must already know that? He has done something with a storm, taken them away, or some such thing. That is why they cannot get back to you. Quite clearly he was aggravated by what they are trying to do and wanted to deter them somehow.”
From confusing to horribly simple. Danny swallowed hard and couldn’t breathe for a few seconds. But he forced himself to speak.
“So … so you think he’s … killed them?”
Abel Korsakof took a small step backwards. “Of course not! He cannot kill anyone himself. Of course he cannot. He is forbidden to take life with his own hands.”
Danny tried to calm the rising panic in his chest. Sammael couldn’t kill them. Then they must be alive. They must be somewhere. “But … but if it’s them he was after, then how does he know anything about me?”
The old man shrugged. “But he knows everything about everyone. He is Sammael.”
The way he said this made Danny not want to hear the name Sammael ever again. Just the sound of the word filled him with small pricks of icy pain.
“He must have made a mistake,” he said tightly. “I’ve never done anything wrong. It was you who told my parents about the Book of Storms, at a fete in Hopfield.”
Something stopped in Korsakof’s face.
“I did…” he said eventually. “I did. That is right—they told me that their child had died in a storm.”
“Their daughter,” Danny found himself saying. “I’m their child as well.”
“Of course, but they merely said that their child had died, and they had taken to studying storms. But they knew storms. No ordinary human knows that much about storms, not in the way they did. People may know all sorts of science about the weather, but they don’t talk about storms as beings, like your parents did. They must have been close to a storm—closer than any normal person could ever get. So I just assumed they must have called on Sammael too. I thought they would know about him, and about the book, and then I realized that they did not, and I stopped talking, and I forgot.…”
The Book of Storms Page 6