Tuesday closed her eyes and breathed as evenly as she could. At last, the worlds in the sky had settled a little, and Tuesday drifted into a sleep full of dreams about Serendipity and Denis and blueberry pancakes. She had no way of knowing how much time had passed when she woke again, this time to a small, curious sound that was coming not from the sky above, but from inside the room. Tap, tap … tap, tap, tappety-tap …
In the darkness, Tuesday pricked up her ears. It sounded like someone was walking about the Conservatory, but they were moving too fast for it to be Garnet. And a snore from the yellow couch confirmed that it wasn’t him.
Tuesday stood up and the lights in the room began to brighten.
‘Gracious!’ cried somebody in surprise.
And there, over by the workbench and staring around in a rather alarmed fashion, was a small person. From the waist down, he was covered in gleaming black fur, while from the waist up, he wore nothing except a fluffy red scarf that was knotted tightly around his neck. His curling hair was as dark as the fur on his legs, and out of it poked two small knobbly horns like a goat’s. He had a lively face with a pointy beard. His umbrella was in ribbons.
‘Hello?’ said Tuesday, blinking in disbelief.
The small, goat-like person stared, then took one or two steps towards her. His dainty hoof steps rang out, tap-tap, on the polished timber floor. It really was – he really was – a faun, Tuesday realised. A very particular faun.
‘Oh … ah …’ he said nervously. ‘Greetings, young lady. I wonder if you might, perchance, be able to tell me … ah … whereabouts it is exactly that I find myself?’
‘Mr Tumnus?’ Tuesday stammered. She glanced up at the sky in amazement, then looked back at the faun. ‘Are you really Mr Tumnus?’
The faun smiled in a polite yet mystified way.
‘As it happens, I am. Have we met before?’
Tuesday barely managed to keep herself from hugging him. Instead, she held out her hand and shook his, smiling with delight.
‘I’m so sorry, but I don’t recall—’ he said.
‘I can’t tell you how lovely it is to finally meet you,’ Tuesday said.
The faun frowned.
‘So, we’ve not met before. Am I dead, then? I think I must be. There was an appalling crash and then one side of my home was ripped away and the next thing you know, I was flying clean out into the snow. I tried to catch hold of the lamppost as I fell, but they’re wretchedly slippery things, you know, and I couldn’t hold on. I appear, though, still to be breathing. Is that natural, when one is dead?’
‘You’re not dead,’ Tuesday reassured him. ‘You’re in the Conservatory. You’ve … well, it’s hard to explain. You’ve fallen out of your world. I wonder if it’s a key world. Of course it is. It would have to be. Oh, I’m sorry, I’m talking to myself. You see, I’m the new Gardener, and unless something truly terrible has happened to your world, we can probably get you back to it. I might be able fix it. Your world, I mean. If I really try.’
Mr Tumnus looked utterly perplexed.
‘All those up there,’ said Tuesday, pointing, ‘each one of them is a world. Yours is there somewhere.’
Mr Tumnus stood, dumbstruck, peering upwards. After a while, he held a hand to his head and said, ‘I think I need to sit down.’
‘It is rather a lot to take in,’ Tuesday agreed, and she ushered Mr Tumnus to one of the seats beside the dining table.
Since she had only just woken up, Tuesday expected the food under the glass dome would be something breakfasty, like a bowl of porridge or bananas with yoghurt. Instead, what she found when she lifted the dome were some lightly boiled eggs, sardines on toast, a teacake beautifully dusted with sugar, and a pot of tea.
‘Are you hungry, Mr Tumnus?’ Tuesday asked.
The faun took in the spread, and the sight of it brightened him up. ‘In fact, I believe I am a little peckish. Despite my fall. Or perhaps because of it. I’m not dead, you say? Well, that is something. I’m sorry … what did you say your name was?’
‘Tuesday,’ said Tuesday.
‘Oh, Tuesday,’ said Mr Tumnus. ‘That is my favourite day of the week! Excellent for beginning things. Much better than Mondays, I always say. Mondays are good for warming up to what needs to be done on Tuesday, don’t you find?’
Tuesday smiled, and poured the tea, and the two began to talk as if they had been friends for years. Which, of course, in a way, they had. Before long, there was nothing left on the table but eggshells and crumbs and empty plates and teacups, and Tuesday and the faun – their stomachs quite content – were standing in the centre of the Conservatory staring up into the mass of worlds above their heads, searching for the one that belonged to Mr Tumnus.
‘How do we know which one is mine?’ Mr Tumnus asked.
‘I wish I knew,’ Tuesday said. ‘I’ve only recently taken over the job, you see, and I still have an awful lot to learn. That’s the old Gardener over there.’
She pointed to where Garnet was still peacefully sleeping on his yellow couch.
‘I don’t want to wake him, if I can help it,’ Tuesday said, again searching the sky. ‘Where would it be? Where?’
Mr Tumnus gave a little laugh.
‘You know, I once met a little girl. Younger than you, but not entirely unlike you, I must say. And she used to say that my world was in a cupboard. Isn’t that funny? I always told her that it must have been a rather large cupboard.’ He gave a small, goatish laugh.
‘That’s it,’ Tuesday said. She felt as if a light bulb had switched on inside her head. ‘That is precisely it. Mr Tumnus, you’re a genius.’
And almost straight away, then, she saw it – a huge, mahogany-coloured world limping around on its orbit. As Tuesday peered more closely at it, she saw that its surface was decorated with detailed carvings of oak leaves and acorns and animals of all shapes and sizes. Part of its curving side had been smashed open, leaving edges of splintered timber. She would be getting that one in for routine maintenance, Tuesday thought, as soon as she had got Mr Tumnus back home. She hoisted her boathook, and slid its far end into the world’s golden loop.
‘Extraordinary,’ breathed Mr Tumnus, as he watched Tuesday tow the world down to the far end of the walkway. ‘And that is my world? That is how it appears, on the outside?’
‘I guess it is,’ Tuesday said.
‘Oh, well done, Miss Tuesday. Well done indeed. Wonderful job! Remarkable,’ Mr Tumnus said, giving a small leap and landing neatly on his shiny cloven hoofs.
The damaged world clicked into place. Tuesday set down her boathook and slid her arm through the crook of the faun’s elbow.
‘Shall we?’ she said.
‘We shall,’ he agreed.
I think you can probably guess the first thing Tuesday and Mr Tumnus encountered when they passed through the door at the end of the walkway. I expect you know that it was a row of thick, fur coats. What you might not guess is that when Tuesday rather breathlessly took one of the coats down from its hanger, put it on and slid her hands into its pockets, she found there two squares of chocolate, wrapped in a piece of tattered silver foil. She thought the chocolate must be very, very old – much too old to eat, but precious in any case.
Tuesday and Mr Tumnus pushed through until fur turned to fir, and Tuesday smelled the Christmas-like smell of pine needles, and felt the scrunch of snow under her feet. The weather was calm, but ahead of them, Tuesday saw evidence that a vicious wind had blown through the place, presumably when the side of the world had torn open. Trees had been uprooted, and a lamppost a short way ahead of them had been twisted and bent over on a strange angle. She made a mental note to fix these things as soon as she could.
‘Oh dear,’ Mr Tumnus said, pointing. On the other side of a stand of damaged trees was a gaping hole in the side of the world. Beyond that was a wedge of dark sky with other worlds drifting by.
‘Tsk, tsk,’ tutted Mr Tumnus.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Tuesda
y. ‘I’ll put it at the top of my list. For now, though, is there somewhere else you can go? Until I’ve had a chance to mend your house?’
‘Yes, yes. Don’t bother about me. I’ll be right as rain,’ he said. ‘My sister will take me in. And when my house is repaired, you will come for tea, won’t you? I’ll toast crumpets.’
Tuesday smiled, then she and the faun said a fond farewell. Mr Tumnus tucked his useless umbrella under one arm and Tuesday watched as he trotted off through the snow, the ends of his red scarf flapping in the wind.
Returning the fur coat to its hanger, Tuesday sighed. Although she hadn’t exactly meant to become the Gardener, she had to admit that the job had some spectacular perks. She stepped back inside the walkway and released the mahogany world into the sky. The gash in the side of that world was horrible, and Tuesday determined to fix it as soon as she could. But there was one thing she had to do first. Something that couldn’t wait any longer.
The lights in the Conservatory had dimmed while she had been away, but as soon as she stepped back inside, the room grew steadily lighter. Beneath the glass dome on the table was a steaming cup of hot chocolate and two plump marshmallows on a saucer. She drank, and ate, and grew warm again. Over on the yellow couch, Garnet slept on.
Tuesday set down her empty cup and took a deep, determined breath.
‘You can do this,’ she whispered to herself.
She picked up her boathook and stood on the rug in the centre of the Conservatory, staring up into the sky that teemed with worlds. She had found Mr Tumnus’s world, and she would find Vivienne’s. She thought of Vivienne and Baxterr, of the Peppermint Forest, of the Mabanquo River and the Mountains of Margalov. She sent her thoughts out to them. And then she saw it. Far, far away was a world of blue skies that was spinning about with another world squashed hard into it. The far side of the world appeared to have mountains breaking through it. It had to be the world of Vivienne Small. She was certain of it.
‘I’m coming to get you, doggo,’ she whispered.
Tuesday gripped the boathook with sweating palms and felt it lurch out into the sky in the direction of the conjoined worlds. If only she could catch the loop on the side of Vivienne’s world, she would be able to tow it in to the walkway.
Well, Madame Librarian, thought Tuesday. I might find that doorway after all. From the other side!
Tuesday’s heart was beating fast, and the faster it went, the more rapidly the other worlds in the sky began to whoosh and whirl around the ones she sought. She must remain calm. She must not lose sight of the world of Vivienne Small.
Taking long, deep breaths, Tuesday levered the boathook out in space. And then, with a flick and a flourish, she snared the golden loop on the underside of that dented blue-sky world. She mustered all her strength and gave the boathook one almighty heave.
Chapter Twenty–two
In the City of Clocks the day of battle had arrived.
Four colossal catapults had been wheeled, under cover of night, into the Letitia Mabanquo Square. There came a breeze, as if in warning. It scurried about, whispering in door locks, rattling windows, twisting leaves and turning weather vanes. Then it settled, and the vercaka came.
Horns sounded from each of the city’s four gates, and every face, young and old, turned to the sky. No one who stood in the shadow of the swirling flock massing above the beautiful spires could fail to realise that they were hideously outnumbered. Despite the days of preparation, despite the contributions of every child, woman and man (except Nigel Finkwatter) there were so many more birds than they were prepared for.
There was no time to admire the sunrise, or lament the lack of sleep, or feel how fast the heart beats at such moments, because the vercaka were coming in their hundreds, screeching and diving. The Mayor gave the signal. The first of the catapults launched its load high above the square. There was a great flurry as fish, each with a piece of gold in its belly, shot high into the air. They were like silver fireworks, and the townspeople gasped. The birds dived and swooped and scooped up the fish, gobbling them down, squawking with rage when another vercaka stole their catch. And then the birds who had eaten the poisoned fish began, one by one, to fall from the sky.
The Mayor’s heart leapt into her mouth. The plan was working!
The next catapult launched and more of the fish flew up into the sky, again catching the early sun, dancing on the morning light. For three days the residents had captured every fish that had flopped out of any tap. For three days every sink and bath and bucket had been filled with fish. Many, many fish had given their lives to save the city. And then adults and children alike had used their fingers to stuff coins into the mouths of those fish.
At vantage points across the city, guards had been stationed. They shot at the birds, their arrows searching for the softest places behind the birds’ eyes, under their chins, in their bottoms. This infuriated the birds, but before they could attack the guards, another catapult was released and again the birds swarmed. They massed on the flying fish, savaging one another in an attempt to feed. More of the vile birds swallowed the gold in each fish and then, only seconds later, plummeted from the sky. Poisoned vercaka rolled off rooftops and crashed on cobblestones; they fell into lanes and backyards, splashed into ponds and fountains, their legs turned up, their eyes open and empty.
The toll was not only on their side. On the streets lay injured guards, bleeding from wounds from the terrible beaks of the vercaka. Many people had been snatched up and carried away, while others had been released high over the city and had fallen to terrible, bone-crunching deaths.
Have you ever thrown a chip to a seagull? One minute there’s one bird, the next, there are one hundred cawing and screeching. The vercaka were exactly the same. It was as if the City of Clocks had sounded a bell for feeding time. Wheeling and circling the vercaka hunted more fish, and when they couldn’t find fish, they snatched up any person or cat and gulped them down. Children who had snuck out ran terrified back to their homes, pursued by snapping jaws and vicious claws.
Dead vercaka fell from the sky, landing with thumps and thuds all over the city, but their fellow vercaka took no notice of these deaths, nor what might be causing them. They appeared to have forgotten their nasty words. Instead of curses and insults, they only said, ‘Want more, eat more, more, more, more.’
Foul-smelling poo dropped from their bodies in great gushes, splashing onto spires and rooftops and streets, turning them slippery and green.
‘More fish,’ they shrieked. ‘More, more, more.’
Vivienne and Baxterr saw all this from their vantage point on a low balcony above the doors of the council chambers. Vivienne fired arrow after arrow while, beside her, the Mayor raised a trumpet-shaped tube to her lips. Her voice echoed out to the people in the square and atop the buildings, as well as to those hiding with their children in their homes.
‘Let not your courage fail you,
Be valiant, stout and bold,
And it will soon avail you,
My loyal hearts of gold.
Huzzah, my valiant citizens, again I say huzzah!
’Tis nobly done – the day’s our own – huzzah, huzzah!’
‘Huzzah! Huzzah!’ called back the guards and residents.
Even as the Mayor rallied her troops, there remained enough vercaka to darken the sky.
Then came the cats.
A tidal wave of tabby, tortoiseshell, white, black, grey, blue and brown swept through the city streets, and within moments the rooftops were alive. The cats leapt onto the backs of the swarming birds: one, two, three, five, seven on every vercaka. They dug their claws in hard and bit into wings, necks and legs.
A thousand vercaka screamed and shot upwards, trying to dislodge their biting, clawing passengers. But the cats persisted and the vercaka flew higher, further, up through the sky and into the world above. Once they had breached that world, the vercaka kept flying, the cats riding them like demons into the distance and far out of si
ght. Neither those cats nor those vercaka ever returned.
Within minutes a fresh flock of vercaka was circling the city. Once more they began tormenting the town with their words.
‘You have bad breath.’
‘Your hair is falling out.’
‘You are a liar and everyone knows it.’
‘Your children hate you.’
‘Your mother never wanted you.’
‘You will never succeed.’
‘Your town is lost.’
‘You will be dead and forgotten.’
Tarquin and Harlequin flew their farouche up to the Mayor on the balcony.
‘The time has come,’ said Harlequin.
‘We have this last chance,’ said Vivienne.
‘We must not delay,’ said Tarquin.
The Mayor nodded. And then a most extraordinary thing was wheeled into the square. It was a single enormous fish, poised upright on a launching platform. At least it resembled a fish, but it was actually, upon close inspection, fashioned from silver paper, and made strong and sturdy for the purpose. Vivienne watched as guards ran in to light the base. To begin with, there was only the fizzing of fuses and a little smoke wafting from the huge fish. Then it took off with a deafening whoosh.
The giant fish flew straight up into the air and the last of the vercaka lifted their dull eyes and stared, mesmerised. Their hunger still keen, every one of them took flight after it. But the fish was too fast. It was going too high. They couldn’t possibly reach it. Still they climbed after it, and the fish went faster. A hush fell over the city. Faces leaned out of windows. Archers put down their bows to gaze up into the sky. The Mayor held her breath and Vivienne and Baxterr stood with heads back and mouths open. Waiting. Waiting …
The giant fish exploded, and out flew the last of the gold coins of every citizen in the City of Clocks and every donation that had come to them from beyond. The sky was filled with a shower of gold coins falling down, down, down onto the swarm of vercaka below. The vercaka swooped and ate, gobbling down the coins, their only thought being food, food, food. Even the breeze rose to the occasion, tossing the falling coins about, which only tantalised the vercaka even more.
A Week without Tuesday Page 16