by Toby Forward
But the damage was done. The girl had heard the boys shout at her. She had seen their jeering faces. She had stared back long enough to frighten them, and their fear was worse than their mockery. The scarf had begun to loosen, now it was folded tight and close. And so was Bee.
“What are the dead people like?” whispered Perry.
“I don’t know,” said Cabbage. “I mean, I know what dead people are like, but I don’t know what Finished People are like.”
“Why not? You’ve been to Finishings.”
“You don’t see them, after they’ve stepped into the Finished World,” he said. “And the dead bit stays here anyway. Dead people and Finished People aren’t the same thing.”
“I don’t understand,” said Perry.
“No.”
“Right,” said Jackbones. “Let’s get started.”
“Are we all here?” asked Melwood.
Dorwin and Flaxfield stepped from behind a bookcase.
“I’m giving her one last chance to leave,” he said.
“And I’m staying.”
“You could take the boys,” said Melwood. “They shouldn’t be here for this.”
Dorwin thought about it. Her face creased into a smile.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes. I’ll leave. I’ll take the boys and we’ll wait outside, in the garden, perhaps.”
The two boys shouted each other down in their eagerness to answer.
“No.”
“I’m not going.”
“We’re staying here.”
“You need a roffle.”
“You’d be dead if it wasn’t for me.”
Melwood frowned.
Jackbones gave a savage grin.
Flaxfield turned away to hide a smile.
Dorwin held up her hands for silence.
“It looks as though we’re staying,” she said. “So what happens next?”
The excitement and hubbub gave way to a tense silence. They all looked to Jackbones for a lead. Jackbones’ grin had no humour in it. Cabbage was reminded of the wide mouth of a cornered dog.
“There are several ways to do this,” he said. “We could perform a proper Finishing and when the Finished World opens we could send someone in to summon them.”
“No,” said Melwood.
“Calm yourself. That’s just one way. We’d need a dead person for that anyway, and I wasn’t intending to kill anyone today.”
“Stop wasting time,” she said.
Cabbage could see that Jackbones wasn’t teasing. He was preparing himself. Getting his mind ready for what he had to do.
“I won’t tell you the other ways, then,” he said. “Just the one we’re going to use. Help me with this, will you?”
They helped him to carry the round table to the very centre of the floor. The circular galleries coiled above it, out of sight.
He cleared the papers from it, scooping them into a drawer.
“Wait here.”
He came back from his librarian’s room with an assortment of objects which he arranged carefully on the table. A seal and a folded sheet of thick paper with a crinkled edge. A bottle of ink, which he uncorked and put by the side of the paper. A pen, simple, wooden handled with a steel nib. A board, divided into sections with lead discs for counters; each disc engraved with an emblem. Two dice, one of black wood, one of bone. A notebook, hand-made, scuffed at the corners, the pages covered in diagrams and drawings and notes.
“What are you doing?” asked Melwood. She looked alarmed.
Jackbones put his finger to his lips.
“I won’t allow this,” she said.
Flaxfield drew her back and put his hand on her shoulder. She made a tight mouth and kept quiet.
Last of all, Jackbones put a book from the library onto the table. He opened it at the index at the back.
“What’s he doing?” whispered Perry.
“If he had died, these are the implements of his Finishing,” said Cabbage. “They would go with him to the Finished World.”
“Are you ready, Flaxfield?” said Jackbones.
“Are you sure this is what you want?”
“I am. Do you know what to say?”
Flaxfield looked at the table and the objects.
“No,” he said. “Not yet.”
“Start the Finishing Ceremony the usual way, then,” said Jackbones. “By the time you get to the place you’ll know the right words for me.”
Perry looked up into the galleries again. He had never been able to shake off his feeling that someone was watching them.
Cabbage concentrated on the Finishing. Jackbones’ Finishing. A Finishing for a man still alive. It had never been done before. It was forbidden. The Finished World was jealous, proud, severe. It would not like being mocked in this way.
Flaxfield’s voice carried the familiar words common to all Finishings. They were old words. Sometimes they sounded harsh in their direct talk of death, sometimes fluid and gentle in their recollection of life, sometimes more than sad, more than lonely. They caught the listeners in a net of language. Before Flaxfield was halfway through the words the galleries began to whisper. Echoes, thought Cabbage. For a second only. Not echoes at all. Whispers that found their origin in the galleries themselves.
Flaxfield faltered. Jackbones glared at him. The wizard continued.
The whispers grew more but no louder, more widespread but no more intrusive.
Jackbones was sweating. His eyes were bright and fixed on Flaxfield’s. His hands were clenched. His jaw was set. If he was not in pain then he was in a different sort of agony.
The whispers were all around them now, like the wind in reeds, rustling and moving. Flaxfield neared the end of the common section, the words that were used at every Finishing. His voice was coarse, rough. It did not falter, it pressed on, against some opposition.
Melwood moved closer to Flaxfield. He let her touch his arm and his voice strengthened.
Cabbage remembered the crackling of the wild magic and the threat and the violence it brought. He felt something of that now, something wild and unknown. It tumbled his stomach over and dizzied him. With an effort he kept his mind on the Finishing. As Flaxfield reached the end Cabbage realized that something was wrong. Flaxfield said the final words and stopped.
The whispering ceased, in an instant. Every voice silent at once. The silence filled the library more thoroughly than the sound.
“Go on,” said Jackbones. “Finish it.”
Flaxfield looked down at the implements on the table.
“I don’t know how,” he said.
“Finish it!”
Flaxfield hesitated. He took the notebook, held it towards Jackbones, tried to speak, shrugged and put it down again.
The whisperers sighed, began to speak again in a receding voice, withdrawing.
Jackbones grabbed Flaxfield.
“We’ve nearly done it,” he said. “Finish it. Just do it.”
Flaxfield put the notebook down. “I don’t know how to.”
The whispers faded, like waves far off.
Cabbage stepped forward, picked up the book, open at the index. He faced Jackbones.
The whispers surged back again.
“Your book is written,” he said. “Your life is recorded. The index is complete. The shelf is your home. Go and be Finished.”
Jackbones relaxed. He wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve. His jaw loosened. He smiled. He took the book from Cabbage. All the colour drained from him. His hair, face, clothes, eyes, everything. They could see through him.
The whispers grew harsh. Jackbones looked up to the galleries. The others let their eyes follow his.
Above them, at every level, round every rail, packed tight, pressed together, faces looked down at them. Thousands upon thousands. A host greater than any army fell silent and waited. |
“What’s happening?”
asked Bee.
Flaxfold told the cook to take a rest and have a drink in the g
arden before it got busy with people wanting a meal at noon. He took off his hat and put it on the hook by the back door and left.
“Nothing’s happening,” said Flaxfold. “Why do you ask?”
Bee drew her shawl tighter around her face to speak to the woman.
“Something’s going on,” she said. “I know it is.”
Flaxfold drew a stool up to the table and sat next to her. The table was so big that it could never have been carried in through the door. It had been built in there. The pine top was big enough to make up a bed for four people at least. Scarred with the marks of knives and hot pans and many spills, it had served generations of villagers and travellers to many thousands of meals.
Bee ran her finger down the raised grain.
“Someone’s dying,” she said. “Because of me. Because of…” she couldn’t bring herself to say Slowin’s name. “They’ve come for him. He’s going to die, and they won’t let him join them. He’ll be dead for ever. Because of me.”
Flaxfold picked up a spoon and looked at her reflection, bulging in its bowl.
“Are you sure?”
Bee nodded.
“Well, I think so.”
Flaxfold held the spoon out to her. “See?” she said.
Bee saw herself, swathed in the shawl, distorted by the contours.
“Does it look like you?”
“Almost.”
“You see something,” said Flaxfold. “You know something is happening. But it may be a reflection as in a spoon. Not quite a picture.”
“You came here then?” said Jackbones. His voice had not changed. It was as strong and mocking as ever.
The whispering crowd chose a voice. The others subsided while it spoke.
“Did we?” it asked. “Or did you come to us?”
“What does she mean?” whispered Perry.
“I mean, young roffle, that we may be in your library, or you may be in ours,” she said.
Perry crouched as though hit. Dorwin put her arm around him.
“Stand up, little roffle,” said the voice. “We won’t harm you. Not this time.”
Perry glowered.
“I wasn’t afraid.”
The whispers laughed.
“Talk to me,” said Jackbones.
“We shall,” she said. “Oh, we shall, Jackbones. Have you come to join us? In the Finished World?”
“I want you to answer my questions,” he said.
“Questions. All these questions. Well, we have questions for the boy, too. The Cabbage boy.”
Cabbage was looking for someone to attach to the voice. No figure emerged from the throng. No one stood out. The voice was soft, musical, not a whisper like the others, a real voice.
“We want to know a name,” said Jackbones.
The music faded from the voice.
“You opened the Finished World, to know a name?” she said. “A name?” Her voice was a knife.
Jackbones stared up as though he could see her.
“You think we wait here to answer your bidding?” she asked. “You can’t be bothered to look for the book?” You won’t take the time to find the shelf and read the name? You opened the Finished World? For a name?”
Flaxfield stepped forward.
“I opened the Finished World,” he said.
The whispers gasped.
“Flaxfield,” she said. The music almost returned, a melody half-remembered. “We’re waiting for you to join us. Would you like to step through?”
“There is no time to look through the books,” he said. “So I summoned you here.”
“Not you. The boy. The Cabbage boy. He summoned us. You couldn’t.”
More whispered, mocking laughter.
“Leave the boy alone,” he said.
“The boy opened the door, though,” she said. “Let me see him.”
Cabbage pulled clear and stood alone, looking up.
“Why do you want to know this name, boy?” she said.
“It’s your turn. Let me see you now,” said Cabbage.
The whispers grew harsh, then silent.
He waited.
“Why not?” she said. There was a shuffle and a rearranging of the multitude. The spiral staircase to the first gallery creaked. First a foot, small and slender in a soft leather shoe, then a dress, green and blue and shimmering, then the whole figure, a woman, of no age and all age. She paused, looked at them, as though waiting for them to look at her, stepped softly down and stood a little distant from them, a single person, not of their group.
“Why do you want to know this name, Cabbage? Are you tired of yours?”
“I want to know your name first,” he said.
The watchers in the gallery laughed.
“I could take you now,” she said. “Don’t you understand? I could take you by the hand and lead you up these stairs into the Finished World and you would never see your friends again. You’d be lost here, for ever.”
“No,” said Cabbage. “You won’t do that.”
She stepped towards him. The dress shimmered and clung, throwing light and shadow into her face.
“I won’t?”
“No. You want to tell us. You know. You’ve come to help.”
She came closer still and put out her hand.
“Leave him,” said Flaxfield.
She laughed.
“You’re not even here, Flaxfield,” she said. “Your magic is folded up like a tent. Let me talk to the boy.”
She took his hand. Cabbage felt as though he could see for the first time. He looked up. The hazy figures in the gallery were clear as noontime. He knew their names, the books they had written, the work they were doing now.
“You’re called Springmile,” he said.
“I am.”
“Are you taking me with you?”
“Yes,” she said. “I am.”
Jackbones tried to lunge at them. He couldn’t move his feet. “You’re taking me,” he said. “It’s my Finishing.”
“There is no Finishing here. No one has died. You’re staying here, Jackbones, though you may wish you weren’t.”
She led Cabbage to the table.
“Take up the book,” she said. “Not the notebook.”
He picked it up. It was warm, dusty, light.
“Well?” she asked.
The book had transformed itself into a burned coal, dead almost, with just the smallest orange glow in the centre.
“Tell me what you have?” she said.
“It’s an ember.”
“And there you have it.”
“His name is Ember?”
“Be careful with what you hold,” she said. “If you crush it in your hand the living heart will burn you. If you blow on in and feed it, perhaps it will rekindle and grow into a blaze beyond your control. If you blow on it, you may rouse it to life or you may extinguish it for ever. Ember is an end and it is a beginning.”
“Can we use this to beat Slowin?” asked Cabbage.
“No. It will not help you.”
Cabbage looked at her with defeated eyes.
“This has all been for nothing?” he said.
“It will not help you,” said Springmile.
“That’s not true,” said Flaxfield. “Knowing his name gives us power.”
“You need both names,” she said. “You need the girl’s name, too.”
“Do you know that?”
“Oh yes. We know that.”
“What is it?” Flaxfield demanded.
“Where is she?” asked Springmile.
“You must know that, too.”
“Of course.”
Cabbage squeezed her hand.
“Have I got to go with you now?” he asked. |
The porter held the door open
for Frastfil to go through. They looked at each other with dislike. Spendrill put his huge hand on Frastfil’s shoulder on purpose. He knew the man was disgusted by the size of them. Frastfil controlled his shuddering.
“You’re not leaving us, are you?” asked Spendrill.
“Oh, just, you know,” smiled Frastfil.
“We’ll miss you,” said Spendrill.
Frastfil jingled the coins in his pocket. “Perhaps I’ll come back,” he said.
“So you’re still a teacher here?”
Frastfil smiled desperately.
“Am I?”
“Where are you off to then?”
“Oh, just a short trip. Or a long one. Or a new job.”
Spendrill loosened his grip and allowed Frastfil to slip away.
“Don’t you know?”
“Ah,” he smiled and jingled. “Maybe I do, maybe I don’t, but I don’t have to tell the porter, do I?”
Spendrill leaned forward and whispered into Frastfil’s ear. “No,” he said. “No, you don’t have to tell the porter, but here’s a funny thing, the porter always finds out.”
“What?”
“Goodbye, then. I wish you a long journey.”
Spendrill closed the gate.
Frastfil crossed the square, threaded his way through the narrow streets to the gate of the town. He stopped there, knelt and fastened his shoes and set off on the road to Boolat, where he would be appreciated.
Springmile led Cabbage towards the spiral stair, its iron treads leading ever upwards.
“Let him go,” snapped Flaxfield. “He’s staying here.”
Springmile smiled down at the boy.
“I want you to fetch me a book,” she said. She whispered to him. He nodded. Without looking back he climbed the stair and the others disappeared from view as he turned the corner. Other faces were in front of him. The throng of the Finished People waited ahead. He kept his hand on the stair rail to stop himself from shaking. He kept his head down, not to look at them. As he reached the first gallery and made his path along the walkway they fell aside to let him pass.
“Thank you,” he said. He looked up without thinking and his eyes met the eyes of a Finished Man. He was tall and gaunt, hair drawn back and tucked under a cap, a small beard just on the end of his chin and shaved cheeks.
“You know where it is?” he asked Cabbage.
“Yes.”
He reached the place on the shelf and took down the book. Why always this one?
At the bottom of the stair he saw Flaxfield’s face first and thought the old wizard was going to cry with relief. He lifted a hand in recognition. Flaxfield nodded and turned away. He handed the book the Springmile.