‘Fine!’
‘But we’re going. It’s arranged.’
‘Whatever!’
Libby stomps away. She doesn’t look back. I watch her dad take a breath to call after her, but he changes his mind. His shoulders drop, and he disappears back into the house.
I dart after Libby, ducking behind the cars.
She vanishes around the corner at the bottom of the street. When I reach the junction, I see she’s crossed the main road and is heading towards a broken, grey tower, set back among some trees.
Kirkstall Abbey, I think, remembering the name from the map.
I follow as she heads into the abbey grounds. The tower is lit garish yellow, pools of electric light breaking the shadows. I notice Libby’s carrying a pile of papers.
What’s she up to? What are they?
There’s a river at the edge of the grounds, and a weir. Reaching the water, Libby stops. I come to a halt a little behind, hiding behind a tree, the hiss from the weir masking my noise.
She’s not going to see me, I tell myself. She’s too focused on whatever she’s doing.
Moving around the tree, I edge a little closer. Libby’s face is red and blotchy. I can’t tell if she’s angry or upset. Perhaps both. She takes out a sheet of paper, crumples it into a ball and flings it into the river.
There’s a jolt in my gut.
It hits the water and drifts towards the weir. In the distance, a freight train rumbles past.
Pausing only momentarily to watch, Libby pulls out another sheet, screws it up and tosses it after the first.
No!
‘I’m done!’ she says.
The paper moves slowly with the current.
I know what she’s doing. This is her writing. She’s throwing it away.
Throwing our world away! I think.
I move closer. She can’t do this! She mustn’t!
Libby throws another crumpled ball into the water. She’s talking to it. She reminds me of her mum, speaking to the gulls.
‘What’s the point?’ she spits. ‘There is no point! I won’t do it anymore! I can’t, anyway, even if I wanted to. This is where I threw it – my pen – into the river. I can’t leap without it. No other pen will do. It has to be that one. It’s under there somewhere, gone. Now, you have to join it.’ She pulls out the next sheet of paper, crumples it, and throws it into the river.
What did she just say? She’s thrown her pen away – the one I’ve come all this way to find? The second source, it’s also lost?
I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut. Libby’s mum threw her pen into the sea. And now this?
Like mother like daughter!
But if both pens have gone …
This is over.
I feel numb. My journey’s been for nothing. SEEK THE SOURCE – that’s what we were told. But the source is gone! Lost! Thrown away!
How dare she! This is my life! How can she treat us with such contempt? Do we mean nothing to her?
She throws another ball of paper into the water. It slams through my gut.
This is it, our world being discarded.
I picture the Storyteller and my mother, their bodies fading. I picture Scoop. I won’t let her do this. I can’t.
‘Stop!’ I yell, running across to her. ‘Stop this now!’
But she doesn’t look round. She doesn’t even flinch.
She can’t hear me.
I’ve been aware of being invisible to others, but to Libby? Surely she must see me. She has to!
But she doesn’t. She doesn’t respond in any way. I really have become nothing.
Libby throws another sheet of paper into the water. The pile is thinning now.
I move in front of her.
‘Listen!’ I scream. ‘Why won’t you listen?’ I wave my hands in front of her face. I need her to hear me! I’m close to her; we’re almost nose to nose.
For the briefest moment, Libby pauses.
‘You can hear me,’ I whisper. ‘I know you can.’
Her eyes dart. She’s aware of something, I’m sure of it. But she gazes beyond me to the paper floating silently away.
I’m a ghost, a figment.
She steps forward. Before I can move, she pushes right into me. But we don’t bump into one another. Instead, she steps right through me, as if my body is just air.
But I feel her. As she passes through me, I feel her touch. It jolts like electricity. She feels it too and cries out, stumbling back, tripping on the root of a tree. Falling, she drops her papers. They scatter like leaves. I move forward to help, electricity snapping as I touch her again, making me stumble too.
‘Ouch!’ She scrambles away, terrified.
‘It’s me! It’s Fletcher!’
Her eyes don’t focus on me. Darting forward, she snatches the rest of the papers, gathering them in her arms. She’s about to push herself to her feet when she freezes, looking at the ground in front of me.
I glance down. On the grass is the photo we picked up at the beach hut – the picture of the girl holding the red spade. It must have fallen out of my pocket when I stumbled.
Libby picks it up.
‘How …?’ she whispers. She shakes her head. ‘It can’t be. I haven’t seen this since … How did it get here?’ She glances around, but there’s nobody here. Other than us, the abbey grounds are empty. She examines the photo, holding it gently, almost reverently. She runs her finger over the image of the girl, her childhood self. Then, I see her focus on the face behind, her mother, waiting, ready to catch the child.
‘Mum,’ she whispers. ‘This is a sign. I know it. I don’t know how it got here, but I know it is. And I know what I need to do.’
Spinning round, she begins to run back across the abbey grounds, back through the gate, back along the street in the direction of her house. My heart thumps as I give chase; barely daring to hope I’ve got through to her, that I brought something here, even without knowing, that may reach Libby, and in doing so, save our world.
* * *
The last letter is shorter. It’s simpler in tone. But I think it’s the letter that makes the most sense. It gives the impression of a woman beginning to heal, slowly moving on …
Dear Libby,
I’ve thrown it away, my silver pen. I’ve finally done it. I tossed it into the sea, into the depths.
Since then, my head has quietened. I struggled with the stillness at first, but now I feel more ordered, as though I’ve thrown away a part of myself, finally allowed it to die.
With that death has come a realisation. It almost makes me laugh to see how simple it is.
The pen is not important. It’s just an instrument, it’s not the song. The pen is not my source, not even the words that flow through it. They’re the notes, yes, but they’re not the music.
Words on their own mean nothing, they’re just marks on the page. Only when words are received, when they’re shared, do they bring life. It’s that connection that’s important.
Relationship is the source! Words must be made real; they must become flesh – that is the end of their quest.
Do you remember when you were young, too little to even feed yourself, I used to sing to you? I used to tell you stories. I remember those moments as being the happiest in my life, the most complete I’ve felt. That contentment came from something being shared, something pure – our relationship, mother and daughter. I realise now, I became a storyteller to join our worlds together. I don’t know how I’ve not seen it before!
I needed time to accept the fate that awaits me. I’m sorry I had to leave to do that, but I needed space; space to reconcile to my past, space to confront this cloud I find myself in.
But I’m ready now. I will see you again soon.
Your loving, blinded, mother.
I look up. We’ve got it wrong! I need to tell Fletcher. We’ve been searching for the wrong thing! The pen is not the source. Libby and her mother, they are the source – their relationship. But it’s brok
en, torn and separated.
I look around. The beach is empty. Fletcher is long gone.
Just like us, I think.
Chapter 30
The Night Figure
The BLACK LAKE waited underground, deathly quiet, perfectly still. Even the sleep sparkles around it had stopped moving. They hung, suspended, as if time itself had stopped.
In the darkness, the curved prow of the Ferryman’s boat rose from the lake, its progress as smooth as the moon’s course. The Ferryman stood at its helm. Around it, the sleep sparkles began to stir again. At the centre of the boat, the black cloud circled, forming a tight cocoon. Once clear of the water, it uncoiled to reveal Grizelda’s stumpy body. Next to her was a second figure, dark as night. Icy coldness emanated from it, making the air around the boat freeze. It looked like one of the Mummies, wrapped in bandages, its face concealed. But its bandages were black. The figure stood, motionless as death.
The boat crept noiselessly to the shore. It drew to a stop, and the cloud slithered over its sides, oozing back towards the entrance to the chamber. Without a word, the old woman followed. The night figure moved silently after her. Together, they followed the cloud out of the chamber, beginning their journey back to the surface of the island and to ALETHEA.
* * *
The fires of the NIGHTMARE army illuminated the GREAT WHITE CLIFF. The troops were in disarray. The Trolls and Giants were fighting again, the Vampires were complaining about the Banshees’ wailing, and nobody was happy with the Zombies. Melusine was at her wits end. She’d considered slithering away, leaving them to their petty squabbles, but she’d have to face Grizelda if she abandoned her post. Instead, she moved between the regiments, listening to their complaints and trying, as much as possible, to snuff out sparks of conflict before they erupted into full-force fires.
She was trying to explain to a Wraith that they had best keep out of the way of the Cyclops, since it was still half-blind from its run-in with the Sirens, when she felt it – an icy cold, creeping through the air. It made her breath swirl. She silenced the Wraith.
Melusine wasn’t the only one who sensed the change. Gradually, the NIGHTMARE army fell still, leaving only the crackling of the fires.
As the temperature dropped, a thick frost spread through the camp, creating a long, white carpet. Around it, crystals began to cluster on the trees.
The army parted to reveal two dark figures, in sharp relief to the frosty path. The cloud twisted ahead of them. Melusine recognised the first. It was Grizelda. But who was the second, black as the night?
Slowly, they moved towards her, the ground crackling around them. As they approached, Melusine felt as though her blood was freezing.
‘Who is thiss?’ she asked, as Grizelda drew near. The night figure waited a little way from the women.
‘You’ll see,’ croaked the old woman. There was something different about her voice. It was stripped of its brash rasp.
Melusine narrowed her eyes, but nodded.
Glancing at ALETHEA, Grizelda crossed to the night figure. Freeing the end of one of its bandages, she began to unwrap its head. She worked her way down its body to reveal messy brown hair, a grimy forehead, chestnut eyes and a strong nose. The bandages fell to the ground like shed skin. Melusine stepped back. What was this? She recognised the face. But, it couldn’t be …
Grizelda continued to unwrap the night figure until he was freed from his bandages. When the last one fell to the floor, she stepped back.
The figure was a boy, little older than an academy apprentice. He was tall and gangly.
‘But … but it can’t be,’ hissed Melusine.
* * *
In the Great Hall of ALETHEA, the circle sat around the candles, their hands joined. Alfa was telling of how her parents first realised she could shift the seasons. It had been a sunny winter’s day and she’d melted a circle of ice with a song. She was about to sing it to the circle, when a voice interrupted, echoing up the cliff from outside. It was an ordinary voice, a friendly voice.
‘Hello,’ it called. ‘Hello. Is anybody there? Could you let me in? It’s cold out here.’
Everyone froze. Rufina, whose head had been bowed, looked up, alert.
‘No!’ stuttered the Yarnbard. ‘Don’t listen. It’s a trick of the night.’
‘Hello,’ the voice called again. ‘Please, let me in. I know you’re all in there. I need to join you.’
‘Don’t break the circle!’
‘Rufina! It’s me. It’s …’
Rufina leapt up.
‘No!’ cried the Yarnbard, stumbling to his feet. But it was too late. Rufina was sprinting towards the stairs that led to the castle’s underground entrance.
‘Stop her!’ yelled the Yarnbard. ‘Somebody stop her!’
Freddo, Pierre, Christopher and the Boatswain sprang to their feet, giving chase.
Mr Snooze held out his hands. ‘With me,’ he wheezed. Alfa, Sparks, Felda, Wisdom and Knot shuffled in, joining hands again, the circle tightening.
Footsteps rang from the stairway below. Sparks could hear Freddo and the Boatswain shouting. The Yarnbard stared down the steps, his face stricken as the noise of a key in a heavy lock echoed up.
* * *
Melusine stared at the boy’s face. She recognised him from the Wordsmith’s Yard. He was the stable lad.
‘Hello!’ he called up again.
A slow, rumbling creak echoed from the tunnel. The door was being opened.
Grizelda’s eyes narrowed. ‘Call the advance,’ she whispered.
‘NIGHTMARE army!’ Melusine cried. ‘Attack!’
There was a roar as the night army rushed forward, pouring into the tunnel towards the entrance to ALETHEA.
* * *
Rufina stood, helpless, as the NIGHTMARE army swept past her. Trolls, Werewolves, Golems and Orc rushed up the steps towards the Great Hall. She gripped the door, searching for a face in the crowd.
As Grizelda pushed past, she winked. ‘Thank you, me dear. Much obliged.’ She disappeared up the stairs.
And then Rufina saw him.
‘Nib,’ she gasped. Stepping out, she blocked his path. ‘Nib, you’re here, you’re alive.’ Halting in front of her, Nib stared at Rufina. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. Rufina reached out to him, but as she did, an icy gust burst from his body. Nib crumpled, collapsing inwards. He disintegrated into her hands. She was left clutching a strip of black bandage. Rufina sank to her knees and drew the cloth to her cheek. There in the doorway to ALETHEA, she nursed it, as the NIGHTMARE army surged past.
Chapter 31
Stealing
I follow Libby back to her house, slipping into the hallway just before she pushes the door closed. I notice she shuts it quietly, turning the handle so the lock doesn’t click. She glances towards the lounge. The rhythmic bells of a Christmas song spill through it. Her dad’s watching TV. She begins to creep up the stairs, tiptoeing, missing certain steps, moving from side to side.
She knows where they creak, I think, following. She pushes herself against the wall and slips up the last few. She’s obviously done this before.
I glance through the banisters, into the lounge. A plastic Christmas tree stands to the side of the room, a few lonely presents beneath it, the light of the TV flickering on its branches.
I stop.
That wallpaper – I’ve seen it before. I recognise the faint shine of golden brown diamonds. I don’t know why such a small detail leaps out, but it makes my skin tingle. I rack my brains, trying to remember where I’ve seen it before.
Of course! Not where, but when! The memory comes flooding back: the noise of the Great Hall; the smell of rich food; reaching out to take the Storyteller’s hand, everyone’s eyes on me; the hall vanishing and Libby appearing; the soft music from her iPod; the feel of the sofa; the journal, our lives written in black and white; and the revelation that Libby is the Storyteller. That’s where we met her, there in that room, the night we were swept here; the nigh
t of the Great Wedding Banquet.
I’m surprised the memory’s still there. I thought I’d forgotten all but the briefest glimmer of that world. But it’s still intact, hiding in the shadows.
I hear Libby moving about on the landing above, and it shakes me from my trance.
Come on. Now’s not the time for sentimentality. I need to focus.
Pulling myself away, I head upstairs to find Libby in her room, throwing clothes into a sports bag. She zips it shut.
Pulling out her phone, she begins to tap the screen. I feel awkward standing there, unseen.
It’s okay, I tell myself. I’m here to help.
Cautiously, I edge closer, trying to see what she’s looking at. I peer over her shoulder.
MY TRAVEL. Libby taps a train icon and the display changes. PLANNER. I watch as she begins to type. The word comes up quickly. LEEDS. I already know what she’s going to put next. CHRISTCHURCH.
She’s going there! She’s going to the beach hut! She’s going to find her mum!
I think of her dad, still watching TV, unaware of his daughter’s plan. For a moment, I’m sad for him. He seems so disconnected from Libby.
But I don’t have time to dwell on it. Libby taps GO and a list of train times and prices appear.
‘One hundred and forty-six pounds!’ She shakes her head.
Opening her bedside table drawer, she pulls out a floral, plastic purse and takes out a little bundle of notes. Sitting on her bed, she begins to count them. Twenty … thirty … forty … fifty. She lays each note out carefully. ‘Not enough,’ she says, running her hand through her hair.
She sits for a moment, frowning. ‘Is it still there …?’ she says to herself. ‘It must be.’ Scuttling to her bookcase, she fumbles at the back of the top shelf. ‘Yes, here it is.’ She pulls down a silver moneybox, covered in dust. Running her fingers around the rusted lid, she pulls it off. The coins jump noisily. Libby stills the tin and runs her fingers through the copper and silver inside. ‘Good girl,’ she whispers, ‘I’d forgotten about hiding these.’ With a grin, she pulls out three more notes, folded into neat squares. Flattening them, she adds them to her pile. ‘Ninety,’ she whispers. ‘Still not enough.’
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