Читать книгу The Unwritten Books 3-Book Bundle - James Bow - Страница 7

A WINTER’S TALE

“Please. Why are you doing this?”

— Theo Watson

The library door flew open, and Rosemary’s mother burst in, carrying Theo’s coat. “Theo!” she cried. “Why did you walk out on us? It’s cold! You went six blocks without your coat!” Her breath fogged in the air let in by the door. Theo did not look cold.

“Rosemary needed help.” Theo’s voice was dull.

“Rosemary’s doing just fine, aren’t you, dear?” She shot her daughter a look that said, “Just nod!” Rosemary bit her tongue and nodded.

Dr. Abrams came in, puffing. “Theo,” he said. “Why did you leave?”

“There is nothing wrong with me,” said Theo. “Rosemary needed help.”

Dr. Abrams frowned. “That’s more responsive than I’ve seen him all morning.”

Rosemary’s mother wrung her hands. “Maybe he’d be more comfortable at home?”

Dr. Abrams touched Theo’s arm. “Come on, Theo, let’s take you home.”

Theo shrugged his arm away. “There’s nothing wrong with me.” There was a rising edge to his voice. “Rosemary needed help.”

Rosemary stepped into Theo’s vision. “Theo, go with them. Please?”

He focused on her. “Will you be all right?”

She squeezed his hand. “Yes. Peter will help me, won’t you, Peter?”

Everybody looked at Peter. He swallowed hard and nodded.

Theo glanced around at the library, blinking at the shelves as though seeing them for the first time. He looked at her. “Watch out for the books. Be home soon.”

He turned and walked out the front door. Dr. Abrams followed like a protective dog.

Rosemary’s mother gave her a hug. “Thanks, dear. Will you be coming home soon?”

Rosemary nodded. “I’ll tell Mrs. McDougall to close up. There’s nobody here.”

“Hardly anybody downtown, either,” said her mother. “But I’m afraid at least a few people saw Theo dashing down the street without his coat. So much for his privacy.” She sighed. “I’d wait for you, but —”

“It’s okay.”

Rosemary’s mother followed Theo out of the library.

Rosemary stared through the front window as her mother and Dr. Abrams got Theo into the car and drove off. She sighed, then blinked to feel a hand pat her shoulder. She looked up in time to see Peter hurriedly pull it back.

“What are you doing here?” she said.

He started. “I ... what?”

“What are you doing here?” She turned on him. “I’m here every weekend and I never see you about. Then the day all” — she waved her hands at the stacks where the books lay scattered — “all this happens, you show up. Why?”

He gaped at her. “Why shouldn’t I be here? What else is there to do?”

Mrs. McDougall came shuffling out from the back. “Could you two keep that door closed? There’s a draft!” She frowned at their stares of disbelief. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” said Rosemary. “I’ve just been talking to my mother. Let’s close the library early.”

“Good idea! I’ll get my coat.” Mrs. McDougall shuffled to the closet, pulled on her coat, and stepped outside. Peter and Rosemary watched her go.

Peter glanced at her. “Look, I just thought ...”

“I’m sorry.” Rosemary took a deep breath. “You’ve only ever seen me angry or scared. I’m not always like this.”

He shrugged and gave her a small smile. “I’ve seen worse.”

She turned to the stacks. “Let’s clean up this mess and get out of here.”

They put the books back on the shelves, shut down the computers, and turned off the lights. Five minutes later, Peter held Rosemary’s skis as she locked the door.

A shape separated from the stacks, a tall figure dressed in green. Through the front windows, it watched Rosemary and Peter walk down the street.

Sunday was also bright and cold. The world was black, blue, and white as Rosemary stepped from the front door of her home. Her breath fogged in the air.

The snow squeaked underfoot as she walked to the mailbox. On days like this, she didn’t mind that the newspaper delivery boy didn’t bring the paper directly to the front door, even if she had to pull on boots and a coat to get it. She pulled the paper from the mailbox.

A snowball hit her in the back.

Rosemary scowled. Just call me the snowball magnet, she thought. She turned around. “Trish, how many times do I have to tell you —”

There was nobody at the front door.

“Ow!” said a voice higher up. Rosemary’s gaze shifted to the roof of the house.

A lanky man was perched on the gable above the front door, shaking out a wet hand. “How do you throw these balls of ice?”

Everything about him was odd. His ears were a little too pointed, his arms and legs were a little too long, and his eyes were far too wild. He was dressed like Robin Hood, with a long tunic and hose of green leather.

Oddest of all, he looked familiar.

“Sage Rosemary,” he said. “You caught me off my guard. I was asleep, tired from my ordeal. You locked me in the library last night.”

Rosemary kept on staring.

“Fortune found me a hatchway to the roof,” the man continued. “From there I had no trouble getting down.” As if to illustrate, he jumped from the pitched roof, landing nimbly on his feet in front of Rosemary. She kept staring.

He frowned at her silence. “Come, come, Sage Rosemary, surely you do remember me?” He thrust out a long-boned hand. “Robin Goodfellow. You may call me Puck.”

Rosemary wheeled around and walked out the front gate and up the country road.

“Rosemary?” Puck called. He followed her.

“Go away!” she shouted over her shoulder.

Two steps behind, Puck matched her pace, his pointy shoes skidding on the snow. “Rosemary, will you not speak with me?”

“You’re a figment of my imagination!”

“Do you order all such figments to fly away?”

Rosemary’s fists clenched tighter. “A hallucination, then! I’m going crazy at last!”

“Do hallucinations leave footprints?”

She stopped and looked at the road behind Puck. “You don’t.” She turned again.

Puck looked back at the snow behind him. Only Rosemary’s footprints showed. “Oh! How very odd! I wonder why that would be ...” He scratched his chin, and then snapped his fingers. “Of course!” Rosemary was now several paces ahead of him and he bounded after her.

“There is a good reason why I do not leave footprints in your world,” he said, matching her pace. “You see, Sage Rosemary, I am not real.”

“Is there an echo somewhere?” asked Rosemary.

Puck stopped. “Hallooo!” he shouted. He listened for a moment and then loped after her. “No.”

“I already said you weren’t real. Now, go away!”

He kept his pace. “Hallucination I am not. They are real after a fashion. Neither am I a sprightly ghost. Figments are as real as a person believes. Wise one, I am not real. I am fiction.”

Rosemary stopped. She stared at Puck.

“I am well developed, as you can see.” He gave her a smile and twirled around like a ballet dancer. “A three-dimensional character.”

Rosemary backed away. She dropped her newspaper. Then she turned and ran.

“Sage Rosemary, come back!” shouted Puck. “I did not mean to frighten you!”

Rosemary ran as fast as her heavy boots would let her, oblivious to her surroundings and any sounds of pursuit. At the McAllister mailbox, Peter was getting his own newspaper. He looked up. “Hey, Rosemary. Where are you go—”

Rosemary ploughed into him. They went down in a scramble of arms, legs, and newsprint.

Peter grabbed her shoulders. “Rosemary!”

She was trembling. “I want my mind back! I want it back, now!”

“Rosemary! What is it?”

She pointed. He looked. The road was empty.

Then, out of nowhere, Puck dropped down in front of them.

Peter and Rosemary yelped.

Wide-eyed, they looked up at the tall, gangly not-exactly-a-man that smiled down at them. The smile might have been meant to be friendly, but Puck’s mouth was just too wide, and his eyes just too large and too green.

Rosemary looked sidelong at Peter. “You see him too?”

Eyes wide, Peter nodded.

“Fear not,” said Puck.

Peter and Rosemary scampered back.

Puck tapped his foot. “Do you doubt your very own eyes? Shall I prove that I am Robin Goodfellow? Observe my powers, as I transform into a goat!”

And, before their eyes, he changed into a large goat, at least as tall as Puck had been, with green eyes and great curling horns.

Peter and Rosemary clutched at each other and screamed.

The goat rolled its eyes. “Oh, Lord, what fools these mortals be!” He transformed back. “I say again, fear not, for I mean you no harm! Here, let me help you up.”

He grabbed them by their wrists, hauled them to their feet, and brushed the snow off them. Peter and Rosemary edged closer together.

“Who is he?” asked Peter. “Where did he come from?”

“He followed me home.”

“And you’re going to ask your parents if you can keep him?”

Rosemary shoved Peter into the snow bank.

The creature pulled Peter back onto his feet again and shook his hand. “You must be young Peter McAllister, who saved Rosemary at the library,” he said. “It is an honour to meet one so valiant. Puck at your service, sir.”

Peter’s brow furrowed. “Like from A Midsummer Night’s Dream? That Puck?”

Puck beamed.

“Why are you here?”

“To be Rosemary’s guide in her great quest to find her brother, Theo.”

Rosemary pushed forward. “You know what’s wrong with Theo?”

“He is a prisoner within his mind,” said Puck. “You must journey inside to save his hind.”

“I must what?”

“Come with me to the library,” said Puck. “Your quest starts there.”

“And if I don’t?” demanded Rosemary.

For the first time, Puck stopped smiling. “If you do not, Sage Rosemary, brother Theo will not come back. The hauntings will get worse and worse, alack.” He raised a hand as Peter started to speak. “I know your thoughts, young fellow, but be assured that I have naught to do with this. I have no quarrel with Sage Rosemary. I only wish to see her free.”

Rosemary and Peter looked at each other. They looked back at Puck. They started to back away.

Puck raised his hands apologetically. “I understand your doubts, my good children. Let me show you that I speak the truth. Go home and go to Theo’s room and read the book he’s reading. Then you shall understand what ails him.” He stepped aside and extended a hand towards the road. They had a clear path.

Rosemary and Peter looked at each other again. Then, giving Puck a wide berth, they ran to the road and back to Rosemary’s house.

The house was still asleep. Shamus slunk up the stairs behind them, his toenails clicking. Rosemary led the way to Theo’s room.

She pushed open the door. Theo was sitting up in bed, staring into his book.

“Hello, Rosie,” he said. He looked up and smiled at her.

He did not look at Peter. His eyes trailed down to his book, and then up again sharply. “Who’s your friend?”

“You’ve met Peter,” said Rosemary, shutting the door behind her.

“Really?” said Theo.

“Yes, at the library. And he was over for dinner the day before.”

“You brought a boy home for dinner? Good for you.” He turned back to his book.

Shamus whimpered. Rosemary patted him. She and Peter crept forward and leaned across the bed to peer at the cover of Theo’s book. It was just a normal paperback, with a painted image of a figure in smoke emerging from an open book. But there was no title on the spine.

“It’s not a book,” she said. “It’s a journal; a blank journal!”

Peter peered over Theo’s shoulder. “Something’s been typed in it.” Theo turned the page. The new page started blank, but text appeared in the top left corner and streamed down the paper. “Something’s being typed into it right now!”

“What?” Rosemary reached for Theo’s book.

Theo snapped out of his trance. He pulled the book to his chest. “Rosemary, no!”

She gripped the book by its spine. “Theo, let me see.”

Theo shook his head. He wrenched the book back. With a tremendous yank, Rosemary pulled the book out of Theo’s grasp.

“No!” Theo’s voice choked off.

Rosemary looked at the pages and saw a line saying, “Rosemary looked at the pages and saw a line saying, ‘Rosemary looked at the pages and saw a line saying, ‘Rosemary looked at the pages and saw a line saying, ‘Rosemary looked at the pages and saw —’”

Peter tore the book from her hands.

Rosemary staggered back and covered her eyes.

There was a tapping at the window. Puck’s face was centred upside down in the frame, hanging by his feet from the roof. He waved.

Peter opened the window, but Puck did not come in. Instead, he said, “Do you believe me, Rosemary?”

“What the — what happened?” Rosemary gasped, wincing and rubbing her temples.

“I don’t know,” said Peter. He picked up the book by one corner as though it were something toxic. “You just stared into the pages, and you ... froze. You just stood there. I couldn’t reach you.”

“How long?” asked Rosemary.

“Long enough!” Peter thought a moment. “A minute. You didn’t even blink.”

Rosemary screwed her eyes tighter. No wonder they hurt.

Peter opened the book.

“Peter, be careful!”

“No, it’s okay, I was just reading it. Maybe it doesn’t affect me.” He flipped to the first blank page. The text was still scrolling down. He frowned.

“It’s listing what I’ve said — what I’m saying right now,” he said. He flipped back a few pages. “And here we are talking to Puck in the snow.” He grimaced. “Here I am screaming. It’s all written from your point of view.” He snapped the book closed just as Rosemary was creeping up to peer over his shoulder. “When you looked at the pages as they were being written, you started a loop.”

“Theo has been reading the world from your eyes, Rosemary,” said Puck through the window. “Look at your brother now.”

Rosemary looked up and then darted forward. “Theo?” She shook her brother by the shoulder. He stared blankly ahead. “Theo!”

“Give him the book,” said Puck. “It is his only link to us.”

Rosemary pressed the book into Theo’s hands. She felt his fingers tighten against the covers. His eyes lowered, and he began to read.

Rosemary held his hands a moment before letting go. “I’m responsible for this?”

“No,” said Peter, frowning at Theo. “How could you be?”

Puck shook his head. “You are not the fault, but you are the cause. Because they could not get at you, they stole away your kin.”

“What are you talking about?” Peter rounded on the window. “What do you mean, steal Theo? He’s right here!”

“No, wait, I see.” Rosemary swallowed. “Theo reads more than me. Dad always says he can get lost in a book.”

“And now he has,” said Puck.

Rosemary turned to the window. “What do I have to do to get Theo back?”

“It won’t be easy, Rosemary,” said Puck. “You will face dangers only your imagination could dream of.”

“I don’t have an imagination,” said Rosemary.

“Of course you do. What else would be attacking you?”

Rosemary stared at Puck, her mouth agape. Then she looked at Theo and drew herself up. “What do I have to do to get Theo back?”

“Come with me to the Land of Fiction,” said Puck. “I shall be your guide and Peter your defender, if he be brave enough.”

Peter started to say something, but Rosemary cut him off. “First things first, how do we get to this Land of Fiction?”

“We need a book. That is why we must go to the library.”

“Why the library?” said Rosemary. “We’ve got books.”

“You do? Even better. Come down and let me in.” Puck grabbed the sill and let go of the roof. He twirled in mid-air before disappearing from view. Looking out the window, they saw him on his feet in the snow.

Peter and Rosemary crept downstairs. They jumped when the front door rattled.

Rosemary opened it and found Puck staring at the knocker. It was a carved woodpecker mounted on a pivot; pulling the tail rattled the beak against the wood.

Puck found this fascinating, and Rosemary had to swat his hand away before he pulled the tail again. “You’ll wake my parents!”

“Quite.” He pulled away from the knocker reluctantly and strode into the living room.

Shamus started at the sight of him. He gave a little growl, but edged forward and sniffed at the hem of Puck’s tunic. Then he looked up, let out a quick bark, as he had done when approving of Peter, and stepped away.

Rosemary stared at her dog.

Puck looked at the bookshelves and nodded. “A good collection, Rosemary. Appropriate for one so wise.”

“Actually, they’re my father’s.”

“Be that as it may, they are precisely what I need.” He pulled a book from the shelves.

Rosemary peered at the cover. “We get to the Land of Fiction through Jane’s World Book of Airplanes?”

“Any book will do,” said Puck. “As long as you can find the secret passage.”

“Secret passage?” asked Peter. “What secret passage?”

“Such passages are in all books,” said Puck. “You need only to read between the lines.” Then, opening the book in the middle, he closed his eyes and began to chant:

A portal opened in the corner of the room,

And filled up with papery light

It gathered until it formed a tunnel

Which stretched onward into infinity.

Then he snapped the book shut and threw it into the corner. The book flopped open on its spine, with its pages fanning out like a fountain. The arches beneath the pages began to glow, and as the glow got brighter, the book grew larger, until the fountain of pages towered over them.

A wind plucked at Peter and Rosemary’s clothes, gathering strength until Rosemary was shocked that her parents were sleeping through it. She pushed the hair from her eyes as Puck stepped to the tunnel entrance.

“It will close once you are through, Rosemary,” he said. “Pray, do not delay.”

He took a step and vanished down the tunnel.

“Right.” Peter stepped forward. “Here goes nothing.”

Rosemary grabbed his arm. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going with you.”

She shook her head. “Theo’s already in there because of me. If anything happened to you ...” her voice trailed off. “You’re staying right here.”

“You can’t make me.”

“Oh yes I can!”

Still holding Peter’s arm, Rosemary used it to try to swing him aside. He struggled. Suddenly they were grappling with each other, each trying to hold the other down and get away so they’d be the first through the portal.

Peter perked up. “Look! It’s Theo! He’s better!”

Rosemary looked. Peter grabbed her shoulder and shoved her to the floor. He scrambled up and ran, but Rosemary tackled him from behind.

“Got you!”

“So does the portal,” gasped Peter.

They were sliding forward on the hardwood floor, the wind blowing them towards the opening, faster and faster. Peter and Rosemary yelled.

The portal closed behind them.

There were shouts from the upper floors as Mr. and Mrs. Watson scrambled out of bed. Theo stumbled downstairs, pawing at the walls like a blind man. He fell into the living room, then picked himself up. Opening the book he glanced around and saw Rosemary’s and Peter’s unconscious bodies, sprawled together by the corner of the room beside a thick book open on its spine. He was too late.

Shamus sniffed and prodded Rosemary with his snout. She didn’t move. He began to howl.

Theo sighed. “Rosemary. Oh, Rosemary, why?” He stood over them, book open, like a priest over a grave.

Rosemary’s mother scrambled into the living room. She stopped in the doorway and took in the scene with one glance. “Theo! What did you do?”

Theo closed the book and dropped it on the floor.

Mrs. Watson rounded on her husband, who was steps behind. “Get Trisha out of the house, now. Take her out the back way. Don’t let her see this.”

Mr. Watson nodded and strode upstairs.

Mrs. Watson stepped into the room, her hair rumpled, her bathrobe askew, looking from her son to her daughter to that McAllister kid. She waved a hand in front of Theo’s face and then lowered him into a chair. She took Shamus by the collar and hushed him.

At her feet, Theo’s book flipped open with a bang. Mrs. Watson jumped. Then she saw the text streaming down on the page.

Behind her, Mr. Watson bundled Trisha out the back door.