Читать книгу The Chosen Ones - Scarlett Thomas - Страница 11

4

It was not quite dawn when Maximilian let himself into the old caretaker’s cupboard in the basement of the Tusitala School for the Gifted, Troubled and Strange. The sun was barely a pink whisper in the sky, but Maximilian wanted plenty of time to go through all the books in Griffin’s Library until he found the one he most wanted. The one that he had started but not finished; the one he’d been trying to find for almost a month now: Beneath the Great Forest.

He imagined another item for Dr Green’s list: Neophytes are FORBIDDEN from trying to access the Underworld. But Maximilian didn’t care about anyone’s rules. He desperately wanted to get back to the dark, mysterious underground world that he had almost accessed through Beneath the Great Forest. He so very much wanted to know its secrets. Secrets that he patently was not going to learn from Dr Green on a Monday night.

So he searched for the book.

And, of course, he also searched for information on the Sterran Guandré, just as he had promised his friends. Since most of Griffin Truelove’s library was fiction, it was not usually the place to go for facts. But Maximilian thought that if only he could get back to the Underworld there would be libraries there that would answer every question he had about life. He didn’t know how he knew this, he just did. Of course, the dim web provided information too. But it was not like the old days of the internet. The dim web could not be searched. And lately the Guild was all over it, taking down any interesting pages that told anyone anything about magic.

Maximilian sighed. He knew he wasn’t the only person in the city looking for a lost book. Indeed, all over the world, people were trying to find their long-abandoned copies of The Chosen Ones so they could get their reward. It had got all the locals particularly excited. Albion Freake was actually coming here, to the city, to give away the grand prize. The Tusitala school was even closing for the day in honour of the event. The city had been chosen because this was where Laurel Wilde lived.

But Maximilian didn’t care about stupid children’s books. He only cared about Beneath the Great Forest. Where was it? He remembered it had been a hardback bound in cloth. Or had it been leather? He was almost certain it had been blue. When he got to the 499th book – not that he was counting, but he knew how many there were – for the second time, reading titles as well as looking at the colour of the binding, he sighed. It wasn’t here. There were all sorts of interesting volumes on the shelves, but not the one he wanted.

Maximilian ran his hand over the spines of a line of hardbacks. They felt so smooth, so inviting. Almost at random, he pulled out a book called The Initiation and idly started flicking through its pages. It was a medium-sized hardback bound in dark maroon leather. The colour, Maximilian thought, of blood. Inside was mostly dense text, broken with the odd line drawing. In one image a boy was sitting cross-legged on a patterned rug; in another the same boy was wielding something that looked like an athame, a small dagger used by mages. The boy looked oddly familiar.

Getting up before dawn had made Maximilian feel exhilarated. But now his lack of sleep was beginning to catch up with him. Maybe he just needed a cup of coffee? Most children didn’t like coffee, but Maximilian was not in the least bit like most children. He had his own special cafetière and a bag of extra-strong coffee beans over by the kettle next to the sink. He put a nice big handful of beans through his coffee grinder, then sat on one of the old paint-spattered chairs to have a proper look at this book while the kettle boiled. But he was just so sleepy.

He woke a few moments later to a tap-tapping on the door. It was the elderly headmaster of the school.

‘I thought I might find you here,’ said the headmaster. ‘There’s a man outside with a helicopter who says he has come for you. I do hope you have a note from your mother.’

‘I . . .’ said Maximilian, rubbing his eyes. His short sleep had left him feeling refreshed, but rather dozy. A helicopter? A note from his mother? What on earth was the headmaster talking about?

The headmaster was smiling his crinkly, off-centre smile.

‘Go, boy, before I change my mind,’ he said.

‘But I don’t have a note . . .’

‘I was joking, child. But not about the helicopter. Go.’

With an hour to go before the start of school, Effie was walking from the bus stop at the bottom of the Old Town up the quiet cobbled street towards Leonard Levar’s locked and shuttered Antiquarian Bookshop. A tiny faint light came from deep inside the bookshop, but Effie barely noticed it. There was a gentle pink mist that was very beautiful, but it meant there would be another heavy frost later. Beyond the mist, the troposphere, the Luminiferous Ether, and much else besides, impatient meteors danced around, waiting for it to be their turn to sparkle through the sky. But Effie’s mind was on other things.

Where would she find a copy of The Chosen Ones? Nowhere, it seemed. Neither of the main city bookshops had yet opened, but each had signs on the door saying that they were completely sold out of Laurel Wilde books. On the way from the bus stop Effie had seen a poster offering a hundred pounds for a single paperback. Then, crudely pasted on top of posters for a Beethoven concert featuring the Pathétique and Les Adieux, and a talk at the Astronomical Society about the upcoming Wandering Star meteor shower, there was a handbill offering two hundred pounds for a hardback copy of The Chosen Ones.

Why did everyone want a copy of Laurel Wilde’s first book all of a sudden? It was a mystery. But Effie knew that even if she could find a copy of the book, she could not afford it at those prices. Her purse contained £5.50, which was all the money she had in the world.

Or, at least, all the money she had in this world.

Effie pulled her bottle-green school cape around her as she walked on through the misty, silent morning. She had no idea whether copies of children’s books from this world would even exist in the Otherworld. Why would they? But she had a feeling that if one did, it might be for sale at the big book stall in the Edgelands Market on the other side of the Funtime Arcade. So that’s where she was going. She had plenty of M-currency after all.

The Funtime Arcade was down a small cobbled alleyway in the Old Town. Most people would look at it and see only a run-down old arcade, locked and bolted at this time of the morning, with a small, sad-looking heap of black rubbish sacks outside waiting for collection. But as Effie approached, a familiar neon sign flickered into life. The words FUNTIME ARCADE now flashed in pink letters, and a new sign appeared underneath that said ‘Mainlanders and travellers please go through the back door.’ Effie already knew the way.

Effie had to be scanned before she could enter. The large man with the machine looked as if he’d had a hard night. A thin cigarette dangled, unlit, from his lips. His eyes were pink and his skin had a pale greenish tone. A large cup of coffee steamed softly on the small table beside him. Effie could hear a helicopter landing somewhere not too far away, and the man winced slightly at the deep throbbing sound.

‘Most of it’s shut at this time, you know,’ he said, and then waved her through into the main bar area.

The last time Effie had been here it had been full of magical-looking people in flowing robes and amazing outfits. But now it was almost empty. The place was a connected jumble of interlinked rooms forming a bar, a café and a video game arcade. In places, plants were growing through cracks in the walls and the ceiling. Beyond the arcade was the queue to go through to the Otherworld, and all the currency booths where you could change one sort of money for another. Effie looked at her watch, attempting the calculation Maximilian had taught her for telling time in the Otherworld. It was no good. She had no idea what time of day it was here. It didn’t help that the Funtime Arcade, like all portals, was in a time zone between the Realworld and the Otherworld.

But Effie didn’t have to look at her watch to know that it must be late here. The lone barman yawned as he polished glasses with a tea towel. A young Otherworlder had fallen asleep at one of the tables; empty glasses were scattered on some of the others. The only light in the place came from a small number of flickering candle-lamps, some of them almost completely burnt away.

‘Breakfast doesn’t start for another two hours,’ said the barman without looking up.

‘Thanks,’ Effie said. ‘But I’ve already had breakfast, so don’t worry.’

He looked up. ‘An islander. Well. Not many from your side been in lately. Greetings and blessings. I suppose I can make you a hot chocolate, if you like.’

‘Greetings and blessings returned,’ said Effie, remembering the right way to address people in the Otherworld. ‘It’s all right, thanks, I’m going straight through.’

‘To the mainland?’

‘That’s right.’

‘At this time?’ the barman said. ‘Good heavens. Are you very suicidal or just a little bit?’

‘Sorry?’

‘You do know what’s out there at this time of night?’

‘Er, the market?’

‘Not for another couple of hours. Only monsters out there now.’

‘Monsters?’

‘You have been to the mainland before, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Effie. ‘But not at night. Maybe I’ll wait.’

‘Are you sure you don’t want that hot chocolate?’

Effie hesitated. She looked around her. Over to her right was a comfortable-looking booth upholstered with red velvet, with a candle-lamp only half burned out. Effie could see a book on the table. It was a large green hardback that reminded her slightly of a special book she had once owned. She wondered what it was.

‘OK,’ Effie said to the barman. ‘I’d love a hot chocolate. Thanks.’

‘Marshmallows?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘Rum?’

‘No, thanks.’

The barman expertly frothed some very white-looking milk. Then he whisked up a spoonful of cocoa from a large red tin and two spoonfuls of honey from a clear jar. When the drink was made, he arranged a small pile of yellow cakes on a pink plate and dusted them lightly with silvery white icing sugar. He put the mug and plate on the counter but didn’t wait to be paid. No one paid for anything in the Otherworld. Well, not directly. Effie thanked the barman and went over to the booth.

She sat down and put her school bag on the seat next to her. What was this book? She picked it up. The Repertory of Kharakter, Art & Shade, it said on the front, in a faded gold copperplate. The volume had clearly been well-loved by someone. The pages were soft and worn and the gold ribbon used to keep one’s place had frayed away almost to nothing. Had someone left it behind by accident? There was no name in the front. Effie flicked through a few pages. ‘When the soul departs from heaven (if we may be permitted to use such outmoded terms) it has bestowed upon it two gifts,’ read one line. ‘The hedgewitch healer is that stalwart of village life to whom we go for love potions, nasturtium seeds and blankets that help infants to sleep,’ read another.

Effie flicked further through the book. There were a few interesting-looking illustrations and charts, including a circular diagram of ‘The Shades’, with the words Philosopher, Aesthete, Artisan, Protector, Galloglass and Shaper written around its edge.

Then there was another, larger circular diagram of possible kharakters, including ones familiar to Effie like mage, witch, scholar, warrior and healer. Hero was right at the top, between trickster and mage. Wizard was in a little circle of its own, right in the middle. There were also plenty of kharakters Effie had never heard of, among them interpreter and explorer. She thought Maximilian would quite like to see something like this, although Effie herself felt oddly drawn to it.

‘Ah, there’s my book,’ came a familiar voice from behind her. ‘I thought I must have left it here.’

‘Festus?’ said Effie. She didn’t know many people who came here, but Festus Grimm had helped her once before. When she turned, she found it was indeed him, standing tall in a red-lined cloak and turquoise feathered-hat.

‘Greetings and blessings, young traveller,’ said Festus.

‘Greetings and blessings returned,’ said Effie.

‘And where are you off to at this time of night?’

‘I’m waiting for the market to open.’

‘Likewise. It never gets any easier to judge the time difference, in case you were wondering. Mind if I join you? I could do with another coffee.’