Jasper Fforde - The Well of Lost Plots

'So … what happened?'

'I wasn't tall enough.'

'Tall enough? For a book? Isn't that like having the wrong hair colour for the wireless?'

'They gave the part to a little strumpet who was on salvage from a demolished Thackeray. Little cow. It's no wonder I treat her so rotten — the part should have been mine!'

She fell into silence.

'Let me get this straight,' said the Painted Jaguar, who was having a bit of trouble telling the difference between a hedgehog and a tortoise, 'if it's slow-and-solid I drop him in the water and then scoop him out of his shell—'

'Son, son!' said his mother, ever so many times, graciously waving her tail, 'now attend to me and remember what I say. A hedgehog curls himself up into a ball and his prickles stick out every way—'

'Did you get the Jurisfiction exam papers I sent you?' asked Miss Havisham. 'I've got your practical booked for the day after tomorrow.'

'Oh!' I said.

'Problems?' she asked, eyeing me suspiciously.

'No, ma'am, I just feel a bit unprepared — I think I might make a pig's ear of it.'

'I disagree,' she replied, staring at the floor indicator. 'I know you'll make a pig's ear of it. But wheels within wheels. All I ask is you don't make a fool of yourself or lose your life — now that would be awkward.'

'So,' said the Painted Jaguar, rubbing his head, 'if it can roll itself into a ball it must be a tortoise and—'

'AHHH!' cried the Mother Jaguar, lashing her tail angrily. ' Completely wrong. Miss Havisham, what am I to do with this boy?'

'I have no idea,' she replied. 'All men are dolts, from where I'm standing.'

The Painted Jaguar looked crestfallen and stared at the floor.

'Can I make a suggestion?' I asked.

'Anything!' replied the Mother Jaguar.

'If you make a rhyme out of it he might be able to remember.'

The Mother Jaguar sighed.

'It won't help. Yesterday he forgot he was a Painted Jaguar. He makes my spots ache, really he does.'

'How about this?' I said, making up a rhyme on the spot:

The Mother Jaguar stopped lashing her tail and asked me to write it down. She was still trying to get her son to remember it when the elevator doors opened on the fifth floor and we got out.

'I thought we were going to the Jurisfiction offices?' I said as we walked along the corridors of the Great Library, the wooden shelves groaning under the weight of the collected imaginative outpourings of nearly two millennia.

'The next roll-call is tomorrow,' she replied, stopping at a shelf and dropping the grammasites' waistcoats into a heap before picking out a roughly bound manuscript, 'and I told Perkins you'd help him feed the minotaur.'

'You did?' I asked, slightly apprehensively.

'Of course. Fictionalzoology is a fascinating subject and, believe me, it's an area about which you should know more.'

She handed me the book which, I noticed, was hand-written.

'It's codeword protected,' announced Havisham, 'mumble Sapphire before you read yourself in.'

She gathered up the waistcoats again.

'I'll pick you up in about an hour. Perkins will be waiting for you on the other side. Please pay attention and don't let him talk you into looking after any rabbits. Don't forget the password — you'll not get in or out without it.'

'Sapphire,' I repeated.

'Very good,' she said, and vanished.

I placed the book on one of the reading desks and sat down. The marble busts of writers that dotted the Library seemed to glare at me and I was just about to start reading when I noticed, high up on the shelf opposite, an ethereal form that was coalescing, wraith-like, in front of my eyes. At home this might be considered a matter of great pith and moment, but here it was merely the Cheshire Cat making one of his celebrated appearances.

'Hello!' he said as soon as his mouth had appeared. 'How are you getting along?'

The Cheshire Cat was the librarian and the first person I had met in the BookWorld. With a penchant for non sequiturs and obtuse comments, it was hard not to like him.

'I'm not sure,' I replied. 'I was attacked by grammasites, threatened by Big Martin's friends and a Thraal. I've got two Generics billeted with me, the characters in Caversham Heights think I can save their book and right now I have to give the minotaur his breakfast.'

'Nothing remarkable there . Anything else?'

'How long have you got?' [9]

I tapped my ears.

'Problems?'

'I can hear two Russians gossiping, right here inside my head.'

'Probably a crossed footnoterphone line,' replied the Cat. He jumped down, pressed his soft head against mine and listened intently.

'Can you hear them?' I asked after a bit.

'Not at all,' replied the Cat, 'but you do have very warm ears. Do you like Chinese food?'

'Yes, please,' I replied; I hadn't eaten for a while.

'Me too,' mused the Cat. 'Shame there isn't any. What's in the bag?'

'Something of Snell's.'

'Ah. What do you think of this UltraWord™ lark?'

'I'm really not sure,' I replied, truthfully enough, 'how about you?'

'How about me what?'

'What do you think of the new operating system?'

'When it comes in I shall give it my fullest attention,' he said ambiguously, adding: 'It's a laugh, isn't it?'

'What is?'

'That noise you make at the back of your throat when you hear something funny. Let me know if you need anything. 'Bye.'

And he very slowly faded out, from the tip of his tail to the tip of his nose. His grin, as usual, stayed for some time after the rest of him had gone.

I turned back to the book, murmured 'sapphire' and read the first paragraph aloud.

I found myself in a large meadow next to a babbling brook; willows and larches hung over the crystal-clear waters while mature oaks punctuated the land. It was warm and dry and quite delightful — like a perfect summer's day in England, in fact — and I suddenly felt quite homesick.

'I used to look at the view a lot,' said a voice close at hand. 'Don't seem to have the time, these days.'

I turned to see a tall man leaning against a silver birch, holding a copy of the Jurisfiction trade paper, Movable Type . I recognised him although we had never been introduced. It was Perkins, who partnered Snell at Jurisfiction, much as they did in the Perkins & Snell series of detective novels.

'Hello,' he said, proffering a hand and smiling broadly, 'put it there. Perkins is the name. Akrid tells me you sorted Hopkins out good and proper.'

'Thank you,' I replied. 'Akrid's very kind but it isn't over yet.'

He cast an arm towards the horizon.

'What do you think?'

I looked at the view. High snow-capped mountains rose in the distance above a green and verdant plain. At the foot of the hills were forests, and a large river wended its way through the valley.