Cornelia Funke - Inkspell

Mark Twain, Tom Sawyer

"No!" Farid heard the horror in his own voice. "No! What have you done? Where has he gone?" Orpheus rose ponderously from the wall, still holding that wretched piece of paper, and he smiled. "Home. Where else?"

"But what about me? Go on reading. Go on!" Everything was blurred by the tears in his eyes. He was alone again, alone as he had always been before he found Dustfinger. Farid began trembling so hard that he didn't even notice Orpheus taking the book from his hands.

"And here's the proof of it once again," he heard the man murmur. "I bear my name by right. I am the master of all words, both written and spoken. No one can compete with me."

"Master of words? What are you talking about?" Farid shouted in such a loud voice that even the hellhound flinched. "If you know so much about your trade, then why am I still here? Go on, start reading again! And give me that book back!" He reached for it, but Orpheus avoided him with surprising agility.

"The book? Why should I give it to you? You probably can't even read. Let me tell you something! If I'd wanted you to go with him, then you'd be there now, but you have no business in his story, so I just left out what I'd written about you. Understand? And now be off before I set my dog on you. Boys like you threw stones at him when he was a puppy, and he's enjoyed chasing your sort ever since!"

"You brute! You liar! You traitor!" Farid's voice broke. Hadn't he known it? Hadn't he told Dustfinger? Cheeseface was as false as fool's gold.

Something made its way between his bare feet, something furry and round-nosed with tiny horns between its ears. The marten. He's gone, Gwin, thought Farid. Dustfinger's gone. We'll never see him again!

The hellhound lowered its bulky head and took a hesitant step toward the marten, but Gwin bared his needle-sharp teeth, and the huge dog withdrew its nose in astonishment. Its fear gave Farid fresh courage.

"Come on, give it to me!" He rammed his thin fist into Orpheus's chest. "That piece of paper, and the book, too! Or I'll slit you open like a carp. I swear I will!" But he couldn't help sobbing, which made the words sound nowhere near as impressive as he had intended.

Orpheus patted his dog's head as he stowed away the book in the waistband of his trousers. "Dear me, that really scares us, Cerberus, doesn't it?"

Gwin pressed close to Farid's ankles, his tail twitching uneasily back and forth. Even when the marten ran across the road and disappeared into the trees on the other side, Farid thought it was because of the dog. Deaf and blind, he kept thinking later, you were deaf and blind, Farid. But Orpheus smiled, like someone who knows more than his opponent.

"Let me tell you, my young friend," he said, "it gave me a terrible fright when Dustfinger wanted the book back. Luckily, he handed it to you, or I couldn't have done anything for him. It was hard enough persuading my clients not to just kill him, but I made them promise. Only on that condition would I act as bait… bait for the book, because in case you haven't caught on yet, this is all about the book. The book and nothing else. They promised not to hurt a hair on Dustfinger's head, but I'm afraid no one said a word about you."

And before Farid realized what Cheeseface was talking about, he felt the knife at his throat – sharp as the edge of a reed, colder than mist among the trees.

"Well, well, who have we here?" a well-remembered voice murmured in his ear. "Didn't I last see you with Silvertongue? It seems you helped Dustfinger steal the book for him, isn't that so? What a fine little fellow you are!" The knife scratched Farid's skin, and the man breathed peppermint into his face. If he hadn't known Basta by his voice, then that stinking breath would have identified the man. His knife and a few mint leaves – Basta was never without them. He chewed the leaves and then spat out what remained. He was dangerous as a rabid dog and not too bright, but how did he come to be here? How had he found them?

"Well, how do you like my new knife?" Basta purred into Farid's ear. 'I'd have liked to introduce the fire-eater to it, too, but Orpheus here has a weakness for him. Never mind, I'll find Dustfinger again. Him and Silvertongue, and Silvertongue's witch of a daughter. They'll all pay…"

"Pay for what?" said Farid. "Saving you from the Shadow?"

But Basta only pressed the blade more firmly against his neck. "Saving me? They brought me bad luck, nothing but bad luck!"

"For heaven's sake, put that knife away!" Orpheus interrupted, sounding sickened. "He's only a boy. Let him go. I have the book as we agreed, so -"

"Let him go?" Basta laughed aloud, but the laughter died in his throat. A snarling sound came from the woods behind them, and the hellhound laid back its ears. Basta spun around. "What the devil…? You damned idiot! What have you let out of the book?"

Farid didn't want to know the answer. He felt Basta loosen his grip for a moment. That was enough: He bit the man's hand so hard that he tasted blood. Basta screamed and dropped the knife. Farid jerked back his elbows, rammed them into the man's narrow chest, and ran. But he had entirely forgotten the little wall by the roadside; he stumbled on it and fell to his knees, so hard that he was left gasping for breath. As he picked himself up he saw the paper lying on the asphalt, the sheet of paper that had carried Dustfinger away. The wind must have blown it into the road. With quick fingers, he reached for it. I just left out what I'd written about you. Understand? Orpheus's words still rang in his head, mocking him. Farid clutched the sheet of paper to his chest and ran on, over the road and toward the dark trees waiting on the other side. The hellhound was growling and barking behind him. Then it howled. Something snarled again, so fiercely that Farid ran even faster. Orpheus screamed, fear making his voice shrill and ugly. Basta swore, and then the snarl came again, wild as the snarling of the great cats that had lived in Farid's old world.

Don't look around, he thought. Run, run! he told his legs. Let the cat eat the hellhound, let it eat them all, Basta and Cheeseface included, just keep running. The dead leaves lying under the trees were damp and muffled the sound of his footsteps, but they were slippery, too, and made him lose his balance on the steep slope. Desperately, he caught hold of a tree trunk, pressed himself against it, knees trembling, and listened to the sounds of the night. Could Basta hear him gasping?

A sob escaped his throat. He pressed his hands to his mouth. The book, Basta had the book! He'd been supposed to look after it – and how was he ever going to find Dustfinger again now? Farid felt the sheet of paper that held Orpheus's words. He was still holding it tight. It was damp and dirty – and now it was his only hope.

"Hey, you little bastard! Bite me, would you?" Basta's voice reached him through the quiet night air. "You can run, but I'll get you yet, do you hear? You, the fire-eater, Silvertongue and his hoity-toity daughter – and the old man who wrote those accursed words! I'll kill you all! One by one! The way I've just slit open the beast that came out of the book."

Farid hardly dared to breathe. Go on, he told himself. Go on! He can't see you! Trembling, he felt for the next tree trunk, sought a handhold, and was grateful to the wind for blowing through the leaves and drowning out his footsteps with their rustling. How many times do I have to tell you? There aren't any ghosts in this world. One of its few advantages. He heard Dustfinger's voice as clearly as if he were still following the fire-eater. Farid kept repeating the words as the tears ran down his face and thorns gashed his feet: There are no ghosts, there are no ghosts!

A branch whipped against his face so hard that he almost cried out. Were they following him? He couldn't hear anything except the wind. He slipped again and stumbled down the slope. Nettles stung his legs, burrs caught in his hair. And something jumped up at him, furry and warm, pushing its nose into his face.