Inkspell ti-2

  Inkspell

  ( The Inkworld - 2 )

  Cornelia Funke

  Although a year has passed, not a day goes by without Meggie thinking of INKHEART, the book whose characters became real. But for Dustfinger, the fire-eater brought into being from words, the need to return to the tale has become desperate. When he finds a crooked storyteller with the ability to read him back, Dustfinger leaves behind his young apprentice Farid and plunges into the medieval world of his past. Distraught, Farid goes in search of Meggie, and before long, both are caught inside the book, too. But the story is threatening to evolve in ways neither of them could ever have imagined.

  CORNELIA FUNKE

  INKSPELL

  If I knew where poems came from, I'd go there. – Michael Langley, Staying Alive

  To Brendan Fraser, whose voice is the heart of this book. Thanks for inspiration and enchantment. Mo wouldn't have stepped into my writing room without you, and this story would never have been told.

  To Rainer Strecker, who is both Silvertongue and Dustfinger. Every word in this book is just waiting for him to read it.

  And of course, as almost always, last but for sure not least, for Anna, wonderful, wonderful Anna, who had this story told to her on many walks, encouraged and advised me, and let me know what was good and what could still be improved. (I very much hope that the story of Meggie and Farid has its fair share of the book now?)

  CHARACTERS FROM INKHEART

  Meggie

  The daughter of Mo and Resa, now living with her parents and her mother's aunt Elinor. Like her father, Meggie has the rare magical ability to read characters out of books – to bring them into this world by reading the words aloud. But since meeting Fenoglio, the author of the original book of Inkheart, she now dreams of being able to write as well as she can read – so that she can not only bring characters out of books but also send them back in again.

  Mortimer Folchart, known as Mo or Silvertongue

  A bookbinder – or, as his daughter calls him, a "book doctor." Meggie says he can "paint pictures in the air with his voice." Since experiencing the awful consequences of reading Dustfinger, Capricorn, and Basta out of their story and almost losing his wife forever, he has avoided reading aloud. Mo is now troubled by his daughter's dangerous fascination with the world of Inkheart.

  Resa (Theresa)

  Mo's wife, Meggie's mother, and Elinor's favorite niece. Resa is now safely back with her family but has still to recover from the years she spent trapped in the Inkworld, her time in service to the evil Mortola, and losing her voice. She tells Meggie of her life on the other side of the pages, scribbling down her memories on paper.

  Elinor Loredan

  Resa's aunt, a book-collector, also known as "the bookworm." Elinor once preferred her books to human company but is now happy to have Meggie, Mo, and Resa living with her. Darius, the book-loving but stammering storyteller, is also now a part of her household.

  Darius

  Formerly Capricorn's reader in the first book of Inkheart, Darius, like Mo and Meggie, possesses the ability to read characters out of stories – but damages them if he stutters over the words. He now helps Elinor in her library. Basta calls him Stumbletongue.

  Fenoglio, also known as "Inkweaver"

  Author of the original book Inkheart, from which Basta, Dustfinger, and Capricorn came – and, with Meggie and Mo's help, the writer of the words used to get rid of Capricorn. He disappeared into his own story that same night.

  Dustfinger

  A fire-eater whom Mo accidentally read out of the pages of Inkheart. He is also known as "the fire-dancer." Plucked from his story, Dustfinger has lived in our world for ten years and would risk anything to go home to the Inkworld. At the end of the first book, he stole from Mo the last remaining copy of Inkheart. He owes the three scars on his face to Basta's knife and is never without Gwin, his tame marten, or his young apprentice, Farid.

  Farid

  A boy read by Mo out of Tales of the Arabian Nights, he is devoted to Dustfinger. Nimble and quickwitted, he has a talent for stealing and other robbers' arts, developed in his previous life. He also has a soft spot for Meggie.

  Gwin

  Dustfinger's pet, a horned marten intended by Fenoglio to play a deadly part in his original tale of Inkheart.

  Capricorn

  The brutal leader of a gang of mercenary fire-raisers, he was read out of the pages of Inkheart. Unlike Dustfinger, Capricorn enjoyed his time in this world. He made it his business to burn every remaining copy of Inkheart in an attempt to avoid ever returning to the story. But eventually, with the help of Meggie and Fenoglio, he is destroyed by Mo.

  Basta

  One of Capricorn's most devoted henchmen. Superstitious and in love with his knife, he once slashed Dustfinger's face. At the end of the first book he made his escape, followed by Capricorn's housekeeper and mother, Mortola.

  Mortola

  Capricorn's mother, also known as "the Magpie." A poisoner, she kept Resa enslaved for many years as her servant. Her greatest wish is to see Mo punished for what he has done to her son.

  AND NOW, IN INKSPELL

  Orpheus, also called "Cheeseface" by Farid

  Discovered in our world by Dustfinger, he claims to have the ability to both read and write characters in and out of books. He is an ardent but unreliable admirer of the original story of Inkheart.

  The Motley Folk

  A loyal band of strolling players (entertainers) to which Dustfinger once belonged, the Motley Folk travel between Lombrica and Argenta, the two principalities of the Inkworld, led by their own Black Prince.

  The Black Prince

  A master knife-thrower, secretive champion of the poor, and Dustfinger's best friend from long ago. He is accompanied wherever he goes by a faithful black bear.

  Cloud-Dancer

  A crippled former tightrope-walker, now a messenger – and an old friend of Dustfinger's.

  Sootbird

  An unconvincing fire-eater.

  Baptista

  Actor and accomplished mask-maker, disfigured by pockmarks.

  In Lombrica

  In Lombrica

  Minerva

  Fenoglio's kindly landlady.

  Ivo

  Minerva's son.

  Despina

  Minerva's daughter.

  Rosenquartz

  A tiny glass man and Fenoglio's long-suffering helper.

  Nettle

  A healer who uses herbs and potions to cure the sick.

  At the Castle of Ombra

  The Laughing Prince

  Bereaved father of Cosimo the Fair; also known as "the Prince of Sighs" since his son's untimely death.

  Violante, "Her Ugliness"

  The unhappy wife of Cosimo, daughter of the Adderhead, mother of Jacopo – the heir to the realms of both Lombrica and Argenta.

  Balbulus

  An illuminator (illustrator), brought to the library of the Castle of Ombra by Violante.

  Brianna

  The willful daughter of Roxane and Dustfinger, maid to Her Ugliness.

  Cosimo the Fair

  The deceased son of the Laughing Prince.

  At Roxane's Farm

  Roxane

  Dustfinger's beautiful wife, formerly a minstrel who now grows herbs for the healers.

  Jehan

  The son of Roxane and her deceased second husband.

  Jink

  Another horned marten.

  In Argenta

  At The Infirmary

  The Barn Owl

  The physician who looked after Dustfinger when he was a child.

  in the Castle of Night

  The Adderhead, also known as "the Silver Prince"

  A warmongering tyrant who fears o
nly death itself. Capricorn and his fire-raisers were in his pay.

  Slasher

  Formerly Capricorn's fire-raiser, now in the Adderhead's service.

  The Piper, also known as "Silvernose"

  Formerly Capricorn's fire-raiser, he, too, now sings his dark songs for the Adderhead.

  Firefox

  Capricorn's successor, chief bodyguard and herald to the Adderhead.

  Taddeo

  The librarian of the Castle of Night.

  1. WORDS MADE TO MEASURE

  He has been trying to sing

  Love into existence again

  And he has failed.

  Margaret Atwood, "Orpheus 2," Eating Fire

  Twilight was gathering, and Orpheus still wasn't here.

  Farid's heart beat faster, as it always did when day left him alone with the darkness. Curse that Cheeseface! Where could he be? The birds were falling silent in the trees, as if the approach of night had stifled their voices, and the nearby mountains were turning black. You might have thought the setting sun had singed them. Soon the whole world would be black as pitch, even the grass beneath Farid's bare feet, and the ghosts would begin to whisper. Farid knew only one place where he felt safe from them: right behind Dustfinger, so close that he could feel his warmth. Dustfinger wasn't afraid of the night. He liked it.

  "Hearing them again, are you?" he asked, as Farid pressed close to him. "How many times do I have to tell you? There aren't any ghosts in this world. One of its few advantages."

  Dustfinger stood there leaning against an oak tree, looking down the lonely road. In the distance, a streetlamp cast its light on the cracked asphalt where a few houses huddled by the roadside. There were scarcely a dozen of them, standing close together as if they feared the night as much as Farid.

  The house where Cheeseface lived was the first on the road. There was a light on behind one of its windows. Dustfinger had been staring at it for more than an hour. Farid had often tried standing motionless like that, but his limbs simply would not keep still.

  "I'm going to find out where he is!"

  "No, you're not!" Dustfinger's face was as expressionless as ever, but his voice gave him away. Farid heard the impatience in it… and the hope that refused to die, although it had been disappointed so often before. "Are you sure he said Friday?"

  "Yes, and this is Friday, right?"

  Dustfinger just nodded, then pushed his shoulder-length hair back from his face. Farid had tried growing his own hair long, but it was so curly, tangled, and unruly that in the end he cut it short again with his knife.

  "'Friday outside the village at four o'clock,' that's what he said. While that dog of his growled at me as if it really craved a nice crunchy boy to eat!" The wind blew through Farid's thin sweater, and he rubbed his arms, shivering. A good warm fire, that's what he'd have liked now, but Dustfinger wouldn't let him light so much as a match in this wind. Four o'clock… Cursing quietly, Farid looked up at the darkening sky. He knew it was well past four, even without a watch.

  "I tell you, he's making us wait on purpose, the stuck-up idiot!"

  Dustfinger's thin lips twisted into a smile. Farid was finding it easier and easier to make him smile. Perhaps that was why he'd promised to take Farid, too… supposing Orpheus really did send Dustfinger back. Back to his own world, created from paper, printer's ink, and an old man's words.

  Oh, come on! thought Farid. How would Orpheus, of all people, succeed where all the others had failed? So many had tried it… the Stammerer, Golden Eyes, Raventongue. Swindlers who had taken their money.

  The light went out behind Orpheus's window, and Dustfinger abruptly straightened up. A door closed. The sound of footsteps echoed through the darkness: rapid, irregular footsteps. Then Orpheus appeared in the light of the single streetlamp. Farid had privately nicknamed him Cheeseface because of his pale skin and the way he sweated like a piece of cheese in the sun. Breathing heavily, he walked down the steep slope of the road, with his hellhound beside him. It was ugly as a hyena. When Orpheus saw Dustfinger standing by the roadside he stopped, smiled broadly, and waved to him.

  Farid grasped Dustfinger's arm. "Look at that silly grin. False as fool's gold!" he whispered. "How can you trust him?"

  "Who says I trust him? And what's the matter with you? You're all jittery. Would you rather stay here? Cars, moving pictures, canned music, light that keeps the night away -" Dustfinger clambered over the knee-high wall beside the road. "You like all that. You'll be bored to death where I want to go."

  What was he talking about? As if he didn't know perfectly well that there was only one thing Farid wanted: to stay with him. He was about to reply angrily, but a sharp crack, like boots treading on a twig, made him spin around. Dustfinger had heard it, too. He had stopped and was listening. But there was nothing to be seen among the trees, only the branches moving in the wind, and a moth, pale as a ghost, that fluttered in Farid's face.

  "I'm sorry, it took longer than I expected!" cried Orpheus as he approached them.

  Farid still couldn't grasp the fact that such a voice could emerge from that mouth. They had heard about Orpheus's voice in several villages, and Dustfinger had set out at once in search of it, but not until a week ago had they found the man himself in a library, reading fairy tales to a few children. None of the children seemed to notice the dwarf who suddenly slipped out from behind one of the shelves crammed with well-thumbed books. But Dustfinger had seen him. He had lain in wait for Orpheus, approaching him just as he was about to get into his car again, and finally he'd shown him the book – the book that Farid had cursed more often than anything else on earth.

  "Oh, I know that book!" Orpheus had breathed. "And as for you," he had added almost devoutly, looking at Dustfinger as if to stare the scars from his cheeks, "I know you, too! You're the best thing in it. Dustfinger! The fire-eater! Who read you here into this saddest of all stories? No, don't say anything! You want to go back, don't you? But you can't find the door, the door hidden among the letters on the page! Never mind! I can build you a new one, with words made to measure! For a special price, between friends – if you're really the man I take you for."

  A special price between friends? What a laugh! They'd had to promise him almost all their money, and then wait for him for hours in this godforsaken spot, on this windy night that smelled of ghosts.

  "Is the marten in there?" Orpheus shone his flashlight on Dustfinger's backpack. "You know my dog doesn't like him."

  "No, he's finding something to eat," Dustfinger's eyes wandered to the book under Orpheus's arm. "Well? Have you… done it?"

  "Of course!" As Orpheus spoke, the hellhound bared its teeth and glared at Farid. "To start with, the words were rather hard to find. Perhaps because I was so excited. As I told you at our first meeting, this book, Inkheart" – Orpheus stroked the volume – "was my favorite when I was a child. I was eleven when I last saw it. I kept borrowing it from our run-down library until it was stolen. Unfortunately, I hadn't been brave enough to steal it myself, and then someone else did, but I never forgot it. This book taught me, once and for all, how easily you can escape this world with the help of words! You can find friends between the pages of a book, wonderful friends! Friends like you, fire-eaters, giants, fairies…! Have you any idea how bitterly I wept when I read about your death? But you're alive, and everything will be all right! You will retell the story -"

  "I?" Dustfinger interrupted him with an amused look. "No, believe me, that's a task for others."

  "Well, perhaps." Orpheus cleared his throat as if he felt embarrassed to have revealed so much of his feelings. "However that may be, it's a shame I can't go with you," he said, making for the wall beside the road with his curiously awkward gait. "But the reader has to stay behind, that's the iron rule. I've tried every way I could to read myself into a book, but it just won't work." Sighing, he stopped by the wall, put his hand under his ill-fitting jacket, and brought out a sheet of paper. "Well – this is what you asked for,"
he told Dustfinger. "Wonderful words, just for you, a road of words to take you straight back again. Here, read it!"

  Hesitantly, Dustfinger took the sheet of paper. It was covered with fine, slanting handwriting, the letters tangled like thread. Dustfinger slowly ran his finger along the words, as if he had to show each of them separately to his eyes. Orpheus watched him like a schoolboy waiting to be told the mark his work has earned.

  When Dustfinger finally looked up again, he sounded surprised. "You write very well! Those are beautiful words…"

  Orpheus turned as red as if someone had spilled mulberry juice over his face. "I'm glad you like it!"

  "I like it very much! It's all just as I described it to you. It even sounds a little better."

  Orpheus took the sheet of paper back with an awkward smile. "I can't promise that it'll be the same time of day there," he said in a muted voice. "The laws of my art are difficult to understand, but believe me, no one knows more about them than I do. For instance, I've discovered that if you want to change or continue a story, you should only use words that are already in the book. Too many new words and nothing at all may happen, or, alternatively, something could happen that you didn't intend. Perhaps it's different if you wrote the original story -"

  "In the name of all the fairies, you're fuller of words than a whole library!" Dustfinger interrupted impatiently. "How about just reading it now?"