How to Live Forever (6 page)

‘I'll just wait here,' he said, ‘while you look for, um, something …'

Festival knelt down beside him but it was obvious that trying to wake him up was a waste of time. If she did, he would only fall asleep again. The dark stains on his bandage were getting bigger. She slapped his face to wake him up, but she couldn't make herself do it hard enough to have any effect. So she just sat down beside him with her arm round his shoulder. She didn't want to leave him, but she knew that to save him, she had to find help.

It was dark on this level. The sun had to struggle to reach under the thirteenth gallery above them and throw any light there. All the colour had faded from everything. The gold embossing was almost gone from the books. The lettering on the spines had nearly faded. And most of the books were simply books, not houses with doors, or windows, or any signs of life. The leather bindings were collapsing away, revealing crumbling pages and armies of insects eating the paper and the glue. Here and there an occasional book did have rooms inside, but they were deserted and crumbling too.

Festival gathered up pieces of the crumbling book backs and laid them over Peter to hide him. Then she walked cautiously round the entire gallery without seeing anyone. All the stairs back down were
closed off in the same way with heavy plates of steel and no handles to lift them by. At least it meant that Throatgall couldn't come up after them. There was no way he would be able to lift one of the doors. But the way down wasn't the problem.

There was no way up. All the other levels had at least four sets of stairs leading to the level above, but this one had none. There were gaps overhead where the steps had once been, but the stairs themselves had been taken away.

Festival went back to where Peter was sleeping and knelt beside him. His breathing was no more than a whisper and he kept shivering. Festival gathered up more bits of old book bindings and piled them over him. She knew it wouldn't help but she couldn't think of anything else to do.

The blood had now come right through the bandage and was starting to run back down his arm. Festival began to cry again, the last of her frail self-confidence gone. She looked very small and alone.

‘It's mine,' said a voice, ‘all of it.'

A pile of shredded paper two books away shook itself and an old woman dressed in shabby clothes made from book leather crawled out. On her head she was wearing a complicated rusty metal contraption, held on by leather straps. In the middle of her forehead at the end of a hinged bracket was a huge
magnifying glass that covered most of her face, turning it into a comical distorted caricature.

‘What is?' said Festival.

‘The gold,' said the old woman.

‘Gold?'

‘On the books. It's mine, all of it.'

‘Good, good,' said Festival. ‘Can you help us?'

‘Do you want to see it?'

‘What?'

‘The gold,' said the prospector. ‘Sixty-eight years I've been up here collecting it. Look.'

She reached into a pocket and pulled out a matchbox.

‘I am probably the richest person in the world,' she said. ‘Look.'

She opened the matchbox. Inside it was a thin layer of gold dust that barely covered the bottom.

‘You probably think I'm crazy,' said the prospector. ‘But I've got two other matchboxes.'

‘Wonderful,' said Festival. ‘Look, Peter is going to die if we don't get help. Please help me.'

‘Though, they haven't got as much gold in as this one.'

‘Oh, forget the gold,' Festival cried. ‘Look, the blood. He's going to die. We need to get help.' Then she was crying so hard that there was no room in her mouth for words.

‘Difficult,' said the old woman. ‘I took all the stairs away, so they couldn't steal my gold. Threw them over the balcony, I did.'

She shuffled through the rubbish and sat down in front of Peter.

‘I think you are right,' she said. ‘I think he is going to die. Do you know if he's got any gold?'

‘No, no, no,' was all Festival could say.

‘Important, is it?' said the old lady.

‘What do you mean, important?' said Festival.

‘Important that he doesn't die?'

‘Well, of course it is.'

‘He could read the book,' said the old lady.

‘He hasn't got it,' said Festival.

‘Oh well, you're right then. He is going to die. Do you want to see some more of my gold?' And she opened her mouth and stuck out her tongue. It was completely covered in gold. So were her teeth and the entire insides of her mouth.

‘Clever, eh?' she said. ‘No one can steal that.'

‘Forget the, forget the …' said Festival, clenching her teeth. ‘Forget the bloody gold.'

The old lady stepped back in horror, not because Festival had sworn at her, but because of what she had said.

‘You, er, no, er …' she mumbled, unable to make a proper sentence.

‘Life is more important than gold,' said Festival.

The old lady said nothing. With great difficulty, she knelt down beside Peter and lifted up his bleeding hand.

‘Mine isn't,' she said and, holding up Peter's arm, added, ‘You've got him and he's got you, but all I've got is my gold.'

‘I'm sorry,' Festival cried. ‘Help us, please.'

‘All right, my dear,' the old lady replied. ‘I'll see what I can do.'

One by one she removed the strips of blood-soaked rag, and when Peter's hand was uncovered, she wiped it dry and covered the wound with the gold from her matchbox. She reached into her clothes and brought out two more matchboxes and placed the gold from them over the first layer.

The bleeding stopped.

‘I need to be on my own for a while,' said the old lady, staring sadly at her empty matchboxes. ‘I have to … I mean … all the plans I had.'

‘Please,' said Festival, ‘before you go, how do we get up to the thirteenth gallery? We have to see Foreclaw.'

‘Foreclaw, Foreclaw. It must be ten years since I heard that name,' said the prospector. ‘But then, it must be ten years since I heard
any
words. You're the first people I've seen for ten years. Small, aren't you?'

‘We're children,' said Festival.

‘Oh. I was one of them once, I think,' said the prospector.

‘Can you show us the way up?' said Festival.

‘Yes, if you promise you won't tell anyone about all the gold here.'

‘We promise,' said Festival.

‘Double promise, cross your heart and hope to die?'

‘Yes.'

‘Wait a minute,' said the prospector. ‘Take your shoes off.'

She examined the soles of each shoe in turn through her magnifying glass.

‘What are you doing?' said Festival.

‘Gold, of course,' said the old woman. ‘You might have some of my gold. Socks.'

She picked tiny specks off with a pair of tweezers and dropped them into her matchbox.

‘I better check your feet too,' she said. ‘Seeing as how you've been standing there without your socks and shoes on.'

When Festival had put her socks and shoes and Peter's back on, the prospector wanted to check them again in case they'd picked up any new specks of gold. After the third examination, she seemed satisfied.

‘Come on,' she said. ‘Follow me and mind you walk on tiptoes.'

She led them round the entire level twice before stopping and demanding to examine their feet again.

‘It's gone,' she said.

‘What has?' said Festival.

‘The way out. See,' said the old lady, ‘people steal things. They want my gold and now they've stolen the way out.'

They walked round again and as they came to the start, Archimedes was waiting for them.

‘Go away, nasty cat,' said the old lady. ‘Cats are mad for gold, you know.'

Archimedes ignored her and squeezed through a broken door into one of the books.

‘Oh, there it is,' said the old lady. ‘See, I told you someone stole it. It was that horrible cat.'

The children pulled the broken door out of the way and followed Archimedes up the stairs.

‘When you're better,' the prospector shouted after them, ‘will you bring me back my gold?'

In the attic room of the book there was a small door in the back wall that opened to reveal a tiny wooden staircase. Archimedes and the two children climbed the narrow stairs to the top balcony that clung to the wall just below the dark overhang under the great circle of windows. Although the windows
were no more than fifty feet above them, the balcony was set so far back under the roof that barely any light reached it, even less than the level below. The books here were even older, their leather backs thick with dust and cobwebs, and the few doors they could see were covered over with boards nailed across them. Because the sun couldn't reach the top gallery the ground was no longer covered in grass, just earth and plaster that had fallen from the ceiling. Here and there complete spines had fallen away revealing derelict rooms full of broken furniture and straw. Peter saw shadows scurrying away as they approached. This was not the magical place of the lower balconies, this was a dark damp place you would visit in nightmares.

The thirteenth gallery didn't run in a complete circle round the reading room. It was broken into segments by eight massive girders that formed the skeleton of the whole building. Near one of the girders, there was a gap between two books, a place where a book had been removed. It was the only place like it in the whole library. To its right, the book was called ‘How To Love Forever'. To its left, leaning over where it had fallen across the empty space, the book was called ‘How To List Forever'.

This was the place the book had been kept, a dark place where no one was supposed to go.

At the back of the space where the book had stood, set into the wall, there was a door so hidden with dust and cobwebs it would have been easy to miss. Festival banged on the door and, as she did so, the dust and cobwebs slid smoothly to one side and the door opened a fraction of an inch.

‘Who calls Foreclaw?' said a voice from inside.

‘I am Festival, the Caretaker for the new arrival,' said Festival.

‘The boy?'

‘Yes.'

‘You are alone, just the two of you?' said the voice.

‘Yes,' said Festival.

‘My cat's here too,' said Peter.

‘Archimedes?' said the voice.

‘Yes.'

‘One moment.'

There was the sound of furniture being moved
and a voice muttering to itself. Bolts were drawn back, keys turned and the door opened. A thin dark man with straggly hair beckoned them inside. The room was covered in shelves that were packed to overflowing with a thousand and one different treasures. Almost every square inch of floor space was covered with piles of books, with only a narrow path winding through the room to each chair and a far door.

As Peter looked round the room at all the things, he realised that he recognised them, every single one of them. When he had travelled through the storerooms in his world and had come across something he really liked, he had written it down in his journal. He had drawn a map to show which room it was in, written a short description and sometimes even tried to draw it. He had done this with the idea that, one day, he might run the museum and when he did, these were the treasures he would put on display. There was the flying armadillo fossil. There, the perpetual egg-timer that instead of having two chambers for the sand to run from one to the other, had seven, so that the sand ran from chamber to chamber in an endless hypnotic flow. There was the six-legged pigeon in the jar of formaldehyde and there the ancient Aztec carving of a flying saucer, between two iron helmets that could never have sat on any human head.

In the middle of the room there were three worn armchairs. Foreclaw sat in one and beckoned Peter and Festival to sit in the others. Peter sank into the cushions and felt sleep surround him.

‘And this is the boy?' said Foreclaw.

‘Yes, Peter,' said Festival.

‘But he is not supposed to be here until next week,' said Foreclaw. ‘Does he have the book?'

‘No,' said Festival. ‘He came too early. I think it was an accident.'

‘This is terrible news, really terrible,' said the old man, turning to Peter. ‘How did you come here?'

But Peter was fast asleep. The only noise was the ticking of a large clock, a clock with seven hands and fifteen numbers that was another of the treasures in Peter's journal. While the old man wrapped the boy's golden hand in clean bandages, Festival told him how Peter had come into their world.

‘He said he fell backwards through a solid wall,' said Festival.

‘In the room with the cat mummy?' said Foreclaw.

‘How did you know that?' said Festival.

‘It's happened before,' said Foreclaw, but he didn't say when.

‘But how do we get the book?' said Festival.

‘Tricky,' said the old man. ‘The book has to be
here. There was no point in the boy coming without it. Yet the book is not here.'

‘Is there no way he can go back and get it?' said Festival.

‘The door only works once for each visitor. You know that,' said Foreclaw. ‘You can only go through it once. You can come or you can go, but not both.'

‘You mean I can't go back?' said Peter, who had woken up. ‘But what about my mum and my grandfather?'

‘You should have thought of that before you came,' said Foreclaw.

‘I didn't know,' said Peter, tears beginning to form behind his eyes. ‘No one told me anything. I didn't want to come.'

‘But you took the book from Bathline,' said Foreclaw.

‘She didn't say anything about coming here,' said Peter.

‘Did she not tell you to bring the book, to take the book to the Ancient Child?'

‘Yes, but …' Peter began.

‘But? But nothing,' said Foreclaw. ‘She gave you the book and you were supposed to bring it here.'

‘No!' Peter shouted.

The pain in his hand was making him faint again. Everything, including the jumble of thoughts inside
his head, was spinning. He felt sleep overwhelming him and struggled to fight it.

‘She did not tell me to come here,' he said. ‘No one said anything about here. And I don't even know where here is …'

Drifting into sleep again. Very cold now, even though there were logs burning in the fire, and eyes closing because they were too heavy to hold open, Peter couldn't fight the sleep. Sleep would make everything better, because sleep always makes things better.

‘My father,' he said, and then nothing.

‘Your father is in our world,' said the old man, unaware that Peter could no longer hear him. ‘Though exactly where, I cannot say.'

Although he was fast asleep, Peter's thoughts could not rest. He had always thought of everyone who lived outside the museum as Outsiders and thought of himself and his grandad and mum as Insiders. But now it seemed that the world that he had thought was so self-contained contained another world. Maybe there were other worlds inside that too, worlds within worlds within worlds.

‘Can't we get in touch with someone from outside and get them to bring the book here?' said Festival.

‘You know we can't,' said Foreclaw. ‘You know that it would destroy the balance.'

‘Is there no one who can just go backwards and forwards?'

Foreclaw fell silent and stared into the fire. After a few minutes he said, ‘There is someone who claims he can, though I do not believe him and he is someone we would all rather forget.'

‘Who is it? Would he get the book? Where can we find him?' said Festival.

‘He is Darkwood,' said Foreclaw, ‘and you do not find him. He finds you. And those he has found wish he had not.'

‘Do you know him?'

‘No, nor do I want to,' said the old man. ‘Nor, to be honest, do we really know he exists and, if he does, whether he is from our world or yours or somewhere else altogether.'

Foreclaw turned away and busied himself making tea. When Festival tried to draw him out about Darkwood, he ignored her. The tea made in a strange pot with no spout, the old man fussed around with the fire, sending the girl to fetch logs from the other room.

Peter woke up and thought, for a moment, that he was back in his own bedroom. The clock with seven hands, the pickled dodo chick in its crystal jar, the carved stone with writing unlike any language on earth. They were all there, but then he woke a bit more and remembered where he was.

‘This stuff you've got here,' he said cautiously, ‘where did you get it?'

‘Ah well, you know, here and there,' said Foreclaw. ‘Hither and thither, collected, found, bartered, given to me by friends. You know, the things we gather about us as we pass through life, mementoes, treasures, things taken care of for a friend, things inherited from maiden aunts.'

‘But everything you've got is stuff I've written down in my journal,' said Peter. ‘Even the cat's eye poker and the funny teapot.'

‘Really?' said Foreclaw. He pulled Peter close and whispered in his ear, ‘All I can say at this moment is that everything we see is a reflection of something else. You know. Every image has a mirror image and no matter how closely you think you have looked at something, there is always something else hidden inside it.'

There was obviously more to Foreclaw than met the eye. Something about him just didn't add up. He seemed friendly and hospitable, a harmless old man almost, but Peter knew there were things he wasn't telling them. He hadn't seemed the slightest bit surprised when Peter told him about the list in his journal, and if someone could only travel between the two worlds once, how come Foreclaw had got all the things that Peter had found in the hidden store
rooms? It was unlikely that there were two of everything, one in this world and one in Peter's, but even if that was the case, it still didn't explain how Foreclaw had the same things. Only someone who had read Peter's journal could know about them.

Festival came back in with a basket of logs, which Foreclaw put on the fire. Seeing Peter was awake, she went over and sat on the arm of his chair and stroked his hair.

‘Are you feeling better?' she said.

‘I think so,' said Peter, blushing. He'd never had his head stroked by a girl before, apart from his mother, and that was different. ‘It seems to have stopped hurting a bit.'

‘So what can we do?' said Festival, turning to Foreclaw.

The old man stared into the fire and drank his tea that was now thick with bits of wet biscuit that had fallen into his mug.

‘There is one chance to resolve this problem,' he said eventually. ‘Though chance is too optimistic a word for there is no concrete evidence that the one person who might have an answer even exists. I have lived more years than most, apart from those who have read the book, of course, and in all my long life I have never met anyone who has seen the one of whom I speak.'

‘Who?' said Peter and Festival in unison.

‘The Ancient Child, of course,' said Foreclaw. ‘Bathline told you to find him and that is what you must do, even without the book.'

‘Isn't the Ancient Child just a fairy story?' said Festival. ‘My mum and dad used to tell me stories about him when I was ill in bed.'

‘The thing about myths and fairy stories,' said Foreclaw, ‘is that it's almost impossible to know which bits are true and which are not. It's a matter of faith, I suppose. If you believe something strongly enough, then maybe that's enough to make it true. I myself do not believe that – I need proof – but many, many people do. One man's truth is another man's fairy story.'

‘Well, how can our only chance be the Ancient Child,' said Festival, ‘if no one knows if he's real or where to find him?'

‘If he is anywhere,' said Foreclaw, ‘he will be on the island. Were he anywhere else, I would know of it.'

‘The island?' said Festival, looking scared.

‘Go to the boatsheds,' said Foreclaw. ‘There is someone there who may be able to help you. If anyone can, that is.'

‘Who is he?' said Peter.

‘His name is Earshader,' said Foreclaw. ‘Just ask for the blind man.'

‘Blind?' said Festival. ‘If he's blind he's not likely to have seen the Ancient Child, is he?'

‘Who knows?' said Foreclaw. ‘Maybe seeing the Ancient Child is what made him blind. Or maybe you need to be blind before you
can
see him.'

‘Oh.'

‘He is deaf too. Nor can he speak.'

‘And he's our best chance of finding the Ancient Child, who might not even exist?' said Peter. ‘You don't think not looking for him might be easier?'

‘Of course it would,' said Foreclaw. ‘But easier gets you nowhere. You know that.'

‘Yes, exactly,' said Festival. ‘I know that.'

‘Besides,' Foreclaw added, ‘he is your only chance so he is also your best chance.'

‘Yes, exactly,' said Festival. ‘So remind me now. Um, I've sort of forgotten, how do we get back down?'

‘In the buckets,' said Foreclaw. ‘Come with me.'

‘Yes, yes, of course, the buckets,' said Festival, nodding in agreement.

Even in his semi-delirious state, Peter could tell the little girl hadn't the faintest idea how to get down or what the buckets were.

They went back out onto the balcony, where the old man gave them a coil of rope with a bucket at each end.

‘I would guess,' said Foreclaw to Festival, ‘that if you carry the cat you will weigh exactly the same as Peter.'

He swung one end of the rope and a bucket over the handrail and continued, ‘The Caretaker gets into the bucket and I will lower you down to the bottom level. When you get there, fill the bucket with your exact weight in fish. The visitor climbs into the second bucket. The Caretaker removes one fish – I prefer mackerel – and the visitor goes down. The fish comes up.'

‘Is it safe?' said Peter. He'd had enough of not being safe for quite a while.

‘Well now,' said Foreclaw, ‘safety is a relative thing. Would you prefer to go back down through the galleries, where Throatgall will be waiting for you?'

‘No, of course not,' said Peter.

‘Then it is safe,' said Foreclaw. ‘Oh, and you better remove a second fish, a small one, to balance the missing finger.'

‘Dinner goes by in a bucket,' said Throatgall as Festival descended past the eleventh level. ‘Soon fish will come and the boy too. Happy days are here again, yet without mother to share the flesh, life has lost it some of its sweetness, though nothing that a dash of chocolate sauce won't fix.'

He tried to reach out for the rope, but he was
too weak from fighting to make a serious attempt at grabbing it.

‘No, no,' he said. ‘Not chocolate sauce. Small boy will taste sweeter with caramel topping.'

When she reached the bottom, Festival ran down to the water and bought her weight in mackerel from a fisherman. They carried it together and put it in the bucket. She removed one large and one small fish, gave them to Archimedes, and Peter began to float slowly down.

This time Throatgall was waiting. The vile creature was perched on the balcony handrail and as Peter approached he stretched out for the rope. But there was blood running into his eyes and the rope was just that bit too far out of reach. He waved his hands in the air, made one final lunge and lost his balance.

He fell past the galleries, screaming vile obscenities at the world. On the bottom gallery, between the boatsheds, was a small chapel with a needle-sharp turret that pierced Throatgall right through the heart. Screaming one last blasphemy, he died, his blood running down the chapel roof, and out through a laughing gargoyle into the sea.

By the time Peter and his bucket reached the bottom gallery, a group of scraggy vultures had begun to strip the flesh from Throatgall's bones.