Quarry of the Snake King

Chapter One: Windcloak

Disclaimer: I do not own Dustfinger, Meggie, Mo, Farid, Gwin, Elinor, or Darius. I do own Windcloak.

Dustfinger, I think I can help.

A snowy owl brought him the message, which was signed by Meggie, Silvertongue's daughter. She knew his craving for the world he came from, which was why he had taken off with Inkheart. Could she really help him, or was she just bluffing? Silvertongue had no more use for Inkheart, did he? Could this be guile?

He had to risk it. This world was too stifling, too overwhelming. He wondered if he could die from all the noise—the gas-birds that floated in the sky, and the wheelmobiles they drove around from city to city. Of course, he was in an isolated village where no harm should come to him, and the noise was practically obsolete, except for the grinding of the feeder monster, a machine that turned grain or wheat into straw.

Dustfinger thanked the kindly villager who had read him Meggie's note, going back to the barn where he, Gwin, and Farid had made their home. He knew that if he was going to go, he would have to leave the boy behind. Not that it mattered to him; the boy was nothing more than fodder for his schemes. Farid had proved useful at times, and he was extremely loyal, but perhaps it was this extreme fealty that was driving Dustfinger mad. He had to be free from this burden. Even his marten was starting to become an annoyance. After all, Dustfinger felt his eagerness for returning grow day by day, while Gwin became more and more accustomed to this world as time progressed, forgetting the place he came from.

Dustfinger decided then and there that he would not take Gwin. He was better company for Farid anyhow, the boy whose future and this world did not have to be wholly separated. Dustfinger knew that if he himself remained here, no good would come of it. But Farid could make this world his own. The difference between the two was that the former had once inhabited a world in a book that was invented entirely by the imagination of one man. The boy came from a world that mirrored this one, even if his setting was an Arabic desert and magic abounded. Farid could never be homesick here, and he might be if he went with Dustfinger. No, it had to be the fire-eater only who paid a visit to Silvertongue.

He ran that night as if he had never run before. He ran like Pheidippides around 490 B.C. to ask the Spartans for aid against the Persians. He ran without taking a moment's breath; he was going home at last!

He arrived at Elinor's abode three days later. He just then thought of an automobile, which would've conveyed him there faster, but it would also have been an unpleasant journey. The door was unlocked, as usual. But something in the atrium stopped him from proceeding any further. A ring of fire blocked his path. He, being a fire-eater, was not afraid, but this could only meaning that the boy had beaten him here.

He took a stick out of his side pocket and put it in the flames. Scooping up the fire, he swallowed it, and then brought up some more, again and again, until there was nothing but a tiny flicker remaining, which he stamped out with his foot.

"I knew you'd show up, maestro," said Farid, coming out of a dark corner.

"You beat me here?"

"Yes. Unlike you, I thought of riding instead of traveling by foot."

"How did you know I'd come here?"

"Oh, the villagers are no keepers of secrets," Farid said. "One of them said he read you a note, and you mentioned Silvertongue."

"How careless of me. Well, I'm going home."

"Then I'm going with you."

"No," Dustfinger said, a little too forcibly. "You can't survive in my world. It's just not what you are used to."

"You think I'm used to this?" the boy asked, looking around at the furniture and candelabra in the atrium.

"Even if you aren't, you still could not bear the trolls, fairies, glass men, and evil villains of my world. Capricorn was just one of a multitude of miscreants among the goodness in the world I come from. You are staying here."

"We'll see what Silvertongue has to say about that," Farid said.

"I say that we still can't predict who will go in and who will come out of the books we read," Silvertongue said, coming into the atrium and surprising Dustfinger.

"Meggie promised she would help me," Dustfinger stated.

"Yes, I know she did. But her powers are just as unpredictable as my own. It's possible that Farid will go in and you will be doomed to remain here."

"Don't burst my dreams like a vilderrat, Silvertongue," Dustfinger said.

"Ah, vilderrats," Mo said, reminiscing. "I remember that those vile creatures use shoestrings the way children in this world use snow. They make vilderrat-like creatures, and string angels, and when the Meown princesses toss out their shoestrings every winter around Clinover Eve, the vilderrats have a festival."

If Fenoglio had been there, he might've been proud that a reader knew his book so well. But he was trapped in Inkheart, in the very place Dustfinger wished he could be.

"Now, Dustfinger, if this works and Meggie manages to send you back, promise that you will send Fenoglio our greetings."

"Fenoglio?" Dustfinger asked, in horror. "No! I promise you, Silvertongue, if I ever encounter that man again, the last thing I will do is say hello."

"But he created you!" Silvertongue said in bewilderment. "Without him, you wouldn't exist."

"Without him, I wouldn't have to feel homesick. But I do. Now send me back!" Dustfinger demanded.

"Fine then. I will call Meggie."

The girl came down the stairs. She had a pen on her right ear; she was taking her writing career seriously, even though it was not yet three weeks since she first thought of making the creation of stories her profession.

Dustfinger followed her eagerly to an adjoining room, which was set up just for this occasion. He gave Meggie Inkheart and sat down, Farid standing next to him with Gwin on his shoulders. Mo stood behind his daughter to protect her from whatever might come out of the book.

Farid spoke to the girl he had developed an attraction for. "If you send Dustfinger back, I'd like to go too," he said.

"We'll see," Meggie said, though she had no intention of sending Farid away. She opened to a random page, and began reading.

"Capricorn and the Shadow were not the only feared beings in the world. There was also a man named Windcloak, who was a terror to behold. Whenever he entered a room, the people could feel a light breeze—" a whoosh! was heard as Meggie read—"and he wore a gray coat that reminded his viewers of ominous clouds in the sky. However, it was known that if he was seen in a village, it would not rain for six months. For this reason, Windcloak is called the Lord of Droughts. He has a sinister cackle that can make a lion quiver in fear, and if he is attacked by a female, either verbally or physically, she will fall in love with him. These powers are all attributed to his cloak, and it is said that if it is removed or if Windcloak becomes forgetful and leaves it behind, all of his strength will vanish."

Meggie stopped reading and looked up. As she had desired, Dustfinger was no longer there. In his place was a man just like the description of Windcloak—in fact, it was him. She could not see his face beneath his cloak, but she could make out two gleaming eyes.

"Where am I?" he asked, bewildered. "This doesn't look like any place I'm familiar with." He walked over to the walls and examined their corners. "What a marvel! Perfectly even!"

"Of course they're even," Farid said, angry at Meggie for not sending him into Inkheart along with Dustfinger.

Windcloak turned to the boy, but his eyes riveted over to the marten. "I know you! You belong to that obnoxious fire-eater, Dirtthumb or something."

"Dustfinger," Meggie said.

"Yes, that's it. He tried to steal my cloak once. I'd like to get my hands on him, for I have a very vengeful nature."

"Well…he's, er, gone," Meggie said, not at all sorry that Dustfinger was safe from Windcloak's clutches.

"What do you mean?" Windcloak asked, addressing not Meggie but Mo.

"She sent him back into Inkheart," Mo said.

"Who is she? That is nothing more than a puppet, and you, sir, are a very gifted ventriloquist. However, it is impossible for me to believe that a mannequin could have enough sorcery in her to call me forth and to make Dirtthumb or Sodcakes or whatever he's called, vanish into heavy air."

"Call me a puppet, don't you?" Meggie exclaimed, and without thinking she rushed toward Windcloak and slapped him on the arm.

Windcloak winced. But all he said was, "My, aren't you a charming little girl?"

All of a sudden, Meggie felt like Pygmalion must have when he created his famous statue. Windcloak seemed so mysterious, but perhaps he was rather handsome under the cloak? And wouldn't it be interesting to date an older man?

"Ah, I think I'll save my questions for later. I can take my revenge on Basebones simply by kidnapping his marten. Come here you," he said, grabbing Gwin by the scruff of his neck and ignoring all of Gwin's attempts to bite him. Farid grabbed onto Windcloak just in time and all three of them vanished in a wisp of smoke.

"Meggie, why did you slap him?"

"Impulse," she said.

"But didn't you hear what you read? Now you'll have a crush on him, for who knows how long!"

"Well, it can't be helped," Meggie said, thinking admirably of Windcloak.

"Furthermore," Mo said, his voice sounding very concerned now, "I don't think Fenoglio wrote that passage you read aloud. I should know, because I've read Inkheart six times, and there was never a mention of Windcloak. So I think someone else wrote the passage. Someone who wanted us to bring him out, for whatever reasons."

"Well, that is something," Meggie said, looking at her nails. She had never cared about her looks before, except for her dislike of wearing glasses, because they distorted one's image. She believed strongly in Dorothy Parker's adage, "Man seldom make passes at ladies who wear glasses." But she would like to please Windcloak.

"I propose that we foil that person's plans, and send Windcloak into a different book, not Inkheart. Whatever comes out of there will probably be undesirable. And since you have a knack for sending particular people into books, I will need your help."