Note to the reader: I started writing this story around the end of March, hoping to have it done by April 1. It was originally going to be an April Fools' prank on my friend Laura, whose familywas reading Inkspell at the time... You know how Maggie/Mo read the "false ending" at the end of Inkheart? It was going to be something like that - a "false ending" to Inkspell. But alas, I never finished it in time. So, now that it's several months late, but finished nonetheless, I decided to put in on for your entertainment. Enjoy. And don't sue me if you don't like how I portrayed Dustfinger. In fact, please don't sue me for copyright infringement, either, since this is obviously a fan fiction.
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74: The Castle of the White Women
(because it's supposed to come after ch. 73 in Inkspell)
Deep within a white castle, far beneath the earth where his friends walked and lived, among bones and White Women and haunted souls, was the spirit of Dustfinger. The firebreather threw a blazing torch in the air, catching another with astonishing precision. Flames soared, licking the whitened ceiling far above, then coming back to the firedancer's hand as an obedient dog returns to its master. Sparks flew, fire-words were uttered, and in that castle beneath the earth, Dustfinger gave performance after performance. He made fire-flowers to grow and let his burning companion sing. All the while, near enough to be enthralled, yet far away for fear of the wondrous blaze, the White Women stood, gazing in awe of the sparkling inferno. Some tormented souls had gathered on the outer fringes of the pale spectators, amazed at their comrade in this fallen world.
Then, one of the White Women in the front row blinked and stiffened, eyes wide. She quickly turned and walked away, pushing her way past her sisters. She left the grand hall and traveled down a set of spiraling stairs. Pacing down a long corridor, she turned sharply and opened a white door… then stepped past the threshold, and disappeared as suddenly as she had left the gathering. The spectator was now the hunter, and a failing heart in some unfortunate person was calling to her.
Slowly, one by one, the White Women left the hall to follow their sister. Some went through the same gateway; some left by others. Pale shapes drifted away, abandoning their prisoners to capture some more. Finally, when the last of the White Women had disappeared from sight, Dustfinger caught his torches and extinguished them in waiting jugs of ashes. With a few words, the fire-flowers vanished, and the grand hall once again became still. Dustfinger turned to his fellow prisoners. All of them looked to him expectantly, waiting for the final signal. The show was not over yet. Taking in a deep breath, Dustfinger closed his eyes… and bowed. Instantly, people surrounding him broke into hearty applause, and the firebreather stood up, weary, yet smiling broadly.
If only the men in my world appreciated fire as much as they do, Dustfinger thought. Then perhaps I would have had enough gold to bribe the Adderhead and ensure our freedom…
He closed his eyes. But it did not happen that way. It could not happen that way. I was cursed by Fate from the beginning.
Thoughts of the fateful day flooded Dustfinger's mind. It now seemed so long ago, fighting on the hillside against rain and servants of the enemy, yet it had only been a few days since his life had ended. The images of that night appeared in his thoughts time after time again. Basta's knife. Farid's glazed, lifeless eyes. Silvertongue's daughter. The fire. The White Women. The exchange. Now, this hated castle. Dustfinger shook his head in attempt to clear his mind of such thoughts, yet they returned all the same. Dustfinger hated his white prison as much as anyone might expect… yet deep inside his heart, he was glad that he had saved Farid from this fate.
Dustfinger abruptly turned to leave the hall. He couldn't talk to his audience now, as he usually did after performances. No, he had to go off by himself – he had to clear his mind of these thoughts. He had just taken a few steps, however, when a hand reached out and caught his tunic.
"Wait! Firedancer!" A young voice called. The voice carried a strange accent, as from a distant land, but Dustfinger was used to that by now. Upon arriving to the White Castle, he had soon learned that his story was not the only one cursed by White Women.
Dustfinger shook off the hand. "Leave me alone."
"But… please, I have to talk to you!"
"Not right now you don't. Leave me alone, will you?"
Dustfinger walked away, but light footsteps followed him.
Some people here have no sense of respect! he thought impatiently.
He allowed the person, whoever it was, to follow him out of a small door in the corner of the hall. Then, he whirled around. His pursuer was a girl, around his own daughter's age, but clad in strange clothes that looked something like the apparel from Silvertongue's world. She had small, squinty brown eyes and a curious expression on her face.
"For the last time, leave me in peace, or I will send the White Women after your family!"
The girl winced and took a step back, shocked at the sudden outburst. Dustfinger bit his tongue, ashamed of his own reprimand. He wouldn't wish this fate on anyone, no matter how annoying their daughter was. However, he did not take back his words, or even soften his obviously angry features.
"…then can you at least let me know where I am, so that I can tell my parents when they arrive?" the girl finally asked.
Dustfinger glared down at her, then nodded to the doorway they had just left. "You can ask any of the people back in there."
The girl dropped her head, shuffling her feet nervously. "There's something else, too," she finally said.
Dustfinger rolled his eyes. "Can't you see I want to be left alone?"
The girl raised her head, looking at the firebreather square in the eyes. "Yes, I can."
"Then run off and haunt someone else."
"Not until you answer my question."
"Fine. You're in the Castle of the White Women, also known as the Realm of the Dead. Happy?"
"No, I meant the other question that you haven't let me ask yet."
Dustfinger sighed in exasperation. "You're not going to leave me alone until I answer it, are you?"
"Nope."
Dustfinger rolled his eyes. "Fine. Go ahead, but make it quick."
The girl stared intently into the firebreather's eyes as if she was studying him, searching for the right words to use. She opened her mouth to say something, but quickly shut it and looked away. Dustfinger tapped his foot impatiently. Finally, staring at the floor, too ashamed to even raise her head, she asked,
"Is your name Dustfinger?"
The firebreather's eyes flashed. "How do you know me?" he snapped.
The girl lifted her head. "I thought so," she whispered in awe, "You look just like I thought you would."
Dustfinger clenched his teeth and grabbed the girl roughly by the shoulders. "I said, how do you know me?"
With a faltering gaze and a quivering voice, she whispered her answer.
"I read your book."
Dustfinger let her go and pushed her aside, turning to walk down the hallway. However, he only took a few steps when he whirled around to face his stalker once more.
"So, you've made your point," he spat sarcastically, "You're from Silvertongue's story, and you've read Inkheart. Anything else you'd like to know, little girl? Perhaps you want to know if it was really because of Gwin that I died? Or maybe you just want to ask if Her Ugliness is really that unattractive? Well, guess what? Unlike inconsiderate whelps like you, I actually want to forget that story! So if you'll please leave me alone now, I actually have some things to do in this god-forsaken castle!"
Shock and hurt flashed across the girl's eyes, but she quickly glanced to the ground and turned her face away from the firebreather. Dustfinger slumped his shoulders, once again feeling a twinge of guilt from his harsh words. He shook his head, unsure how to react to this annoying little brat that somehow managed to grab his pity. Dustfinger sighed and finally whispered the simple words, "I'm sorry."
The girl glanced up and forced a smile. "It's okay. It's just… well, I'm not from Silvertongue's story."
Dustfinger blinked. How could she know his story if she weren't in Fenoglio's? "Where are you from?" he murmured.
The girl shook her head. "I… I don't know what you'd call it. From my own story, I guess. But that's not what's important," she said hastily.
Dustfinger eyed her suspiciously. "What is?"
"I was…" the girl faltered, "You see, I was… I was hoping you could tell me how I got here."
Dustfinger rolled his eyes. "Well, I can do that. You died, and the White Women took your soul. It happens quite frequently, actually."
"Well, I figured that much," she said hastily, "but it's just that… White Women don't exist in my story."
"They don't exist in Silvertongue's story, either, but they almost claimed him."
"I know… but he was in the Inkworld."
"You're missing the point."
"No… I think you are."
Dustfinger sighed and glanced away. "Look, how am I supposed to know anything about your story? I've never even been there."
"But you do know about White Women."
"Not that much."
The girl bit her lip. "Well… could you at least… try to figure out how I got here? Because the White Women are mostly from your story, you know."
"Why do you want to know so badly?" Dustfinger inquired. "Why does it matter? You're in the White Castle now, and I don't think you're ever going to leave."
"I know… but maybe it would help if I knew why I was here."
Dustfinger hesitated. Maybe he could help her somehow. He weighed the options in his mind, and figuring he had not much better to do with his time, anyway, he decided to give this strange girl a chance.
"All right. I'll help you."
The girl's face brightened instantly. "Really?"
Dustfinger rolled his eyes. "No, I was lying to you," he said sarcastically, "Of course, really." He sighed. "Now, since it seems that I'm going to be spending so much time trying to discover why you were cursed enough to come here… I should at least know your name, don't you think?"
The girl hesitated. "Laura," she finally whispered, "My name is Laura."
"All right – Laura… how did you die?"
Laura froze like a deer caught in headlights. Her eyes turned wide, and in those few moments Dustfinger could swear he saw her face turn several shades paler. Laura bit her lip and cast her gaze downward, refusing to meet the firebreather's eye.
"If you want my help, you have to tell me," Dustfinger muttered flatly.
After many long, silent moments, the girl spoke with a shaky voice. "… I was so stupid. It… it started as a prank, you see. It was April Fools' Day, and so during lunch, I duct-taped my friend's locker closed. I thought it was all in good fun, and so once I finished that one friend's locker, I went on to the next, and the next. By the time the lunch dismissal bell rang, I had taped at least five lockers shut. I knew the other students were coming back up from lunch, so I quickly turned and ran back to my locker, thinking I'd hide the duct tape and scissors, and no one would be the wiser."
Laura let out a light sob, eyes swollen by tears. With a deep breath, she finished her tale.
"But then… I had barely gone a few steps when I tripped. I was in such a hurry to hide the tape and scissors, you see, that I wasn't thinking about how to hold the scissors. I was holding them pointed side up, and when I tripped… the last thing I remember is seeing the pointed edge come flying towards my face. Then there was this sharp pain in my forehead… and then I was here…"
By now Laura was nearly bawling. "It was my fault! If only I hadn't tried to pull that prank. If only I had been a better friend! If only I had left them alone for just one April Fools' Day! If only, if only… But, no, I had to go and do it. I had to play that one last trick. It was all my fault…"
The girl bit her lip. "I wanted to be remembered as a prankster. And now I'm dead," she spat bitterly.
Dustfinger stared at Laura in sympathy. "Aye," he murmured, "That you are."
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Note to the real Laura: The moral of the story? Don't pull pranks! Haha, riiiight, like you'll ever stop being that devious trickster I know and love…