Hope you're all enjoying the story so far. Here's the sixth chapter - Meggie, Fenoglio, and a pen. Something's bound to happen, eh? Read on to find out!
P.S. Thanks to all reviewers!
Chapter Six: The Pen
Fenoglio grumbled to himself again. Here he was, stuck at the back of the line, with some little children, while the robbers led the way! Of course, he knew that Mortimer would have some sense, but ones like the Snapper... At least the Black Prince was here, too. Yes, at least.
"Bow down before me, thou vile king!" Fenoglio looked down and saw a boy who couldn't be more than seven years old, brandishing a stick that vaguely resembled a sword. He wore a crudely fashioned mask over his face."I am the Bluejay!"
"Never!" Another boy, who was wearing a crown of leaves on his head, and was also holding a 'sword', said loudly.
"Quiet!" Hissed Fenoglio. He knew that it had been a bad idea to bring children on this dangerous trek. But Resa and another woman had insisted that they take the two children with them, since no one was able to take care of them back at the camp. But was this any better?
The boys skipped around, waving their fake swords and shouting at each other.
"Stop it, if you don't want the real Jay to become angry!" Fenoglio said to the children.
It had an immediate affect on them. They seemed to cower at his words, and the boy that was pretending to be the robber whipped off his mask.
"Sorry," they said meekly and slunk off.
Fenoglio smiled to himself. He had to admit it. He still didn't regret creating the Bluejay. Although it had caused so much trouble for poor Meggie and Mortimer... Fenoglio still liked making up stories to tell the children at the fire, and his hand itched for a pen.
No! Fenoglio shook his head vigorously. No way I'm going to make another good man die, with my words! But then he remembered Meggie and the boy. Dustfinger's death. How that fool Orpheus had disappeared, leaving a hopeless Meggie and Farid. Fenoglio knew that man Orpheus couldn't be trusted. Arrogant, stuck-up... Not the best writer, especially if he was to bring a dead man back to life.
Suddenly Fenoglio had an idea. He realized that it would have to wait until the robbers decided to take a rest, leaving Meggie and him some time alone. Oh, how tired his old feet were already... How much longer did they have left to go? Fenoglio craned his neck forward, and saw, with a groan, that Cosimo's castle was still considerably far away. Perhaps a few more hours of mindless walking, and they would finally get to Roxane's house. Fenoglio looked forward to seeing Dustfinger, his creation, for one last time.
Meggie put her hand in her pocket, and felt her fingers touch something - something smooth and warm. She took the object out, and was surprised to see that it was her notebook - the one that Mo had bound for her, with the two pages torn out. She opened it, and saw that the remaining pages were white and blank. Just like the Adder's book. Suddenly Meggie realized that she didn't want her precious notebook to be blank. She wanted it to be full of words, wonderful words, like one of her big, fat books back at home. What would she write in it? Meggie didn't know. She had a desire to write, a very strong desire...
But then she remembered the notebook Mo had taken from her, back in Elinor's mansion. How long ago that seemed! The notebook, full of crossed-out sentences and words, full of ideas that refused to flourish... Meggie felt very frustrated. I'm no writer. A reader, perhaps, but definately not an author.
Who knows? Whispered another voice. You can always try again... You can bring Dustfinger back, Meggie, you! And you can write, and read Elinor here! Elinor and Darius!
"Meggie?" Farid's voice broke her thoughts. "We're going to take a rest."
"A rest..." Meggie murmured absently. Her first thought was that she wanted to go see Mo, but she decided that she needed to find Fenoglio.
"Where are you going?" Resa called to Meggie. She was helping some women unload the food.
"Fenoglio." Meggie said. Resa nodded understandingly, and Meggie slipped off to find the old man.
INKINKINKINKINK
Fenoglio was sitting alone, away from the other robbers and strolling players, when suddenly, Meggie was in front of him. Meggie! Fenoglio had forgotten all about his plan, for he was far too exhausted, both physically and mentally. He was no longer an energetic young man.
"Fenoglio!" Meggie's clear voice made Fenoglio raise his head. "I wanted to talk to you."
"What a coinsidence!" Fenoglio smiled, despite himself.
Meggie sat down beside the old man. "Well..." Fenoglio watched Meggie take out the notebook, the one with the torn pages, out from her pocket. Fenoglio found himself holding his breath - was he thinking what she was thinking?
"I... I want to write, Fenoglio!" the girl said fiercely. "I want to write like you, so that I can bring Dustfinger back, so that I can read my own words aloud!"
Fenoglio was surprised. This was exactly what he was going to talk to Meggie about. Fate, thought Fenoglio. It's Fate.
"Well." Fenoglio said thoughtfully, still looking at her notebook. "Anyone can write if they try..."
"No, Fenoglio!" Meggie said. "I tried, and I couldn't! Writing is so difficult, although you do it so easily, so flawlessly! It's just so hard to find the right words..." Meggie put her face in her hands.
Fenoglio found himself smiling. "You try to hard, Meggie."
"Pardon?" Meggie looked up.
"You try too hard." Fenoglio repeated. "Words have to come to you, Meggie, you can't force them to. Just relax, let your hand hold your pen, and imagine, imagine about what you're going to write. Do you see the sights? Hear the sounds? Smell the scents? Then all you need to do is get it into words, on paper. Go on, try. I won't be watching you, don't worry." Fenoglio answered Meggie's unasked question.
Out of the corner of his eye Fenoglio saw Meggie, pen poised, eyes closed. Fenoglio smiled to himself again. After a while he heard the soft scratching of a pen across paper - the sound of someone writing. Fenoglio knew that it was Meggie - for who else could it be?
Fenoglio couldn't tell for how long he was just sitting there, listening to Meggie's pen. It could have been hours, or just a few minutes. It didn't matter, because the pen finally fell silent, and Meggie's voice broke the silence.
"I'm finished." she said hesitantly. "Do you want to see it?"
"It depends." Fenoglio looked at Meggie's tiny handwriting. "If you're going to read it aloud, no."
"Well, then," Meggie said, "I am going to read it, so might as well listen."
"I will." Fenoglio smiled. "I will."
Meggie cleared her throat. "Dustfinger's body lay cold, dead and still. His soul, however, was with the White Women..."
Fenoglio found himself being immersed in Meggie's words, beautiful, flowing words that tickled the skin, that danced through the air like butterflies. Fenoglio was amazed at how flawless her writing was - her skill could have matched his own. But would the words wake Dustfinger? That, Fenoglio couldn't tell.
Dustfinger slowly sat up. Where was he? There was straw all over him, on his lap, in his hair, between his clothes. He felt as if he had woken from a long, long dream - the world seemed blurred and distant.
Slowly Dustfinger began to remember - the terrible battle in the forest, Farid's death, his exchange... With growing horror he remembered making fire dance, all night and day, for the White Women. They feared fire yet desired it. They yearned for its warmth yet were afraid of its bite. The fire had been protestant, reluctant, to preform for the Women - inhuman, distant creatures that weren't of this earth. You won't escape, they had whispered. Not like that robber or the boy.
When they had said robber, Dustfinger had been confused. Which robber? Only then he realized that they meant Silvertongue. Dustfinger had laughed. Silvertongue? A robber? It was a most ridiculous idea.
Dustfinger realized that he was on a ramshackle cart, similar to the one that the injured strolling players had been loaded on. He swung his legs over one side, and unsteadily climbed off. It was getting dark; with a soft whisper he had a flame dancing on his fingertips. It took a moment for him to get his bearings - why were they so close to Ombra? Weren't the Adder's soldiers after them, if he had remembered correctly?
Dustfinger heard voices, coming from not so far away. He stiffened. Who were these people? Friends, or enemies? Dustfinger strained to hear the people better; the only thing he caught were distinct whispers and words. Swearing softly, he crept a little closer in that direction; there was a campfire there. It was a camp, obviously.
Suddenly there was an exclamation of surprise from beside Dustfinger. He jumped. It was a female voice, a very familiar one. Dustfinger turned, and found himself face-to-face with the bookworm woman. What was her name? Right. Elinor. The reader, Darius, was beside her. They looked just as startled as he was. But why in the world were they here?