Before Mo and the Black Prince's men had set out for Dustfinger's grave, before Mo ceased to feel torn in two with one side of himself devouring the other, before the Adderhead's defeat by fire, Meggie had thought of something of great importance.
"Farid," she had said, "I think I know why Dustfinger still has not come back." She had stood before him, uncertainty on her face.
But her words had caught his attention. "Tell me," he had said in a serious tone.
"Not here." Meggie had glanced around at the tents that surrounded them, at the low campfires and the haggard-looking men, women, and children, before gesturing toward the trees of the darkening forest. "Further back."
Meggie had led him out of the circle of tents and deeper into the forest, past the large tree trunks and their thick roots. The dappled light from the evening sky above them played over her hair. Farid followed her until she stopped before a thick patch of bushes, the foliage just barely obscuring the tents beyond them. There Meggie had turned to face him once more.
In an unsure, but earnest voice, Meggie had stated, "I think there are too many people in the Inkworld—too many people who should not be here. That is what prevents Dustfinger's return."
Pain and guilt had washed over Farid at her words. Seeing it on his face, Meggie had said quickly, "I think we should talk to Fenoglio about sending him back to—to our world." She had ceased to think of it as the 'real' world, and barely paused before rushing on to say, "He hates it here, everyone can see it; the more time he spends here, the further down he sinks into depression. I think it would be better for him if he returned home."
Farid's heart had still felt sore, though; he felt the blame for Dustfinger's death weigh heavily on his shoulders. He dropped his head, looking down at the ground between his booted feet. He fingered the hem of his dull, brown tunic.
"Farid," Meggie had whispered, and glanced up to meet her eyes, which shone with tears, as she spoke. "His death was not your fault, no matter what anyone says. I know for certain that, if it were not for you, he would have only died sooner. You kept him alive, and I truly believe that it was you who helped him to overcome his fear of death." Farid had squeezed his eyes shut to keep back the tears as he gratefully nodded. He wanted to believe her, but could not bring himself to do it.
"Let's talk about it to Fenoglio," he had murmured, and they had returned to the camp.
But, in his gloomy state of mind, Fenoglio had opposed the idea.
"What?" Fenoglio's exclamation had made Farid and Meggie, who stood with the him in front of his tent, cringe. "Write words about me? Never! Suppose it were to take something horrible from our world and place it here in my stead? Haven't I been the cause of enough damage already? Keep your blasted words! I don't deserve it. And don't you dare write something for me when I'm not looking!"
Mutely they had watched Fenoglio stalk away from them and back into his tent, which he shared with Farid. Stricken into silence, Meggie and Farid had stood for a long time, watching the shadows of the trees lengthen on the forest floor. Evening became twilight before they at last had parted ways, Meggie to the tent where she and her family stayed, the lanterns within already lit and her parents conversing quietly inside, and Farid to Fenoglio's tent, a well of cold gloom and heavy sorrow. There he stood, not wishing to venture inward just yet. Instead he sat on the ground with his chin in his hands, thinking.
Night fell, and Farid ducked into his and Fenoglio's tent, kicked the boots off of his feet, and lay down on his mat on the ground, pulling the rough blankets over himself, for it was growing cold. Insects hummed or chirped in the dark. A night bird's call rang out, and an animal barked nearby. Above the soft noise of murmuring voices outside, muffled by the blanket and the tent's coarse fabric, Farid still heard Meggie's voice in his mind, saying that she knew why Dustfinger had not returned. He knew she was right. There were too many people in the Inkworld, and two of them already had escaped death.
The night wore on, and Farid remained unable to sleep. He tossed and turned, trying his best not to wake Fenoglio, whose fitful sleep was always light. Farid sighed, turned over on his back, and stared at the dark green ceiling above his head, the supporting pole starkly contrasted against it. He lay still and tried to breath slowly, but wakefulness would not be conquered. Anguish and boredom do not mix well when one wishes for sleep to bring an interval of peace to one's torment.
The one thought that ran through Farid's head was, 'The only reason Dustfinger is not here is because I am here.' Closing his sore eyes, he listened intently to what the men were saying at the fires outside his tent, trying to discern their exact words. He thought about what he was going to do. That was when he heard the pounding of running feet against the ground. The noise drew nearer.
Farid lifted his head, his eyes staring into the tent wall before his face as if he might look through it to see who was there. From outside someone was calling for the Bluejay. There was a faint reply from Meggie's tent and the swish of loose fabric being pushed back from the doorway it covered. Boots scuffed against the dirt ground. Farid now heard the voices clearly enough to discern who they belonged to: Mo and the Black Prince, and, he realized distastefully, Roxane's son.
Quietly slipping out of his bed, Farid clumsily flung a cloak over his shoulders, shoved his feet into his boots, and stepped outside. The Black Prince and Jehan were no longer there when Farid lifted the tent flap and stepped outside. His eyes darted to where he had last heard the voices and alighted on Mo, hurrying into his own tent. He could hear Mo and Resa speaking in low tones. Sounds of a sword and other weapons being sheathed and gathered together reached Farid's ears as he stood outside, waiting, unsure of what to do.
When Mo reappeared, he wore the Bluejay mask over his eyes, the blue, gold, brown, and white feathers seemed to burn in the light from the campfires; the black feathers seemed to shine out darkly.
Mo's mouth was grave, and the eyes he turned upon Farid burned like black fire.
"What's wrong?" Farid asked nervously. He had never seen Mo look so dark as he did now, seemingly a part of the night. "What's happening?"
"It's Basta," Mo growled, his grip on the hilt of his sword tightening. "He and the Adderhead are up to something by Dustfinger's grave. They followed Roxane there—she could be in trouble. I'm taking a group of men to the place. Roxane's son will lead me."
Farid was at once filled with hatred at Basta's name. He pictured Basta's face in his mind, a mocking smile on his pale lips and malice in his eyes. Farid longed to deal the final death-blow to Basta, the man who was ultimately responsible for Dustfinger's demise. "Let me go with you," Farid said determinedly, his shoulders squared. "I can help." But Mo shook his head.
"Not this time, Farid," Mo said sternly. "You stay behind. You cannot help us now."
Farid was stung, and it showed on his face. "But I can! I can use fire against them! You'll let Roxane's son go along, why not me? Please, let me come—I want to help! I owe it to Dustfinger. You must let me come!"
"No!" Farid jumped at the sharpness in Mo's voice. "Farid, I don't have time to argue with you. Jehan is only coming because he knows the way. I have to go now. Stay here." He whirled and ran into the middle of the camp, where a large group of armed men were gathering.
Farid watched them, enviously eyeing Roxane's son as he stood by Mo. Jehan's eyes flitting about the camp. When they lighted on Farid, who stood watching him with jealousy, a look of contempt filled Jehan's face. He grinned at Farid arrogantly, straightening himself and lifting his head high, knowing that he was to accompany the men while Farid was not.
Farid glared back. 'You have no reason to resent me,' he thought at the younger boy. Anger and shame at being denied permission to go with the men burned inside Farid as they marched out into the dark of the trees, their boots crunching softly on dried leaves and twigs and their weapons glinting in the dim light of the moon.
Never had Farid felt so useless. He stiffly turned his back on the sight and sounds and walked to Meggie's tent, his mind made up.
Inside the tent, Resa stood with a worried look on her face. Meggie stood beside her, her mother's arm about her slender, cloaked shoulders. They looked at Farid with relief and concern; immediately he knew that they had heard his and the Bluejay's exchange, and his face darkened. But he shook it off.
"Meggie," Farid whispered, "I must speak with you."
Meggie nodded, slipping from under her mother's arm. She led Farid into the back of the tent, where a small lantern was lit beside her bed on the ground. A curtain separated them from the front of the tent, where Resa remained, worry on her face. Meggie sat down on her bed, motioning Farid to do so also. The light of the lantern flickered on their faces, catching the vibrant blue of Meggie's dress and cloak. Meggie herself was silent, as if she already knew what it was that Farid was going to say.
At last, Farid took a deep breath to begin, pushing his black hair from his eyes with his hand. In a choked voice he said, "Meggie, send me back to my world! We both know that I don't belong here, or in your world. Wherever I go, I am useless—nothing but a burden. Besides, if it brings Dustfinger back, it will be well worth it."
"No, Farid!" she cried out softly, violently shaking her head and pressing her hands against her hears, as if her worst fear had just been realized.
"Please, Meggie, do it! Send me back! Write the words that will send me back to my world—to my story, the one I came from."
Meggie continued to shake her head, staring at him, tears streaking her face. "If you leave, then I will go with you, and you cannot stop me."
"No. You must stay here. My story is no place for you. And this world needs you and your voice. You, your father, your mother, even Fenoglio—together you can fix everything that has happened. But I am useless. I have done nothing of value here. It is better if I go back where I came from, back to my own story."
"No! Please, let me write you back to my world, not yours!" Her hands were shaking.
"Meggie, you have to send me back to mine! Please, if not for Dustfinger, then for me! I feel I will die if I stay here much longer." He placed his hand on hers. "Please write it." With his other hand, he picked up her notebook and her pencil from the floor where they lay.
Meggie took the things in her hand and set them on her lap, but made no move to use them. "I can help you," Farid said, coming around behind her and placing his hands on her shoulders. Meggie placed her pencil on the paper, and stopped.
"I can't write it, Farid," she sobbed. The grief of losing Farid, who was so much more to her than just a friend, was almost too much to bear, and prevented her from forming the words he needed.
Farid paused, then, in a far-off voice, began to dictate, his arms about Meggie's waist as she shakily wrote down the words he spoke.
"'Farid was no longer needed in the world of Ink. Too many already lived there who did not belong, and Farid belonged least of all. So at last, in order to bring back Dustfinger, Farid returned to his own world, the place where he was born and had grown up.'"
Trembling, Meggie made the last few strokes with her pencil, tears streaming down her face. Then, dropping pencil and paper, she flung her arms about Farid and sobbed. Farid held her tightly to himself, knowing that it would be the last time he would see Meggie. Tears streamed down his face as well, and his body shook. They held each other in the embrace for several minutes, their hearts aching with deep sorrow.
At last Farid pulled away. He could not bear it anymore. Already he missed Meggie terribly, more terribly than he thought was possible. "Read me back now, Meggie," he hissed.
Meggie opened her lips to protest, but, seeing how earnest Farid was, turned her eyes to the paper. Through eyes blurred with tears she read the words to herself, then prepared to read them out loud.
The tent flap burst open. Resa gave a cry of surprise.
"Where is the Bluejay?" Orpheus demanded. Upon hearing his voice, Meggie and Farid threw back the curtain and stepped into the outer part of the tent.
There stood Orpheus, sweat drenching his white shirt and his round, fat face. He was wheezing, having had to run to the camp.
"He—he's gone," Resa quavered an answer.
"NO!" cried Orpheus, in hysterics. He sank to the ground, a quivering heap. "What have I done?" His voice was strangled.
"What is it?" Farid asked, trying to keep the coldness from showing in his voice, for the sight of Orpheus made his blood boil.
Orpheus continued to sob into the earthen floor. "I wrote words for them," his voice was muffled by the ground. "Terrible words! Now they are going to Dustfinger's grave. Who knows what they will do to him? And to Roxane—what have I done?"
"Tell us what you mean!" Farid cried, alarmed. "Wrote words for whom? What words?" He was growing impatient.
"For Basta!" Orpheus cried, lifting his head so they could hear him clearly. "And for the Adderhead! They found me alone in the woods, and they forced me to write words that would make Roxane go to her husband's tomb so that they could follow her there. Her son would seek the Bluejay's help and lead him there—into a trap! Tell me! Did it happen thus?"
Resa and Meggie had gone white, but Resa, horrified, replied, "Yes."
Orpheus wailed. "Who knows what they will do to him! What they will do to Dustfinger, and to Roxane, and Jehan, and the Bluejay! It's all my fault…"
Orpheus' act of faithlessness sickened Farid and made him despise the man a hundred times more than he despised Basta or the Adderhead. "Traitor," Farid snarled with hate.
"Farid!" Meggie's voice was reproachful and fearful for her father.
Orpheus raised his eyes, looking up at Farid with dislike written plainly on his face. "You're in no place to blame me, boy! If it were not for you, none of this would have happened in the first place! Dustfinger would still be alive were it not for you!"
"Shut up!" Farid screamed, covering his ears. "That's not true! You are a liar!"
Meggie interrupted. "Orpheus," she quavered, "tell us exactly what you wrote!"
Orpheus glared at her. "Why should I? I don't take orders from little girls!"
Resa slapped him across the face. "Listen to us!" her voice shook with rage. "If you don't tell us what you wrote, then we won't be able to help you, and they will destroy Dustfinger, and the Bluejay, and then all hope will be lost for the Inkworld! They will find us and kill us all, so tell us what you wrote."
Orpheus rubbed his cheek, which was red from the slap he had received. "I wrote that Roxane would return to her home. Basta and the Adderhead planned to wait for her there, so that they could follow her when she turned and headed to Dustfinger's grave. Jehan also would follow her, and then run to seek the Bluejay's aid. Then, alone, the Bluejay would race to Dustfinger's grave—"
"Wait!" Resa cried, confused. "Did you say, he would go alone?"
"Yes." Orpheus was confused by the hope in their faces. "Why?"
"He took men with him—many, many armed men. Together they have gone to help Roxane, led by Jehan."
All of them fell silent, pondering, trying to think what could have prevented the words from working the way they were intended.
"The words were flawed, or they were not read correctly," Meggie surmised at length.
"The words were FINE, and I read them perfectly!" Orpheus bellowed. "They were faultless! If anything is flawed, it is your father!"
Meggie, Resa, and Farid looked at him with surprise and disgust. "The point is," Meggie countered, "my father will survive."
"No thanks to you, Cheeseface, you traitor!" Farid shouted.
"They would have killed me!" Orpheus roared, jumping up from the dirt floor and leaping at Farid.
"If it were me, I would have been happy to die!" Farid replied angrily, stepping away from Orpheus. Neither of them saw Meggie scribbling.
"Stupid boy," Orpheus hissed. "Why don't you go back home? You don't belong here!"
"You don't either!" Meggie shouted at Orpheus. But she hesitated, looking uncertainly down at her sheet of paper. Would the words she had written there work, even though they were written imperfectly? What would happen if they did not work? But when she saw Orpheus with his hand around Farid's throat, Meggie knew she had to try. Quickly, she began to read.
"'Orpheus was no longer needed in the world of Ink.'" The words dripped with coldness and anger toward Orpheus, and hung around the four of them like drops of ice. The air in the tent grew frigid.
"NO!" Orpheus screamed. He let go of Farid and stumbled toward Meggie, his arm outstretched to snatch the paper away, but Meggie recoiled. Farid stepped between the two of them, gasping, holding his throat with one hand and swinging at Orpheus with the other. They grappled with each other. Meggie read on.
"'Too many already lived there who did not belong, and Orpheus belonged least of all. So at last, in order to bring back Dustfinger, Orpheus returned to his own world, the place where he was born and had grown up.'"
Still holding onto each other, both Farid and Orpheus began to fade. "Farid!" Meggie screamed, dropping her notebook. She grabbed onto his arm and pulled as hard as she possibly could, but Orpheus' grip on the boy was strong. "Let go!" she yelled through clenched teeth. She felt her mother wrap her arms about her waist, and the two of them pulled.
Together they strained as Orpheus clawed at Farid. The fat man's grip was loosening, but still strong. He was pulling Farid back into his world, where no one would be able to save him from Orpheus or himself. They knew what the man was capable of doing. He was treacherous.
Meggie could not bear to lose her friend. She needed him, and so would Dustfinger. But Farid's grip on the two of them was slipping. He still wished to leave the realm of Ink.
Suddenly the reason that Farid should remain in the Inkworld dawned on Meggie. She could not believe that she had not thought of it before, and realized that if Farid knew it, too, it would revitalize his will to remain. It would be enough to pull him free of the powerful words' pull.
"Farid," Meggie shouted, "Dustfinger loved you! He loved you more than he loved himself. If he finds that you are gone when he returns, he will wish he had not returned. He will die of a broken heart, and he will never return. Only you can save his life! You must be here when he returns. He died for you because he could not live without you!"
It worked. Her words brought Farid's strength back, and she could see it on his glowing face. Fading though they were, Meggie saw his eyes brighten, and he tightened his grip on her hands.
With one final yank, Meggie and Resa wrenched Farid from Orpheus' grasp, and they fell backward in a heap on the ground.
Orpheus gave one last, muffled cry that hung in the dense air, and he vanished.
Panting, Farid, Meggie, and Resa stood. "We did it," Meggie said, relieved. She picked up her paper. With her pencil, she had crossed out Farid's name and written Orpheus' above it. She showed the paper to Resa and Farid.
"Thank you," Farid said, squeezing her tightly. "Thank you, Meggie. I did not want to go back—I truly didn't. Thank you."
--
Mo, smelling of sweat and smoke, wearied but relieved of a great burden, returned to his tent to find Resa, Meggie, and Farid waiting anxiously inside. With cries of joy, they crowded around him, embracing him, asking him if he was all right. Love surged up inside Mo as he dropped his cloak, mask, and weapons on the floor and hugged them back, assuring them that everything would be fine now.
"Dustfinger?" Farid's voice was barely above a whisper.
"His body was gone," Mo answered. At the terrified look on Farid's face, he added, "It was gone before Basta and the Adderhead got there. No one knows where he is."
Excitement showed on Meggie's and Farid's faces as Meggie handed her notebook to Mo. They explained the reasoning behind what she had written, told him what Orpheus had said and done, and that they had sent him back to their own world.
"Do you think I was right that too many people were here?" Meggie asked, gazing into her father's deep eyes, eyes that could pierce, but held a great wisdom and understanding, eyes that were tinged with cunning and pain, but soft with tenderness. "Do you think it worked?"
"When exactly did you read this?" Mo asked, gesturing to Meggie's notebook.
"A few hours ago, I think," Meggie answered.
Mo smiled and nodded. "Meggie," he said, "I think you have saved Dustfinger's life—and countless others as well."
Farid placed his arms around Meggie in a loving embrace. "Including mine," he breathed.
Well, there you have it at last--the fourth chapter.
Is it just me, or did Farid do a lot of just plain standin' in this chapter?
But take it from me: when someone is dead and events seem to be out of control, one does a lot of that.