LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

helped him to his feet. He rubbed his forehead. “Thanks.”

      “You’re sure you’re all right?”

      He took a deep breath. “Yeah.”

      “Good.” She slugged him.

      He fell over in a spray of dust, then scrambled to his feet. “Hey! Why did you hit me?”

      “Because you hit me!” She rubbed her shoulder.

      He blinked at her, then snorted, breaking out into a grin. “Sorry.”

      Her mouth quirked, but she eyed him sourly. “I told you not to follow me.”

      He raised his hands. “What did you want me to do? Stand around while you went in alone?”

      “I wasn’t alone,” she snapped. “Puck said —”

      “Where is Puck?”

      They looked around. They were in the bottom of a bowl of sand so white that, without the sight of each other, they’d have half believed that they’d gone blind.

      Their footprints inked the ground like typewriter keys on paper.

      “Puck!” Rosemary shouted. Her voice didn’t echo.

      “Hi ho!” Puck called, his head popping up above the top of a white dune. “Awake, are we?”

      “Where are we?” shouted Peter.

      “Come up and see.” And his head disappeared. They heard a rustling.

      Rosemary and Peter glanced at each other and shrugged. They scrambled up the sand dune, stuttering to a stop at the top, blinded by their first sight of black.

      Before them stretched a white, sandy beach, ending abruptly at a black sea that slapped at the shore in slow, oily waves. Puck was standing at a grove of gnarled black trees, shaking a branch laden with round white fruit the size of basketballs.

      Rosemary and Peter glanced at each other and shrugged again. They trudged to the grove, arriving just as Puck pulled one of the fruits free. “Something to play with while we wait,” he said.

      “Wait for what?” demanded Rosemary. “Where’s my brother?”

      “Across the sea.” Puck turned Rosemary and Peter by the shoulders and placed his head between theirs. He pointed across the black sea to a speck of colour on the horizon. “There, my friends, look there. That is the Land of Fiction.”

      “There?” said Rosemary. “How are we going to get over there? You were supposed to bring us there! We’re going to need a boat.”

      “We have a boat, wise one,” said Puck. “We must wait for the Ferryman.”

      “The Ferryman?” Peter repeated.

      Carrying the white fruit, Puck led the two along the beach. A jetty came into view. No boats were in sight.

      Puck sighed. “The Ferryman is never here when one needs him.” He flung the white fruit on the ground.

      Peter and Rosemary scrambled back, expecting it to splatter. The fruit bounced, changing colour as it hit, swirling like an oil slick on water. The swirls shook as Puck bounced the ball again.

      “What is that?” asked Peter.

      “An idea — the fruit of an idea tree.” Puck grinned.

      “Ideas grow on trees?” said Rosemary.

      “Where else would they be?” said Puck. “Tis a shame they are not more common.” He bounced the ball once and twirled it to Peter and Rosemary.

      Written in black text on a white stripe were the words, “What if rugs could fly?”

      Puck bounced the ball again.

      The words now said, “What if we could make time run backwards?”

      “Ideas fall from the trees and are blown across this beach,” said Puck, “and into the great black sea that surrounds the Land of Fiction. In time, they build the Land itself.”

      Peter reached for the ball. “Let me try!” Puck handed it to him. Peter bounced it.

      “What if we could travel at the speed of thought?”

      Rosemary stared at the swirling fruit. The words from a book echoed in her mind. She shivered.

      “Neat,” said Peter. “But why is this ‘fruit’ made of rubber?”

      “So I can do this,” said Puck. He snatched up the ball and bounced it off of Peter’s head.

      He ducked away. “Hey! What are you doing?”

      “I am bouncing an idea off you!” Puck held it up. It read: “What am I doing here?”

      Peter gaped. “What?”

      “Some ideas can be specific to the individual,” said Puck. He moved to bounce the ball again.

      “Give me that!” Peter grabbed the ball and bounced it off Rosemary’s head.

      The ball swirled, and a line of text took shape. “What if I can’t get Theo back? What if we get stuck here? What if we get hurt? What if we can’t —” The line wound around and around until it was like a ball of string.

      Puck pulled the ball away. “You are indeed wise, Sage Rosemary. Your mind is full of many thoughts.”

      Rosemary gaped. “Wait —”

      But Puck tossed the ball high into the air. It arced over the beach and landed in the sea. It bobbed on the surface for a few seconds before sinking beneath the waves. “We’ve had our fun,” he said, waving them forward, “but now our ride has come. Move along, my children, along!”

      Peter and Rosemary saw movement on the black sea. A boat was gliding across the surface, and a shrouded figure was standing on the prow.

      The boat pulled up to the jetty and stopped. The figure floated off. Covered from head to toe in a black cloak, he advanced on the party as though he were gliding on air, though they heard the boards creak beneath him over the slap of oily waves. Peter and Rosemary backed into Puck.

      The Ferryman stopped. “Who asks for passage across the Sea?” The voice boomed from the dark space under his hood.

      Puck nudged Rosemary forward. She swallowed hard and tried her best to curtsy. Her jeans made it feel silly. “I do.”

      “And who are you?”

      “Rosemary Ella Watson.”

      “And who are your companions?”

      “Robin Goodfellow, her guide,” said Puck.

      There was a moment’s silence, then Puck nudged Peter. He started. “Peter Calvin McAllister.”

      “The lady’s champion,” Puck finished.

      “What?” squawked Peter.

      “And why do you seek to cross?”

      Rosemary looked to Puck. He nodded. She turned back to the Ferryman. “To rescue my brother from the Land of Fiction.”

      “That is worthy,” said the Ferryman. “You may now pay the fare.”

      “The fare?” said Rosemary. “I didn’t bring much money —”

      “The fare is not money. You must each submit a verse of your own. If I find the three verses good, then all three may cross. If not, another fare is required.”

      “Oh!” said Puck. “I’ll start.”

      If we shadows have offended,

       Think but this, and all is mended,

       That you have but slumber’d here

       While these visions did appear.

      

Скачать книгу