Bookweirder (14 page)

Meg tapped her fingers on the counter forcefully. “On principle, though, this seems wrong,” she declared. “There’s a bond between readers and the story. This breaks the bond. It’s like a contract has been broken.”

It was not how Norman would have said it, but he felt it too. It wasn’t right. It was wrong to change someone’s whole life by changing his story.

“You know, this idea of textual purity is a relatively new one,” Edward continued, in full lecture mode now. Both Meg and Norman regarded him suspiciously, but he could not stop. “This idea that
there is only one version of the story, and that it is the property of the author, doesn’t occur until books start to be published in large quantities. Before that, stories were a sort of a shared inheritance. They changed and evolved with the generations. King Arthur starts as a minor historical chieftain. He’s fictionalized in some Breton troubadour songs, then somehow gets tangled up with the Grail legend. Mark Twain sends a Connecticut Yankee back in time to King Arthur’s court. Monty Python has Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table fetching shrubberies and clapping coconuts to make the sounds of horses’ hoofs.”

Norman’s mother didn’t answer. His father’s literary lectures never helped. In fact, Norman had never seen her look so sad. She put the book down on the counter and busied herself with the rest of the contents of the bag. Her lips were folded tight and her eyes focused elsewhere. Norman and his father didn’t need to be told to drop it.

As casually as he could, Norman pulled the paperback across the counter towards him and flipped the pages. He expected his own name to leap out from the book. That would be the culmination of the disaster.

Edward Vilnius was now helping unpack the shopping, trying to cajole his wife back to good humour. Norman slipped off to his room with the new version of
Intrepid Amongst the Gypsies.

There was no time to read the whole thing again. He skimmed the first part before dinner. It was much the same. The Intrepids were troubled by the appearance of the poacher. They tracked him unsuccessfully from the Rook. There was no mention of Norman. It was always like that when Norman had been inside a book. His presence was felt, the changes he’d made remained, but he disappeared or blurred into the background. The fiasco in the lawyer’s office went on as he’d witnessed it. Mr. Todd watched the mice scatter harmlessly once more. Norman knew that wasn’t his fault now, at least not directly. The plan had failed because Fuchs, now Todd, had replaced old Montague as the lawyer.

Norman had a funny feeling that Fuchs was in this book because of him. Maybe Fuchs knew about the poacher—Fuchs had entered
Intrepid Amongst the Gypsies
to fix what Norman had broken. Or was it his own mistake he was fixing? Fuchs was hard to figure. He’d helped Norman out before, but he was never obvious about it. He knew a lot more about the bookweird than Norman, and he liked it that way. Norman needed to talk to him.

Norman was exceptionally quiet at dinner. He wanted to apologize to his mom for losing the book, but he had no idea what his father had told her. At least she was back to her usual self now, cheerful and optimistic.

“I wouldn’t read that new version if I were you,” she advised.

Norman just looked at her.

“Wait until your dad manages to get the original back.”

Norman peered quizzically at his father. Edward stared back meaningfully, as if sending a message telepathically, but Norman wasn’t receiving it.

“It’s not the first time he’s done this, you know,” Meg continued. “He once mailed his tax return to
The Journal of Fantastical Literature
. We might never have known if I hadn’t checked the tax envelopes and found his paper on the tradition of the unicorn in European poetry. So dropping your book off at the university library book return is par for the course.”

When Norman glanced again at his father, Edward passed a hand over his chin as if rubbing his goatee, but the fact that his fingers covered his lips conveyed the message that telepathy hadn’t.

“Your mother’s right. I’d leave the new version alone for now,” Edward agreed, changing the topic. “A reinterpretation is all well and good, but you want to know the original first.”

“How are you liking the Intrepids, anyway?” Meg asked. “The
real
Intrepids. You never answered me.”

“It’s okay,” Norman replied cautiously. “I hadn’t really gotten into it yet.”

“You should actually read them in order, the way your uncle and I did. The story about his father being in jail will make more sense.”

“Speaking of originality,” Edward added, a fork suspended between plate and mouth, “I’m pretty sure that plot about the father being in jail was stolen from
The Railway Children
.”

Meg Jespers-Vilnius gave him a warning look, hard but playful. Edward smirked, as if this was exactly the reaction that he wanted.

“Oh, I forgot, I shouldn’t say anything against the Intrepids,” he told Norman. “George Kelmsworth was your mother’s first love, you know.”

Meg just rolled her eyes. She was not easily teased. “Jealousy doesn’t become you, Edward,” she replied. “Besides, how can you compete with a dashing, dark-haired English lord who single-handedly saves his family from ruin?”

Norman’s face wrinkled in distaste. He knew what it felt like to admire someone in a book to the point of obsession. But he had
met
George Kelmsworth.

Edward put his palms together in mock contrition. “You’re right. I wouldn’t even know how to single-handedly save my family from ruin.”

Meg smiled. “Well, you and your son can start by washing the dishes.”

It was bedtime before Norman got back to the paperback version of
Intrepid Amongst the Gypsies
. Even skimming, it took time to catch up to where he had left the story. George and the Cook children returned to Kelmsworth Hall from London and renewed their pursuit of the poacher. Their well-planned trap in the forest was sprung again, and George was soundly beaten again by a criminal who was way out of his league. It almost made Norman angrier to read it than to experience it.

In the new version it was Pippa who suggested they find the poacher’s encampment and free the animals. Norman was sure that had been his idea. He had to skip back to figure out how they knew that the intruder was capturing animals, not just killing them. Sure enough, the scene at Dodgeworth’s was different than he remembered. The monkeys were in a frantic state when the Intrepids
arrived. Dodgeworth put it down to the previous client, who had come in claiming to have a talking weasel. The children recognized the poacher from his description. Norman’s changes to the book remained, even if he was missing.

The raid on the poacher’s camp went just as he’d experienced it, except without him. The poacher was away checking his traps, and the Intrepids managed to get in and get out without detection. In this version Malcolm lay silent in the cage while George rescued him. He must have been dying to get out of that cage, but he kept his mouth shut and continued to feign injury.

It wasn’t until they were back in the cottage that Malcolm revealed himself. The stoat king waited for George to open the cage and for Pippa Cook to lift him gently out onto a cushion. She might have missed the wink he gave her as she let him down, but she couldn’t ignore Malcolm’s dramatic return to life. She leapt back in surprise as the stoat rose to two feet on the cushion and waved his arm in a flourish as he bowed.

“I thank you, Lady Pippa,” he purred in his most regal tone.

This was about where Norman had left off, and where he had to jump in. If he could get back into the book here, he could limit the damage. His mother’s reaction to the revised version of the Intrepids had made Norman even more sensitive to the changes he was making. He was wrecking things for thousands of readers. He had to do whatever he could to restore it. That meant dealing with the poacher. But first it meant getting Malcolm out of there. Guilt gripped him as he thought of the stoat king. He had meant to bring Malcolm with him. If Norman’s
ingresso
didn’t work for Malcolm, he’d need help … Fuchs’s help.

Norman dug out George’s sweater from the wardrobe, where he had stuffed it. He could always explain losing clothes. He did that all the time. Explaining where extra clothes came from was harder. He pulled the sweater on over his head, laced up his shoes, then took a deep breath. Here he went again, back into the grips of the bookweird. Taking the book deliberately in his hand he tugged the page free of its glued spine. He did it slowly, delaying it, not sure
if he was ready, but the page came away in his hand suddenly, coming unglued along with a dozen pages either side of it. Norman cursed. Dad always said they didn’t make books like they used to. He stuffed one page under his pillow and did his best to put the other pages back in order.

The door to his room opened, and a voice called out, “Have you brushed your—”

His mother saw him there, sitting on the side of the bed, fully dressed, a handful of pages of his new book in his hand. She stood there silently stunned for a moment. “Norman, what on earth are you doing?”

Norman’s mouth opened, but no words came out. His mother stepped into the room. “Did you just rip those pages out of the book?”

He opened his mouth to deny it, but his mother stopped him with a raised finger. He wasn’t a very good liar.

“Why would you do that?” Shocked more than outraged, she snatched the pages from his hand. Frown wrinkles crept across her forehead as she read. “It’s the first time the weasel talks in the book.” She gave him a deep, searching look, her eyes softening. “Is this because of me?” she asked. “Is it because I was upset today?”

Norman shrugged. What could he say? Meg put the pages down on his bedside table and sat down next to him on the bed. “It’s just a book, Norman,” she consoled him, putting her arm around his shoulder. “It’s not your fault.” It only made Norman feel even guiltier. It really
was
his fault.

Her hand squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. She started to say something but stopped, feeling the coarse grey wool at his collar between her fingers.

“Where did this sweater come from?” she asked.

“Ummm …” Norman stalled. “The closet, I guess.”

His mother regarded him closely, one eyebrow raised ever so slightly. She took her arm from around him and picked up the book again. She stared at it for a moment, then stood up. Taking a step back from the bed, her eyes flicked from Norman to the cover.

“It’s the same sweater that George is wearing.”

Norman stared up at her, but he could think of no reply.

“It’s his school sweater, his St. James school sweater,” his mother continued, her voice rising and quickening. She leaned in closer and reached around the back of his neck, curling the sweater back to see the label. Norman had no idea what was written on it, but his mother inspected it for a very long time. Norman grew increasingly uncomfortable, sitting there with her looming over him. When she stepped back her face was contracted into a deep frown. He had never seen her look so conflicted. His mother always knew what to do and what to say, but now she stood there in front of him, her arms crossed, her weight on a back foot. Her lips pursed and her face tightened as if to conceal the argument she was conducting with herself.

“Norman,” she said finally. Her voice was even and measured, warning him to be careful what he answered. “I’m going to ask you a question and I need you to tell me the truth. It’s very important. Can you do that?”

All Norman could do was nod mutely.

“I need to know …” She paused now, as if reconsidering her question. “Is that George Kelmsworth’s sweater?”

Norman blinked, not sure that she had actually asked this.

“Norman?” she pressed, her voice rising.

He could not believe that she was even asking this. She had just guessed his deepest secret. How could she even imagine it to be possible? He hardly believed it himself. It took too much effort to get his head around it. He had no mental capacity left to concoct a plausible lie. He merely nodded and gulped.

His mother winced, as if physically hurt by this answer.

“Did George give you that sweater?” she pressed. Her blue-grey eyes bore into him like daggers.

“Yes,” Norman croaked dryly.

Meg stepped back, uncrossed her arms and covered her mouth with her hand as if suppressing a reaction. Norman was trying to make sense of it all. Why would she ask him about the sweater? Why would anyone even think that a character from a book had given him a sweater?

His mother interrupted his thoughts abruptly. “Norman,” she said, a thought just occurring to her, “you had a map. Back home, in your room, I found a map on old parchment—a map of imaginary places.”

Norman leapt up. “My map of Undergrowth!” he blurted out.

“This came from the same place?” she asked, her voice a low murmur.

Norman’s cautiousness was overcome by his eagerness to get the map. “Not the same place. From Undergrowth. King Duncan gave me that.”

“It’s all the same place,” she assured him. Shaking her head a little sadly, she glanced at the paperback in her hand and sighed.

Norman could hardly believe he was having this conversation. His mom was talking to him as if the bookweird was real, as if she knew that it was possible to slide into a book. And she knew about the map.

“Mom, I need that map back,” Norman pleaded. “My friend Malcolm, he needs it back. Do you still have it? Did you keep it?”

His mother didn’t answer the question. “Norman, what you are doing is very dangerous. You can’t know how dangerous it is.”

“But, Mom, it’s not dangerous where I go. I have friends. It’s safe.” Norman was lying, but it didn’t feel like lying. Maybe it wasn’t completely safe, but if he stayed to the right books …

That unusual steeliness returned to Meg’s voice. “Norman, I’m telling you,” she admonished him, “you don’t know how dangerous it is.”

Her tone was ominous enough for Norman to wonder what she meant, but he didn’t let it stop him.

“Do you have the map?” he entreated, desperate to know.