Snowbone (11 page)

“I don't think there's any real need for this,” he said carefully. “I know this is your house, Aunt B., and your word is law. But Snowbone is curious. She wants to see you at work, that's all.”

Butterbur considered his words. “Just this once,” she said to Snowbone, wagging a warning finger. And she marched out of the room and down the hall.

Snowbone and Figgis followed, hurrying to keep up. Butterbur was striding away like a pair of scissors. And it was strange: from the outside, the house had looked modest, but the hall seemed endless. On and on they went, passing room after room. Then Butterbur stopped at a closed door with a small brass sign:

SURGERY
Knock. Wait. Enter.

“In here,” she said. And she opened the door and went in.

utterbur's surgery was a spacious, low-ceilinged room. Oil lights flickered against chaffinch-pink walls. Bottles and jars jostled for space on the shelves. Pots and pestles gleamed on the worktops and, in the middle of the room, a polished wooden table stood square and dogged, with a fat, leather-bound book lying enticingly open upon it.

But the most curious thing about the surgery was its scent. It didn't smell of disinfectant, soap or polish. It smelled of flowers, herbs and spices. And beneath that, Snowbone caught the warm, musky scent of animals and hay. Soon she discovered why. There was a stable door at the far end of the room, and when she looked over it, she found an animal hospital.

Oh!” she said. “Oh!”

She turned to Butterbur, and Figgis couldn't help but notice the expression on her face. Snowbone, hard little Snow-bone, had gone soft. Gooey soft. With her wide eyes and wondering mouth, she looked as if she'd found fairies.

“Can I go in?” said Snowbone.

To Figgis's surprise, his aunt smiled. In that moment, Butter-bur had seen herself in Snowbone. Many moons ago, she had been just the same: a guarded, prickly little girl whose heart was open only to animals. She nodded.

Snowbone stepped through the stable door into ankle-deep hay and started exploring. She immediately noticed the patients weren't penned. They were mingling in perfect harmony. A bandaged pig was dozing beside a mule with saddle sores. A cow with hoof rot was sharing a hay bag with an itchy goat. On a beam above sat a cat with an amputated tail. On a cushion in the corner sprawled a dog with a bellyache.

Snowbone went to each in turn, noting the strange-smelling ointments smeared on every wound. And when she returned to the surgery, she found Butterbur was mixing up something similar to treat Figgis. A small stove had been lit, and Butterbur was adding handfuls of this and sprinklings of that to a bubbling pot.

“This is nearly ready,” said Butterbur. “Take off your shirt and sit down.”

Figgis obeyed.

Butterbur took a large, triangular piece of muslin and spooned the mixture onto it, then tied it round Figgis's body so the poultice was lying against the troublesome stump of his arm. “All done!” she said. “Now, I think it's time we joined the others for dinner.”

And what a dinner it was! Wildwood pie, roast potatoes, carrots and gravy, with toffee-baked apples and cream to follow. The travelers feasted like kings and talked till midnight. Finally, they retired to their rooms, and if they found it strange that such a modest house should contain dozens of bedrooms,
they didn't say so. They just clambered into their beds and, with the snow piling up outside, fell asleep wishing they could stay till spring.

The house grew colder. Nothing could be heard except the ticking of a clock, the scratching of a mouse … and a bedroom door, slowly being opened. Footsteps padded across the floorboards. A hand reached out. A sleeper awoke.

“Blackeye,” whispered Butterbur. “Come with me. Now.”

utterbur took Blackeye to the surgery. The oil lamps were burning low; the animals were sleeping; the scent of the poultice lingered in the air.

Butterbur pulled a stool out from under the table and sat Blackeye upon it. Then she took his face into her hands and turned it so his left eye—the black one—was facing her.

“Tell me,” she said, examining it closely. “How good is your eyesight?”

“Pretty good,” said Blackeye.

“Just pretty good? No better than anyone else's?”

Blackeye thought for a moment. “You're right,” he said. “It
is
better, now I think about it. When we were back at the beach, a ship went down in the storm and I saw it long before anyone else. I don't think Snowbone
ever
saw it, though she pretended she did. Her eyes are rubbish.”

“This black eye of yours is very beautiful,” said Butterbur. “And very special.”

“Would my parents have black eyes too?” said Blackeye.

“No,” said Butterbur. “It's extremely rare. Maybe one in a million.”

“You're kidding!” said Blackeye. “I thought it would be common.”

“Oh, no,” said Butterbur. “Definitely not. Tell me, do you ever have … funny feelings? Like feeling that something's going to happen before it does? Or feeling like you're in two places at once?”

“No!” said Blackeye, laughing.

Butterbur smiled. “Well,” she said, “you're still young.”

She pulled out a stool for herself while Blackeye wondered what on earth she meant.

“Long ago,” said Butterbur, “in some parts of the world, people believed that a man's soul lived in his left eye. So when they went into battle, they gathered the bodies of the warriors they had killed, cut out their eyes and ate them.”

“Urgh!”
said Blackeye.

“I agree!” said Butterbur. “But they thought it would make them strong. It would double their souls. Double their power.”

“Does my black eye mean something?”

“Oh, yes,” said Butterbur. “It means you have the ability to see beyond this world.”

Blackeye was mystified. He stared at Butterbur. In the pink half-light of the room, her eyes were red as holly berries.

“There are two worlds,” she said. “There's this world—and there's the Otherworld. That is the home of the Ancients.”

“Where is this Otherworld?” said Blackeye.

“Under our feet!” said Butterbur. “But if I took a shovel now and started to dig, I wouldn't find it. The Otherworld is real but it's hidden in a different dimension. I can't see it. B ut
you
can. You have special sight.
Shadow-sight.
You can go to the Otherworld. For you, it will be real.”

“I don't want to go to the Otherworld.”

“Oh, but you must!” said Butterbur. “The Ancients have given you this gift. You must use it.”

“But how?” said Blackeye. “You say the Otherworld is real, but how do I find it?”

“Well,” said Butterbur, “to travel into the Otherworld, you must leave your body behind. Your soul must do the journey alone. I can give you a potion that will help you the first time. So, what do you say? Are you ready to go?”

Blackeye didn't know what to say. He couldn't help thinking it was all a dream. Soon he'd wake up, Manu would be snoring in the other bed and the smell of breakfast would be drifting up from the kitchen.

But it wasn't a dream. It was very, very real.

Butterbur was standing in the corner of the surgery now.

She was kicking aside a rug.

Pulling on a heavy ring set into the floor.

Opening a secret trapdoor.

And Blackeye heard himself saying, “Yes. I'm ready to go.”

utterbur unhooked a lantern from the wall and led the way, down, down, down into a dark cave quite different from the surgery above. Here everything was damp and dingy The bottles and jars crouched like spiders in the shadows, clinging to rough shelves hewn in the rock walls.

Butterbur hung the lantern from a hook in the middle of the ceiling and Blackeye saw a low couch.

“Lie down.”

Blackeye obeyed. Butterbur went to one of the shelves and returned with a small bottle containing a clear, amber liquid.

“Drink this,” she said.

“What will it do?” said Blackeye.

“It will relax your mind,” said Butterbur. “I will watch over your body and be here when you return.”

Blackeye took the bottle and drank it down.

“Close your eyes,” said Butterbur. “Concentrate on your breathing. In, out. In, out. Nice and slow. In, out.”

Blackeye breathed slowly, deeply, in, out, and waited for something to happen. Eventually he noticed a heaviness creeping up his body from his toes. Soon he couldn't move, even if he wanted to. He felt so heavy, he thought the couch would collapse under him.

Then he seemed to be sinking. Down through the couch, down into the earth. He was leaving his body behind! The journey was beginning.

He opened his eyes but there was nothing to see. Everything was black. And still the sensation went on—the gentle falling, down, down, down. Almost like falling into a deep, delicious sleep. He closed his eyes and journeyed on.

Oh! Suddenly he wasn't moving anymore. Was he there? He lay quite still, not daring to move. He took a deep breath. The air was moist and smelled of soil. He opened his eyes.

First, he looked at himself. He was all there, but he was shadowy. Transparent. He could see and smell and presumably hear, but it seemed he couldn't touch anything. He tried to feel the ground but his fingers disappeared into it, like smoke.

Next, he looked at his surroundings. He was in a tunnel, with earth all around him and a thick tangle of tree roots above.

Blackeye cautiously stood up. He was clearly deep underground, but there was a strange twilight, enough to see by. He started down the tunnel. It twisted and turned, taking him deeper, and he couldn't help feeling he was in an enormous rabbit warren. Then he saw a mysterious blue glow ahead, and as he emerged into a sizable chamber, he discovered its source. There were blue flames flickering among the tree
roots overhead, tumbling, climbing, chasing one another like squirrels.

Blackeye had never seen anything so breathtakingly beautiful. He felt he could watch for hours. But he moved on. Tunnel after tunnel, chamber after chamber, all of them shimmering and shining, bathed in the same cool, celestial blue light, and all of them deserted.