The Second Forever (5 page)

Nevertheless Peter found it difficult to go. Something told him this would be the last time he would see his oldest friend alive. He sat on the floor in front of the chair and put his face down right next to Archimedes. Although Peter couldn't stop crying, he caught the feeling of complete contentment as the old cat's breathing grew slower and slower.

‘Come on,' said Festival, touching the top of Peter's head, ‘let's go back and find your grandfather.'

‘Just wait a little bit,' Peter said as Archimedes slipped away. He lifted the old cat from the chair and sat down against the wall, cradling him in his arms. Archimedes felt as weightless as feathers, as if most of him had already moved on and was waiting for the last few lights to go out. Although Peter felt as though his heart would break, there was also a wonderful feeling of calm enveloping him, telling him everything was going to be okay.

‘He was my brothers and sisters,' Peter said, ‘and I've known him all my life, and for so much of it he was my only friend.'

Festival sat down beside Peter and put her arm around his shoulder while he used up all his goodbye tears. Then they carried Archimedes down to the rose garden in the museum courtyard and buried him below the dust between two suffocated rose bushes.

‘We both know your grandfather knows far more
than he is telling us, don't we?' Festival said when they were back in Peter's room and sitting on his bed.

‘Yes, I've always thought it,' said Peter, ‘and not just about all this recent stuff, but ever since I was born. When I used to tell him about all the fantastic things I discovered in the deserted storerooms, he never seemed surprised. I used to think he had seen it all himself, and a lot more too.'

‘So why isn't he telling us everything?'

‘It's probably to do with my dad disappearing,' said Peter. ‘Until then he'd probably thought he had everything under control, and when my dad vanished he hadn't been expecting it at all and that frightened him.'

‘I suppose,' said Festival.

‘And I reckon he knew that was where my dad had gone and if he could get me to go there, I might be able to find him and somehow bring him back.'

‘What if you'd got stuck there too?' said Festival. ‘Do you think he considered that?'

‘I hope not,' said Peter. ‘If he did, it would mean he was quite prepared to risk losing me as well.'

‘Losing his only child might have made him desperate,' said Festival. ‘I'm sure he wouldn't have been that thoughtless deliberately.'

‘We need to talk to him,' said Peter.

‘Yes, he may know something that can help us.'

In the end it seemed that the only option left for Peter and Festival was to wait until the next full moon, when they'd be able wake the giant bat and return to Festival's world. They decided that before going outside the museum, they would confront Peter's grandfather to try and get as much information out of him as possible. Obviously it wasn't going to be easy to get the old man to tell them anything, never mind everything. If he had told Peter everything he knew when his grandson had first found the book, it could have made things easier for him.

The old man was lying in his bed with the curtains closed to keep out the afternoon light. He appeared
to be asleep, but Peter knew that often when he looked like that he was actually wide awake. One of the benefits of being old was that you could pretend to be deaf, or forgetful, or simply quite unable to understand what anyone was saying, but Peter knew his grandfather was none of those things.

‘Grandfather,' he said as he and Festival stood beside his bed.

Nothing.

‘I think he's asleep,' Festival whispered.

‘No he's not,' said Peter.

‘He looks asleep.'

‘Oh yes, he's very good at that,' said Peter. ‘Aren't you?'

The old man opened his eyes and grinned. ‘Normally I would pretend to be waking up from deep sleep now. I would be all disorientated and out of focus,' said Peter's grandfather.

‘Grandfather, it's me,' Peter said and smiled. ‘You know I wouldn't believe any of that.'

‘I know. I was just lying here, remembering when I was a boy,' the old man said before turning to Festival. ‘Do you know where we lived?'

‘In my world,' she said. ‘Peter told me.'

‘Yes, but where?' said the old man. ‘I'll tell you. We lived on the island. My family, we were the only ones. It was so beautiful then, before the book and all
the terrible trouble it caused. You didn't see my house when you were there, did you?'

‘No, we didn't see any houses on the island,' said Peter. ‘Oh, except for the one inside the waterfall where the Ancient Child lived.'

‘It's the only house there. That was where I grew up.'

‘Why didn't you ever tell me any of this before?' Peter asked.

‘As I said, I fled to this world after Darkwood threatened to kill me when my grandfather stole the book, hoping he could hide it away forever,' the old man explained. ‘I promised him I would never say a word about it to anyone, not even you or your father. You never know who might be listening.'

‘So what happened?' said Peter.

The old man fell silent. The children could see he was torn between telling them everything and as little as possible. His face changed from yes to no and back again, and in between each mood he gave a deep weary sigh. He started to speak several times, but then fell silent again. Finally he made up his mind.

‘My grandfather took the book to the most remote place in the museum and gave it the old woman Bathline to look after,' the old man said. ‘It seemed like the best plan. After all, who would ever think that a feeble old lady like that would be guarding such a valuable
thing?'

‘And what went wrong?' said Festival.

‘My grandfather overlooked the fact that Bathline had a sick child,' Peter's grandfather explained. ‘The temptation was just too strong and she read the book to her child without realising that every time someone reads it, the book calls out to its creator.'

‘So why didn't Darkwood just come here and get it?'

‘He cannot enter this world because he would not be able to get home again,' said the old man. ‘Instead he tried to get people from this world to take it to him, first your father and then you.'

‘But he brought me the book,' said Peter, ‘when we were out on the island. He must know a way between the two worlds.'

‘Not necessarily,' said Festival. ‘He could have got someone to bring him the book.'

‘Or some
thing
,' said Peter's grandfather.

‘So he must at least have a way of communicating between here and there,' said Peter.

‘And how did
you
get here?' said Festival, turning to the old man. ‘How did you know about the bat and the Journey Bell?'

‘Well, usually for every bad deed there is a good deed, and for every bad person there is a good one,' Peter's grandfather said. ‘There is a good person who lives on the top gallery. He thought Darkwood was
his friend – that is, until he created the book, and then they never spoke again – and when I was a child he was like an uncle to me. He told me wonderful stories, and it was he who told me about this world outside our own and how to come here.'

‘Do you mean Foreclaw?' said Peter.

‘Yes.'

‘How weird,' said Festival. ‘We thought he was strange and we didn't trust him at first.'

‘I expect he was just being cautious in case Darkwood had sent you,' the old man suggested. ‘You know, once I arrived here with Foreclaw's help my grandfather and I thought we could keep the book hidden forever, but when your father vanished I knew the book had had something to do with it. You both know yourselves that it has an awesome power. Look at the flood and the drought it has created to force us to bring it back to life.'

‘But wasn't that just bad luck?' said Festival. ‘Because we read the book by the river?'

‘Maybe,' said the old man. ‘If you believe there is such a thing as luck.'

‘So do you think that if we bring the book back to life, it will begin to rain here?' said Peter.

‘Yes,' said Peter's grandfather, ‘though I wish I didn't. After all, it means you have to return there.'

‘What would happen if we re-created the book
here?' said Peter. ‘We could find a quiet, safe room and write it in there. Wouldn't that work?'

‘Yes and no,' said the old man. ‘You'd still have to take it and read it above the waterfall. Though I suppose if you created it here, you wouldn't have to spend so long away.'

‘We have to wait for the full moon anyway,' said Festival. ‘So we might as well do it.'

The old man leant over the side of the bed and opened a small drawer.

‘Here,' he said, ‘take this.'

He handed Peter a small book. If he hadn't seen the original book disintegrate as he and Festival had read it five years before, Peter would have sworn he was holding it now. The cover was soft and worn, polished smooth as if by a thousand hands, yet when he opened it, the pages were blank.

‘This is the twin of the original,' said Peter's grandfather. ‘My grandfather wanted me to make a copy as a precaution, but then we decided it would be too dangerous. One copy is bad enough.'

Peter turned the book over in his hands. It felt weak, distant and faint, but alive as if it knew it was in the hands of its saviour. And there on the spine in gold letters, just like its brother, were the words:

How To Live Forever

It sent shivers down Peter's spine. Until then he had thought, or rather hoped, that there might be some way things could be made right without actually re-creating the book, but this took away that hope. There was no other way.

They decided to work in the room where Peter had first been given the book by Bathline, the room at the end of the attic corridor where they had left Archimedes the day before. Peter's father gave them the key to the door he had installed when he had hidden the way back from Festival's world so that they could lock themselves in. The children took enough food and drink for a few days and went back along the hidden corridor to the last room. Although the book was only a few pages long, there was no knowing how much time it would take to re-write it. They assumed they would be able to remember it all, but there was always the possibility there would be empty spaces in
their memories that would take time to recover.

‘You go in first,' said Peter. ‘I know we buried him, but I'm scared we'll find Archimedes dead on the chair.' He waited in the corridor while Festival went inside.

‘It's okay,' she called out. ‘Archimedes isn't here, but look who is.' She came back carrying another cat. It certainly wasn't his oldest friend, although it was exactly the same colour. It looked how the old cat must have appeared when he had been nearly a kitten, but not quite full-grown. His eyes were bright and clear and looked happy to see them.

‘Do you think it's Archimedes's son?' said Peter.

‘It must be,' said Festival. ‘What are you going to call him?'

‘Syracuse,' said Peter, not realising just how perfect the name was. ‘It's where the original Archimedes lived and died.'

‘Syracuse?' repeated Festival and the cat looked up and meowed, then fell asleep with its head on her shoulder, quite unconcerned that she was not Archimedes's son, but daughter. It was obviously the right name.

Peter pulled a table into the middle of the room and the two of them sat side by side, Peter left handed and Festival right, ready to write. They had taken a jar of pencils and erasers.

‘In case we make mistakes,' Festival said.

They also knew, though neither of them admitted
it, that pencil doesn't have the permanency of ink, especially if people keep running their hands over it as they read.

‘I think we should only write,' said Festival. ‘I mean, not say it out loud. You can never tell who might be listening.'

‘But there's no one here,' said Peter.

‘There's Syracuse,' said Festival, ‘and for all we know, the whole place could be bugged.'

‘It's all right,' Peter whispered, gesturing towards Syracruse, ‘he's fast asleep.' Then he began to write as lightly and silently as he could –

Before the beginning was the void, before time, before light, before day and night. I was the darkness that created the first breath of life. I was the vacuum that was nothing. Yet it was not nothing, for I was there. And I was part of it, the spark that lit the shadows for the very first time, as life crawled out of the abyss.

I was the darkness.

I was the . . .

Peter paused.

Vacuum,
Festival continued.
I created myself and became life – the giver of life and the taker of life, too. For all life sits in my hands.

I was, am and will always be – forever more.

‘There's no “more”,' Peter whispered, reaching across and rubbing out the word.

Your blood now creaks in your veins, barely moving. Your heart sleeps too, as does mine. Not so much sleeping as hibernating, time slows down until it becomes too heavy to move.

And now, know you, that your soul sits in the palm of my hand.

Know now, that you too have become forever . . .

‘I can't do this,' said Peter. ‘After all we did to destroy this evil thing, I just can't bring it back to life.'

‘We haven't got a choice,' said Festival, putting her hand on Peter's arm. ‘And anyway, even if we stop now, it's already done.'

Peter nodded and put his hand over hers.

They knew they had no choice and they also knew their future – a future that was now set in stone. The original book had only been twenty-seven pages long, but it only took a single page to make the reader immortal, which Peter and Festival were now once more.

One hour later it was done. Any empty spaces there may have been in their memories had been
filled instantly as they had written the pages. Looking back it felt as if, once they had started, the book had re-written itself, needing only their hands to hold the pen. And all the while Syracuse had slept, except for a split second when she had opened her eyes, which neither of the children had noticed.

When Bathline had given Peter the original book, she had pulled down an old velvet curtain from the window, torn it into strips and wrapped the book up tightly, telling him he must never read it. Now Peter took the curtain from the other side of the window, tore that into strips and wrapped up the new book in the same way. It was more of a symbolic gesture than a way of stopping them reading it. They were already immortal, but it might be enough to imprison the book when others wanted to read it. It might buy time for Peter and Festival to get away.

‘We have to find a safe place to hide the book until it is time for us to leave,' Peter whispered.

‘Let's go and ask your grandfather,' said Festival. ‘He'll probably have an idea.'

‘I have the very place,' said Peter's grandfather. He indicated that no one should speak and pointed to his mattress. Peter lifted up the edge while Festival pushed the book under as far as she could reach.

‘I would take you there myself,' said the old man in a clear, loud voice for anyone who might be listening in, ‘but I fear I am too unwell to leave my bed until after the next full moon. I am unable to sleep, and lying here hour after hour through the long dark nights wears me out. I suggest you hide the book in the dinosaur gallery, where there are many unused cupboards that no one has looked in for years.'

He fell silent then, beckoning the two children to come closer before continuing in a whisper, ‘Go to the gallery and pretend to put something in one of the cupboards.' Then, lying back in his pillows, he closed his eyes and said, ‘Can you imagine how it feels
knowing that you are older than your own father?'

Peter reached down and touched the old man on the shoulder before he and Festival headed down towards the dinosaur gallery.