The Chosen Ones. Scarlett ThomasЧитать онлайн книгу.
small, sad-looking heap of black rubbish sacks outside waiting for collection. But as Effie approached, a familiar neon sign flickered into life. The words FUNTIME ARCADE now flashed in pink letters, and a new sign appeared underneath that said ‘Mainlanders and travellers please go through the back door.’ Effie already knew the way.
Effie had to be scanned before she could enter. The large man with the machine looked as if he’d had a hard night. A thin cigarette dangled, unlit, from his lips. His eyes were pink and his skin had a pale greenish tone. A large cup of coffee steamed softly on the small table beside him. Effie could hear a helicopter landing somewhere not too far away, and the man winced slightly at the deep throbbing sound.
‘Most of it’s shut at this time, you know,’ he said, and then waved her through into the main bar area.
The last time Effie had been here it had been full of magical-looking people in flowing robes and amazing outfits. But now it was almost empty. The place was a connected jumble of interlinked rooms forming a bar, a café and a video game arcade. In places, plants were growing through cracks in the walls and the ceiling. Beyond the arcade was the queue to go through to the Otherworld, and all the currency booths where you could change one sort of money for another. Effie looked at her watch, attempting the calculation Maximilian had taught her for telling time in the Otherworld. It was no good. She had no idea what time of day it was here. It didn’t help that the Funtime Arcade, like all portals, was in a time zone between the Realworld and the Otherworld.
But Effie didn’t have to look at her watch to know that it must be late here. The lone barman yawned as he polished glasses with a tea towel. A young Otherworlder had fallen asleep at one of the tables; empty glasses were scattered on some of the others. The only light in the place came from a small number of flickering candle-lamps, some of them almost completely burnt away.
‘Breakfast doesn’t start for another two hours,’ said the barman without looking up.
‘Thanks,’ Effie said. ‘But I’ve already had breakfast, so don’t worry.’
He looked up. ‘An islander. Well. Not many from your side been in lately. Greetings and blessings. I suppose I can make you a hot chocolate, if you like.’
‘Greetings and blessings returned,’ said Effie, remembering the right way to address people in the Otherworld. ‘It’s all right, thanks, I’m going straight through.’
‘To the mainland?’
‘That’s right.’
‘At this time?’ the barman said. ‘Good heavens. Are you very suicidal or just a little bit?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You do know what’s out there at this time of night?’
‘Er, the market?’
‘Not for another couple of hours. Only monsters out there now.’
‘Monsters?’
‘You have been to the mainland before, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Effie. ‘But not at night. Maybe I’ll wait.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want that hot chocolate?’
Effie hesitated. She looked around her. Over to her right was a comfortable-looking booth upholstered with red velvet, with a candle-lamp only half burned out. Effie could see a book on the table. It was a large green hardback that reminded her slightly of a special book she had once owned. She wondered what it was.
‘OK,’ Effie said to the barman. ‘I’d love a hot chocolate. Thanks.’
‘Marshmallows?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Rum?’
‘No, thanks.’
The barman expertly frothed some very white-looking milk. Then he whisked up a spoonful of cocoa from a large red tin and two spoonfuls of honey from a clear jar. When the drink was made, he arranged a small pile of yellow cakes on a pink plate and dusted them lightly with silvery white icing sugar. He put the mug and plate on the counter but didn’t wait to be paid. No one paid for anything in the Otherworld. Well, not directly. Effie thanked the barman and went over to the booth.
She sat down and put her school bag on the seat next to her. What was this book? She picked it up. The Repertory of Kharakter, Art & Shade, it said on the front, in a faded gold copperplate. The volume had clearly been well-loved by someone. The pages were soft and worn and the gold ribbon used to keep one’s place had frayed away almost to nothing. Had someone left it behind by accident? There was no name in the front. Effie flicked through a few pages. ‘When the soul departs from heaven (if we may be permitted to use such outmoded terms) it has bestowed upon it two gifts,’ read one line. ‘The hedgewitch healer is that stalwart of village life to whom we go for love potions, nasturtium seeds and blankets that help infants to sleep,’ read another.
Effie flicked further through the book. There were a few interesting-looking illustrations and charts, including a circular diagram of ‘The Shades’, with the words Philosopher, Aesthete, Artisan, Protector, Galloglass and Shaper written around its edge.
Then there was another, larger circular diagram of possible kharakters, including ones familiar to Effie like mage, witch, scholar, warrior and healer. Hero was right at the top, between trickster and mage. Wizard was in a little circle of its own, right in the middle. There were also plenty of kharakters Effie had never heard of, among them interpreter and explorer. She thought Maximilian would quite like to see something like this, although Effie herself felt oddly drawn to it.
‘Ah, there’s my book,’ came a familiar voice from behind her. ‘I thought I must have left it here.’
‘Festus?’ said Effie. She didn’t know many people who came here, but Festus Grimm had helped her once before. When she turned, she found it was indeed him, standing tall in a red-lined cloak and turquoise feathered-hat.
‘Greetings and blessings, young traveller,’ said Festus.
‘Greetings and blessings returned,’ said Effie.
‘And where are you off to at this time of night?’
‘I’m waiting for the market to open.’
‘Likewise. It never gets any easier to judge the time difference, in case you were wondering. Mind if I join you? I could do with another coffee.’
5
Raven usually had breakfast by herself because her mother liked sleeping in. Their latest house guest, Skylurian Midzhar – who appeared to have more or less moved in – also liked her sleep. But this morning everyone was up. Laurel Wilde was cooking bacon and eggs in her dressing gown, while Skylurian crossed off items on a large stack of papers.
‘Only three hundred copies to go,’ she said, nodding. ‘Good.’
Laurel Wilde frowned. ‘Seems like a lot.’
‘From ten million, darling? Hardly.’
‘And you’re’ – Laurel gulped – ‘actually pulping them?’
Skylurian smiled. ‘But of course. My colleague owns a facility that takes care of such things, out in the Borders. The books are being sent there as they are discovered. We are documenting it all for Albion Freake so that he can be quite sure of owning the only copy of The Chosen Ones in the world. We’re going to have the last ten copies ready for his inspection on Friday. Then we’ll burn them during the ceremony.’
‘What about my computer file?’
‘Your what-what?’ said Skylurian.
‘My file of the book. I wrote it before the worldquake.’
Since the worldquake most novelists had gone back to typewriters