Текст книги "Miss Peregrine's Home For Peculiar Children"

Автор книги: Ransom Riggs

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

Chapter Eleven

We marched up the steep trail and across the ridge like a company of war-weary veterans, single file, heads down, Bronwyn carrying Millard in her arms and Miss Peregrine riding the nestlike crown of Fiona’s hair. The landscape was gouged with smoking craters, fresh-turned earth thrown everywhere as if some giant dog had been digging at it. We all wondered what awaited us back at the house, but no one dared to ask.

We had our answer even before clearing the forest. Enoch’s foot kicked something, and he bent down to look. It was half a charred brick.

Panic broke out. The children began to sprint down the path. When they reached the lawn, the younger ones broke out in tears. There was smoke everywhere. The bomb had not come to rest atop Adam’s finger, as it usually did, but had split him straight down the middle and exploded. The back corner of the house had been reduced to a slumped and smoking ruin. Small fires burned in the charred shell of two rooms. Where Adam had been was a raw crater deep enough to bury a person upright. It was easy now to picture what this place would one day become: that sad and desecrated wreck I had first discovered weeks ago. The nightmare house.

Miss Peregrine leapt from Fiona’s hair and began to race around on the scorched grass, squawking in alarm.

“Headmistress, what happened?” Olive said. “Why hasn’t the changeover come?”

Miss Peregrine could only screech in reply. She seemed as confused and frightened as the rest of us.

“Please turn back!” begged Claire, kneeling before her.

Miss Peregrine flapped and jumped and seemed to be straining herself, but still couldn’t shift her shape. The children crowded around in concern.

“Something’s wrong,” Emma said. “If she could turn human, she would’ve done it by now.”

“Perhaps that’s why the loop slipped,” Enoch suggested. “Remember that old story about Miss Kestrel, when she was thrown from her bicycle in a road accident? She knocked her head and stayed a kestrel for a whole entire week. That’s when her loop slipped.”

“What’s that got to do with Miss Peregrine?”

Enoch sighed. “Maybe she’s only injured her head and we just need to wait a week for her to come to her senses.”

“A speeding lorry’s one thing,” Emma said. “Being abused by wights is quite another. There’s no knowing what that bastard did to Miss Peregrine before we got to her.”

“Wights? As in plural?”

“It was wights who took Miss Avocet,” I said.

“How do you know that?” demanded Enoch.

“They were working with Golan, weren’t they? And I saw the eyes of the one who shot at us. There’s no question.”

“Then Miss Avocet’s as good as dead,” said Hugh. “They’ll kill her for sure.”

“Maybe not,” I replied. “At least not right away.”

“If there’s one thing I know about wights,” said Enoch, “it’s that they kill peculiars. It’s their nature. It’s what they do.”

“No, Jacob’s right,” said Emma. “Before that wight died, he told us why they’ve been abducting so many ymbrynes. They’re going to force them to re-create the reaction that made the hollows in the first place—only bigger. Much bigger.”

I heard someone gasp. Everyone else fell silent. I looked around for Miss Peregrine and saw her perched forlornly on the edge of Adam’s crater.

“We’ve got to stop them,” Hugh said. “We’ve got to find out where they’re taking the ymbrynes.”

“How?” said Enoch. “Follow a submarine?”

Behind me a throat cleared loudly, and we turned to see Horace sitting cross-legged on the ground. “I know where they’re going,” he said quietly.

“What do you mean, you know?”

“Never mind how he knows, he knows,” said Emma. “Where are they taking her, Horace?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know the name,” he said, “but I’ve seen it.”

“Then draw it,” I said.

He thought for a moment and then rose stiffly. Looking like a beggar evangelist in his torn black suit, he shuffled to an ash pile that had spilled from the cracked-open house and bent to gather a palm full of soot. Then, in the soft light of the moon, he began to paint on a broken wall with broad strokes.

We gathered around to watch. He made a row of bold vertical stripes topped with thin loops, like bars and razor wire. To one side was a dark forest. There was snow on the ground, rendered in black. And that was all.

When it was done, he staggered back and sat down hard in the grass, a dull distant look in his eyes. Emma took him gently by the shoulder and said, “Horace, what more do you know about this place?”

“It’s somewhere cold.”

Bronwyn stepped forward to study the marks Horace had made. She held Olive in the crook of her arm, the little girl’s head resting sweetly on her shoulder. “Looks like a jail to me,” said Bronwyn.

Olive raised her head. “Well?” came her small voice. “When do we go?”

“Go where?” Enoch said, tossing up his hands. “That’s just a lot of squiggles!”

“It’s somewhere,” Emma said, turning to face him.

“We can’t simply go someplace snowy and look for a prison.”

“And we can’t very well stay here.”

“Why not?”

“Look at the state of this place. Look at the headmistress. We had a damn good run here, but it’s over.”

Enoch and Emma went back and forth for a while. People took sides. Enoch’s argued that they’d been too long out of the world, that they’d get snared in the war or caught by hollows if they left, that it was better to take their chances here, where at least they knew the territory. The others insisted that the war and the hollows had come to them now, and they had no choice. The hollows and wights would return for Miss Peregrine, and in ever-greater numbers. And there was Miss Peregrine herself to consider.

“We’ll find another ymbryne,” Emma suggested. “If anyone will know how to help the headmistress, it’ll be one of her friends.”

“But what if all the other loops have slipped too?” said Hugh. “What if all the ymbrynes have already been kidnapped?”

“We can’t think that way. There must be some left.”

“Emma’s right,” Millard said, lying on the ground with a chunk of broken masonry under his head for a pillow. “If the alternative is to wait and just hope—that no more hollows come, that the headmistress gets better—I say that’s no alternative at all.”

The dissenters were finally shamed into agreement. The house would be abandoned. Belongings would be packed. A few boats would be requisitioned from the harbor and pressed into service, and in the morning everyone would go.

I asked Emma how they were going to navigate. After all, none the children had been off the island in nearly eighty years, and Miss Peregrine couldn’t speak or fly.

“There’s a map,” she told me, turning her head slowly to look at the smoking house. “If it hasn’t burned, that is.”

I volunteered to help her find it. Wrapping wet cloths over our faces, we ventured into the house, entering through the collapsed wall. The windows were shattered, the air hung with smoke, but by the bright light of Emma’s hand-flame we found our way to the study. All the shelves had fallen like dominoes, but we shoved them aside and searched through the books spilled across the floor, crouching low. As luck would have it, the book was easy to find: it was the largest one in the library. Emma yelped with joy and held it up.

On the way out, we found alcohol and Laudanum and proper bandages for Millard. Once we’d helped clean and dress his wound, we sat down to examine the book. It was more atlas than map, bound in quilted leather dyed a deep burgundy, each page drawn carefully on what looked like parchment. It was very fine and very old, and big enough to fill Emma’s lap.

“It’s called the Map of Days,” she said. “It’s got every loop ever known to exist.” The page she’d opened to appeared to be a map of Turkey, though no roads were marked and no borders indicated. Instead, the map was scattered with tiny spirals, which I took to be the location of loops. At the center of each was a unique symbol that corresponded to a legend at the bottom of the page, where the symbols reappeared next to a list of numbers separated by dashes. I pointed to one that read 29-3-316 / ?-?-399 and said, “What is this, some kind of code?”

Emma traced it with her finger. “This loop was the twenty-ninth of March, 316 A.D. It existed until sometime in the year 399, though the day and month are unknown.”

“What happened in 399?”

She shrugged. “It doesn’t say.”

I reached across her and turned to a map of Greece, even more clustered with spirals and numbers. “But what’s the point of listing all these?” I said. “How would you even get to these ancient loops?”

“By leapfrogging,” said Millard. “It’s a highly complex and dangerous undertaking, but by leapfrogging from one loop to another—a day fifty years in the past, for instance—then you’ll find you have access to a whole range of loops that have ceased to exist in the last fifty years. Should you have the wherewithal to travel to them, within those you’ll find still other loops, and so on exponentially.”

“That’s time travel,” I said, astonished. “Real time travel.”

“I suppose so, yes.”

“So this place,” I said, pointing to Horace’s ash painting on the wall. “We wouldn’t just have to figure out where it is, but when, too?”

“I’m afraid so. And if Miss Avocet is indeed being held by wights, who are notoriously adept at leapfrogging, then it’s extremely likely that the place she and the other ymbrynes are being taken is somewhere in the past. That will make them all the more difficult to find, and getting there all the more dangerous. The locations of historical loops are well known to our enemies, who tend to lurk near the entrances.”

“Well then,” I said, “it’s a good thing I’m coming with you.”

Emma spun to look at me. “Oh, that’s wonderful!” she cried, and hugged me. “Are you certain?”

I told her I was. Tired as they were, the children whistled and clapped. Some embraced me. Even Enoch shook my hand. But when I looked at Emma again, her smile had faded.

“What’s the matter?” I said.

She shifted uncomfortably. “There’s something you should know,” she said, “and I’m afraid it’ll make you not want to come with us.”

“It won’t,” I assured her.

“When we leave here, this loop will close behind us. It’s possible you may never be able to return to the time you came from. At least, not easily.”

“There’s nothing for me there,” I said quickly. “Even if I could go back, I’m not sure I’d want to.”

“You say that now. I need you to be sure.”

I nodded, then stood.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“For a walk.”

I didn’t go far, just around the perimeter of the neat yard in a slow shuffle, watching the sky, clear now, a billion stars spread across it. Stars, too, were time travelers. How many of those ancient points of light were the last echoes of suns now dead? How many had been born but their light not yet come this far? If all the suns but ours collapsed tonight, how many lifetimes would it take us to realize that we were alone? I had always known the sky was full of mysteries—but not until now had I realized how full of them the earth was.

I came to the place where the path emerged from the woods. In one direction lay home and everything I knew, unmysterious and ordinary and safe.

Except it wasn’t. Not really. Not any more. The monsters had murdered Grandpa Portman, and they had come after me. Sooner or later, they would again. Would I come home one day to find my dad bleeding to death on the floor? My mom? In the other direction, the children were gathering in excited little knots, plotting and planning, for the first time any of them could remember, for the future.

I walked back to Emma, still poring over her massive book. Miss Peregrine was perched next to her, tapping with her beak here and there on the map. Emma looked up as I approached.

“I’m sure,” I said.

She smiled. “I’m glad.”

“There’s just one thing I have to do before I go.”

*   *   *

I made it back to town just before dawn. The rain had finally eased, and the beginning of a blue day was percolating on the horizon. The main path looked like an arm with the veins stripped out, long slashes where flooding had washed the gravel away.

I walked into the pub and through the empty bar and up to our rooms. The shades were drawn and my father’s door was closed, which was a relief because I hadn’t yet figured out how to say what I needed to tell him. Instead I sat down with pen and paper and wrote him a letter.

I tried to explain everything. I wrote about the peculiar children and the hollows and how all of Grandpa Portman’s stories had turned out to be true. I told him what had happened to Miss Peregrine and Miss Avocet and tried to make him understand why I had to go. I begged him not to worry.

Then I stopped and read over what I’d written. It was no good. He would never believe it. He’d think I’d lost my mind the way Grandpa had, or that I’d run away or been abducted or taken a nosedive off the cliffs. Either way, I was about to ruin his life. I wadded up the paper and threw it in the trash.

“Jacob?”

I turned to see my father leaning in the doorjamb, bleary-eyed, hair tangled, dressed in a mud-splashed shirt and jeans.

“Hi, Dad.”

“I’m going to ask you a simple, straightforward question,” he said, “and I’d like a simple, straightforward answer. Where were you last night?” I could tell he was struggling to maintain his composure.

I decided I was done lying. “I’m fine, Dad. I was with my friends.”

It was like I’d pulled the pin on a grenade.

“YOUR FRIENDS ARE IMAGINARY!” he shouted. He came toward me, his face turning red. “I wish your mother and I had never let that crackpot therapist talk us into bringing you out here, because it has been an unmitigated disaster! You just lied to me for the last time! Now get in your room and start packing. We’re on the next ferry!”

“Dad?”

“And when we get home, you’re not leaving the house until we find a psychiatrist who’s not a complete jackass!”

“Dad!”

I wondered for a moment if I would have to run from him. I pictured my dad holding me down, calling for help, loading me onto the ferry with my arms locked in a straightjacket.

“I’m not coming with you,” I said.

His eyes narrowed and he cocked his head, as if he hasn’t heard properly. I was about to repeat myself when there was a knock at the door.

“Go away!” my dad shouted.

The knock came again, more insistent this time. He stormed over and flung it open, and there at the top of the stairs stood Emma, a tiny ball of blue flame dancing above her hand. Next to her was Olive.

“Hullo,” Olive said. “We’re here to see Jacob.”

He stared at them, baffled. “What is this ...”

The girls edged past him into the room.

“What are you doing here?” I hissed at them.

“We only wanted to introduce ourselves,” Emma replied, flashing a big smile at my dad. “We’ve come to know your son rather well of late, so we thought it only proper that we should pay a friendly call.”

“Okay,” my father said, his eyes darting between them.

“He’s really a fine boy,” said Olive. “So brave!”

“And handsome!” Emma added, winking at me. She began to roll the flame between her hands like a toy. My father stared at it, hypnotized.

“Y-yes,” he stammered. “He sure is.”

“Do you mind if I slip off my shoes?” Olive asked, and without waiting for an answer she did, and promptly floated to the ceiling. “Thanks. That’s much more comfortable!”

“These are my friends, Dad. The ones I was telling you about. This is Emma, and that’s Olive, on the ceiling.”

He staggered back a step. “I’m still sleeping,” he said vaguely. “I’m so tired ...”

A chair lifted off the floor and floated over to him, followed by an expertly wrapped medical bandage bobbing through the air. “Then please, have a seat,” Millard said.

“Okay,” my dad replied, and he did.

“What are you doing here?” I whispered to Millard. “Shouldn’t you be lying down?”

“I was in the neighborhood.” He held up a modern-looking pill bottle. “I must say, they make some marvelously effective pain tablets in the future!”

“Dad, this is Millard,” I said. “You can’t see him because he’s invisible.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” said Millard.

I went over to my father and knelt down beside his chair. His head bobbed slightly. “I’m going away, Dad. You might not see me for a while.”

“Oh, yeah? Where are you going?”

“On a trip.”

“A trip,” he repeated. “When will you be back?”

“I don’t really know.”

He shook his head. “Just like your grandfather.” Millard ran tap water into a glass and brought it to him, and Dad reached out and took it, as though floating glasses weren’t at all unusual. I guess he really thought he was dreaming. “Well, goodnight,” he said and then stood up, steadied himself on the chair, and stumbled back into his bedroom. Stopping at the door, he turned to face me.

“Jake?”

“Yeah, Dad?”

“Be careful, okay?”

I nodded. He closed the door. A moment later I heard him fall into bed.

I sat down and rubbed my face. I didn’t know how to feel.

“Did we help?” Olive asked from her perch on the ceiling.

“I’m not sure,” I said. “I don’t think so. He’ll just wake up later thinking he dreamed all of you.”

“You could write a letter,” Millard suggested. “Tell him anything you like—it’s not as if he’ll be able to follow us.”

“I did write a letter. But it’s not proof.”

“Ah,” he replied. “Yes, I see your problem.”

“Nice problem to have,” said Olive. “Wish my mum and dad had loved me enough to worry when I left home.”

Emma reached up and squeezed her hand. Then she said, “I might have proof.”

She pulled a small wallet from the waistband of her dress and took out a snapshot. She handed it to me. It was a picture of her and my grandfather when my grandfather was young. All her attention was focused on him, but he seemed elsewhere. It was sad and beautiful and encapsulated what little I knew about their relationship.

“It was taken just before Abe left for the war,” Emma said. “Your dad’ll recognize me, won’t he?”

I smiled at her. “You look like you haven’t aged a day.”

“Marvelous!” said Millard. “There’s your proof.”

“Do you always keep this with you?” I asked, handing it back to her.

“Yes. But I don’t need it anymore.” She went to the table and took my pen and began to write on the back of the photo. “What’s your father’s name?”

“Franklin.”

When she finished writing, she gave it to me. I looked at both sides and then fished my letter from the trash, smoothed it, and left it on the table with the photo.

“Ready to go?” I said.

My friends were standing in the doorway, waiting for me.

“Only if you are,” Emma replied.

We set out for the ridge. At the spot near the crest where I always stopped to see how far I’d come, this time I kept walking. Sometimes it’s better not to look back.

When we reached the cairn, Olive patted the stones like a beloved old pet. “Goodbye, old loop,” she said. “You’ve been such a good loop, and we’ll miss you ever so much.” Emma squeezed her shoulder, and they both crouched down and went inside.

In the rear chamber, Emma held her flame to the wall and showed me something I’d never noticed before: a long list of dates and initials carved into the rocks. “It’s all the other times people have used this loop,” she explained. “All the other days the loop’s been looped.”

Peering at it, I made out a P.M. 3-2-1853 and a J.R.R. 1-4-1797 and a barely-legible X.J. 1580. Near the bottom were some strange markings I couldn’t decipher.

“Runic inscriptions,” Emma said. “Quite ancient.”

Millard searched through the gravel until he found a sharpened stone, and, using another stone as a hammer, he chipped an inscription of his own below the others. It read A.P. 3-9-1940.

“Who’s AP?” asked Olive.

“Alma Peregrine,” said Millard, and then he sighed. “It should be her carving this, not me.”

Olive ran her hand over the rough markings. “Do you think another ymbryne will come along to make a loop here someday?”

“I hope so,” he said. “I dearly hope so.”

*

We buried Victor. Bronwyn lifted his whole bed and carried it outside with Victor still in it, and with all the children assembled on the grass she pulled back the sheets and tucked him in, planting one last kiss on his forehead. We boys lifted the corners of his bed like pallbearers and walked him down into the crater that the bomb had made. Then all of us climbed out but Enoch, who took a clay man from his pocket and laid it gently on the boy’s chest.

“This is my very best man,” he said. “To keep you company.” The clay man sat up and Enoch pushed it back down with his thumb. The man rolled over with one arm under his head and seemed to go to sleep.

When the crater had been filled, Fiona dragged some shrubs and vines over the raw soil and began to grow them. By the time the rest of us had finished packing for the journey, Adam was back in his old spot, only now he was marking Victor’s grave.

Once the children had said goodbye to their house, some taking chips of brick or flowers from the garden as forget-me-nots, we made one last trip across the island: through the smoking charred woods and the flat bog dug with bomb holes, over the ridge and down through the little town hung with peat smoke, where the townspeople lingered on porches and in doorways, so tired and numb with shock that they hardly seemed to notice the small parade of peculiar-looking children passing them by.

We were quiet but excited. The children hadn’t slept, but you wouldn’t have known it to look at them. It was September fourth, and for the first time in a very long time, the days were moving again. Some of them claimed they could feel the difference; the air in their lungs was fuller, the race of blood through their veins faster. They felt more vital, more real.

I did, too.

*

I used to dream about escaping my ordinary life, but my life was never ordinary. I had simply failed to notice how extraordinary it was. Likewise, I never imagined that home might be something I would miss. Yet as we stood loading our boats in the breaking dawn, on a brand new precipice of Before and After, I thought of everything I was about to leave behind—my parents, my town, my once-best-and-only friend—and I realized that leaving wouldn’t be like I had imagined, like casting off a weight. Their memory was something tangible and heavy, and I would carry it with me.

And yet my old life was as impossible to return to as the children’s bombed house. The doors had been blown off our cages.

Ten peculiar children and one peculiar bird were made to fit in just three stout rowboats, with much being jettisoned and left behind on the dock. When we’d finished, Emma suggested that one of us say something—make a speech to dedicate the journey ahead—but no one seemed ready with words. And so Enoch held up Miss Peregrine’s cage and she let out a great screeching cry. We answered with a cry of our own, both a victory yell and a lament, for everything lost and yet to be gained.

Hugh and I rowed the first boat. Enoch sat watching us from the bow, ready to take his turn, while Emma in a sunhat studied the receding island. The sea was a pane of rippled glass spreading endlessly before us. The day was warm, but a cool breeze came off the water, and I could’ve happily rowed for hours. I wondered how such calm could belong to a world at war.

In the next boat, I saw Bronwyn wave and raise Miss Peregrine’s camera to her eye. I smiled back. We’d brought none of the old photo albums with us; maybe this would be the first picture in a brand new one. It was strange to think that one day I might have my own stack of yellowed photos to show skeptical grandchildren—and my own fantastic stories to share.

Then Bronwyn lowered the camera and raised her arm, pointing at something beyond us. In the distance, black against the rising sun, a silent procession of battleships punctuated the horizon.

We rowed faster.

All the pictures in this book are authentic, vintage found photographs, and with the exception of a few that have undergone minimal postprocessing, they are unaltered. They were lent from the personal archives of ten collectors, people who have spent years and countless hours hunting through giant bins of unsorted snapshots at flea markets and antiques malls and yard sales to find a transcendent few, rescuing images of historical significance and arresting beauty from obscurity—and, most likely, the dump. Their work is an unglamorous labor of love, and I think they are the unsung heroes of the photography world.

What follows is a list of all the photographs and their respective collectors.

The Invisible Boy (Robert Jackson)

The Levitating Girl (Yefim Tovbis)

Boy Lifting Boulder (Robert Jackson)

The Painted Head (Robert Jackson)

Abe Napping (Robert Jackson)

The Girl in the Bottle (Robert Jackson)

The Floating Baby (Peter Cohen)

The Boy-Faced Dog (Robert Jackson)

The Contortionist (Robert Jackson)

The Masked Ballerinas (Robert Jackson)

Miss Peregrine’s Silhouette (Robert Jackson)

Boy in Bunny Costume (Robert Jackson)

Girls at the Beach (The Thanatos Archive)

The Reflecting Pool (Peter Cohen)

A Boy and His Bees (Robert Jackson)

The Snacking Ballerinas (Robert Jackson)

Emma in the Dark (Muriel Moutet)

The Cairn Tunnel (Martin Isaac)

Fighter Planes (Robert Jackson)

Miss Peregrine (The author)

Miss Finch (Roselyn Leibowitz)

Miss Avocet and Her Wards (Julia Lauren)

Miss Finch’s Loop (Roselyn Leibowitz)

Claire’s Golden Curls (David Bass)

Our Beautiful Display (Robert Jackson)

Bronwyn Bruntley (Robert Jackson)

Girl with Chicken (John Van Noate)

Jill and the Beanstalk (Robert Jackson)

A Follower of Fashion (Robert Jackson)

Miss Nightjar Takes All the Hard Cases (The author)

Enoch’s Dolls (David Bass)

Victor (Robert Jackson)

My Bombshell (Peter Cohen)

Peeling Spuds (Robert Jackson)

Emma’s Silhouette (Robert Jackson)

This is Why (Robert Jackson)

A Hunting Trip (The author)

Department Store Santa (The author)

Victorian Dentist (The Thanatos Archive)

Marcie and the Wight (Robert Jackson)

The Vision (Peter Cohen)

Caw Caw Caw (Roselyn Leibowitz)

Abe and Emma (Robert Jackson)

We Rowed Faster (Robert Jackson)