The Book of Storms (8 page)

Danny hadn't realized he was turning the stick over in his pocket. It had quickly become an unconscious habit—too quickly, he thought. It shouldn't have become a part of him so easily.

But if Mitz didn't know where they were going, and he himself didn't know, and there were no people around to ask, what could he do? He was going to have to use it. There were plenty of plants around—cow parsley, sticky weed, and dandelions crowding above the grass in the verges. But their leaves and petals were sharp and pointed, and their white and yellow flowers clashed starkly with the glossy greens below. As he looked at them, they seemed to bristle with spite.

He couldn't bring himself to go up to them. Maybe he could ask a tree? The sycamore hadn't seemed that bad, had it? If other trees were like that, perhaps it would be okay. Well, he would have to try it. There was no other way.

Danny tried to relax against the rising tightness in his blood and forced himself to sidle up to the nearest tree. Gripping the stick, he took a deep breath and whispered, “I'm sorry, do you know the way to Puddleton Lane End?”

There followed a longish pause.

“I beg your pardon?” said the beech, in a tone of mild surprise.

“Puddleton Lane End,” whispered Danny again. “I'm trying to get there. Do you know where it is?”

Another pause, but shorter this time.

“Yes, I do.”

Danny missed the suspicious note in the tree's voice.

“Well, where is it? How do I get there?” He let himself breathe a little. Perhaps this wasn't going to be so bad after all.

“I beg your pardon,” said the tree. “Have you noticed that I'm a copper beech tree? I know it must be easy for something as short as yourself to make mistakes … but … a copper beech tree!
You
can't ask
me
for … for
street
directions!”

“Oh … sorry,” said Danny. “I didn't know you were … one of those. Can I ask one of the other trees, then?”

The copper beech was silent for a good few minutes, until Danny had almost given up. Finally, it spoke again.

“I … don't wish to fraternize with a … with
you
. Please be so good as to remove yourself from under my leaves.”

Danny stepped back gladly. At least the tree hadn't started shouting about anything. Maybe cats were the only other creatures worth talking to.

“D'you reckon there are any more cats around here?” he asked Mitz. “We could ask one for directions.”

Mitz was peering into a hedge. “Sssh!” she said. “Oh, it's gone.”

“What's gone?”

“Bah! The mouse. How do you humans ever get any food? You're so noisy all the time.”

“Same way you do,” Danny pointed out. “We open tins. Doesn't matter how noisy you are, the tins still open.”

“Oh, but there's nothing like a fresh, juicy mouse,” said Mitz. “Crunching its little bones between your teeth.… Mmm … beats any of that mushy stuff the servants feed me.…”

She darted away. Danny went after her, not trusting that she'd come back to him again if she got on the trail of a mouse. She hared through a small churchyard and came to a pouncing stop just by the opposite gate, which led out onto a different road. And there it was—a sign tucked away in a hedge. Puddleton Lane.

“Great!” said Danny. “This is it. Puddleton Lane—we've found it.”

“Lost that weasel, though,” said Mitz, looking sulky. “A weasel! What a prize that'd have been!”

“You're bloodthirsty,” said Danny, but he quite liked it. If there was a fight, at least Mitz would get stuck right in, fluff-ball tail and all. Although she'd probably have to spend a week cleaning herself up afterward.

“I,” said Mitz, “am a good cat. One of the best. Although generally there are very few inferior cats.”

Fluffing up her tail again, she flounced off toward Puddleton Lane.

*   *   *

Puddleton Lane End was a narrow path leading off to the south, about 200 yards outside the village. Danny nearly missed it; it was so overgrown that he had to search in a thicket for the road sign. And walking down it, he became unsure again. It was flanked on both sides by high hedges. There didn't seem to be any houses at all; if there were, then the hedges were growing over their front gates, because there were no gaps that Danny could see.

He would have missed Storm Cottage completely had he not heard a sudden loud cacophony of squawking and seen a great cloud of crows launch themselves into the air from the boughs of an oak tree. Dangling from one of the branches was a nameplate, tiny and almost invisible between the leaves. The shine of varnished wood flashed once as it caught the sunlight, and Danny read the name with relief.

Storm Cottage was small and white behind a jungle of climbing roses and ivy; purple wisteria hung in giant garlands over the front door. The gate was overgrown with creepers and set on hinges rusted as red as autumn leaves, so he climbed over. If there had ever been a garden path, it had long since been reclaimed by grass and nettles, so he had to fight his way up to the door through the crowding greenery, swishing it aside with a stick.

He knocked at the door and a woman opened it. She was about Danny's height and had gray hair in a neat bun. She peered at him with a ready smile on her face.

“Yes?”

“Um … I'm looking for Abel Korsakof. Does he live here?”

“Yes, of course. Come in, dear, come in. He's in his den at the moment.”

The old woman stood aside to welcome Danny into the cottage. He stepped in cautiously, noticing that the walls were covered with paintings: stormy skies, clouds rolling over bleak moorlands, ships being tossed at sea, rain lashing against horses struggling to pull their carts along sodden roads. The kitchen smelled of baking and his stomach rumbled as he thought of dinner.

“You'll have to go out and find him, dear. He never hears me shout when he's in his den. Go on, just out the back door and go left across the lawn. Off you trot. I'm just making a pot of tea; tell him I'll bring it over in a few minutes.”

She indicated the French windows across the room that were open and led out onto a tangled green lawn. Danny crossed the garden and knocked hesitantly on the door of the small shed that stood on the other side.

“Yes?”

He opened the door. Abel Korsakof was crouched on the floor, holding down an enormous sheet of paper with both legs and one hand. With the other hand he was putting detail into what looked like a complicated flow diagram tracing hundreds of pathways over the paper, most of which seemed to originate from a spot hidden underneath his knees.

Abel Korsakof was about the oldest man Danny had ever seen, with a straggling white beard that hung from his chin and folded into a small pile where it fell on the paper. What was visible of his face was wrinkled like a walnut, but his eyes were hard and bright.

“Mr. Korsakof?” Danny relaxed. This man was so old, he couldn't be scary. It would probably take him half an hour just to stand up.

“Yes, yes! Come in, come in!”

Danny stepped into the shed. The wooden planks creaked underneath his feet. Abel Korsakof's flinty eyes were staring at him with an intensity that made him wonder if he'd got gravy drying on his chin or had suddenly sprouted a third nostril.

“Sit down, sit down!” said Abel Korsakof.

Why did he repeat everything twice? And why didn't he ask Danny who he was?

“I'm Danny,” said Danny, to make it a bit less weird. “I think, um, I think you know my parents?”

“Do I? Do I? I do not know if I do. I do not know many people…” said Abel Korsakof.

What was wrong with him? Didn't he know it was rude to stare? His gaze was so hard that Danny could almost feel it scraping at his face with its teeth.

“Um … yes, I think you do know them.…”

Danny was about to tell him their names when he remembered the bit in the notebook about how the old man had refused to give them the book. It had been a while ago, but you could never be sure what people might remember. Perhaps it wouldn't be such a good place to start.

He tried again. “Um … I think you've got something I need.…”

Where were the biscuits? Where was the cup of tea? Danny glanced over his shoulder, but there was nobody there to help him. Don't be stupid, he told himself. Just ask.

“I need the Book of Storms,” he said. “You've got it, haven't you?”

Abel Korsakof rose to his feet. It took him so long that Danny had almost lost his nerve again by the time the old man was upright. The ancient face had taken on a look of panic, but the eyes were still staring.

“What for?” he demanded.

He didn't even ask how I know about it, thought Danny. It's like he saw me coming a mile off. It's like he'd
known
I was coming, although he couldn't have.

But at least he hadn't said no.

“To find my parents,” Danny said. “I think they went to see a storm, or something, and got lost. I need to find out how … and where…”

“I see,” said Abel Korsakof. Then he cleared his throat. “In that case, you must certainly have the book. Sit down. Let me find it for you.”

He indicated the single chair, and Danny perched on the edge of it, taking a closer look at the papers on the floor.

“What's that?” he asked.

Abel Korsakof went over to the bookshelves behind Danny and started to turn books over, looking for the one he wanted. “A map,” he said. “The work of my life. A map of the various processes of storm formation.” He turned over another couple of books, examining the spines.

Danny peered at the words on the map. Most of them were at least fifteen letters long. There were a few drawings—bad drawings: he could have done better himself—but they didn't help to explain any of the words. Was it storm language? How did storms even speak? Would he, Danny, have to try talking to one? He tried to memorize a couple of the words just in case they came in useful someday, then realized they were probably just a normal foreign language. Hadn't the notebook mentioned something about the old man being Polish?

“It looks complicated,” he said, to try and sort of praise Abel Korsakof so he might remember about biscuits. The pasties seemed a long time ago.

“It
is
complicated!” the old man snapped, and then hurriedly added, “but I am sure a clever boy like you could learn about it, if you wanted to.”

Well, that's stupid, thought Danny. For a start, he doesn't know if I'm clever or not. He doesn't know anything about me.

For a moment he was tempted to open his mouth and say that actually he wasn't very clever but that he could do some much better drawings of all those flashes of lightning and mountaintops that were dotted around the paper, if the old man wanted him to. But there was definitely something a bit missing about Abel Korsakof, like he didn't really know much about what was going on around him. He was probably just thinking about something else. Well, that was fine. As long as he handed over the Book of Storms. What would it be like? Big and leather bound, with gold lettering? Or small and darkly mysterious?

So Danny kept quiet and waited.

*   *   *

Abel Korsakof found what he was looking for. He opened the book and ran his fingers inside the cut-away pages.

It was his elder brother's army knife. Thick handled, with a wide, short blade—perfect for slicing or stabbing. It had been hidden in the book of Polish fairy tales ever since Abel had stolen it, seventy years ago. His elder brother had hated fairy tales.

All he had to do was lean around the boy and drag the blade across his throat. There would be blood, but Sammael was sure to deal with all that. Or would he? If Korsakof had only fifty years more to live, he didn't want to spend half of them in prison. Sammael did look after his own, but maybe he'd better do it a cleaner way, just to be sure.

Stab him in the neck, then. Or in the back. No—that was too difficult. He might hit a rib. The neck it was.

The old man looked at the boy's neck. Danny's head was bent over the map, reading its symbols. He seemed to be offering up that patch of exposed skin to Korsakof's knife.

He wants me to kill him, thought Korsakof. Else why walk in here, asking for the Book of Storms? He must know whose it is. He's probably trying to outwit Sammael in some way. It is my duty to help Sammael, in return for all he has given and promises yet to give me. It is my duty to kill this boy.

He gripped the knife as he closed the hollowed-out book and replaced it on the shelf. Then he took a single step, which brought him close to Danny, and raised his hand. Let it be quick, he prayed. Let him not say anything to me when he knows he is about to die.

Korsakof closed his eyes and swung the knife.

*   *   *

The cat appeared as if fired from a crossbow and flung itself against the old man's arm, sending him jerking backwards. Danny swung round and scrambled to his feet. Korsakof's arm flailed in the air, reaching out toward him, trying to grab him. Fingers touched his shoulder, and the knife swooped down again, catching a glint of the evening sun as it fell.

Danny ducked and threw himself sideways, but the shed wall was too close and he couldn't get far enough away. The knife sliced toward him again, and he crashed against the small table.

The table! He could use it as a shield! He scrambled underneath it and heard the knife rattle against its top, inches from his head.

“Stop!” he yelled. “Stop it! Don't!”

His ears buzzed. The old man's feet shuffled toward him. He was wearing leather sandals and brown slacks.

Without thinking, Danny reached up and gripped the edge of the table, then shoved it toward the brown slacks. It caught them just above the knees, sending Abel Korsakof tumbling to the floor. The table fell over on top of the old man and he wriggled, struggling to free himself with a moaning cry.