say it’s impossible for bumblebees to fly, but they do!”
“That’s because they flap their wings,” huffed Rosemary. “If they didn’t, they’d drop like stones.”
The Ferryman’s voice cut between them. “Two more.”
They stood in silence, looking around for inspiration. Peter stuffed his hands in his pockets, digging a toe in the paper-coloured sand. The waves slapped the shore. Suddenly he blurted out, “I ... I believe my parents are alive. I wake up and I think that they’re downstairs making breakfast and then I ... is that okay?”
“And you?” The Ferryman turned towards Rosemary.
Rosemary had been staring at Peter; she jerked up at the Ferryman’s voice. Everyone stood still and silent. Finally a small smile dawned on her face. She took a deep breath. “I believe I can save Theo.”
The Ferryman put forth a long hand to the boat. “Board.”
They clambered aboard. Peter and Rosemary jammed themselves into a narrow bench while Puck lounged on the remaining seat. The Ferryman stood at the prow. Without oars or sails, the boat glided forward into the sea. As Rosemary glanced at the grey-on-black horizon, Peter nudged her. “Um, the fare ... isn’t saving Theo the reason we’re here?”
She looked at him. “So?”
“So? Well, if you believe it and it’s impossible ... aren’t we in trouble? Or isn’t it impossible?”
“Do you want off this boat?” asked Rosemary.
“Just asking!”
Rosemary turned away. She dipped her hand in the water and wrinkled her nose at the faint chemical smell, like permanent markers. “Why is this water so dark?”
“Water it is not, Rosemary,” said Puck. “This is the Sea of Ink.”
She pulled her arm out. It was black to her elbow. “This is ink?”
“Indelible ink, I fear.”
She tried to wipe her arm clean on her jeans, but only smeared them. “Great,” she muttered. “Just great.”
“The Sea of Ink surrounds the Land of Fiction,” said Puck. “It would be wise to keep your hands within the boat. You too, Peter.”
He pointed to a wave on the sea. Then Rosemary saw that it wasn’t a wave, but the silhouette of a girl, a few years younger than she was, rising out of the water. Her black mouth was open, taking in a great gulp of air before she sank back beneath the waves.
“A character is born,” said Puck.
Rosemary shuddered.
Something bumped the boat. Peter and Rosemary looked over the side and saw the dorsal fin of a great black shark sink below the surface. Peter pulled his arm away from the edge. “Can they capsize the boat?”
“No, I think not,” said Puck. “The Ferryman has crossed this sea since I was put to paper. Few of his fares have been lost.”
“Few?” squeaked Peter.
“The sea is getting thick with characters,” said Rosemary.
Other shapes bobbed on the waves. The silhouette of a man in a bowler hat and a suit, carrying a long, black umbrella, walked upright on a swell. He tipped his hat to a teenage girl who cartwheeled past, half submerged. Nearby, a warrior held his black sword high as he sank beneath the surface.
“All the characters in fiction come from here?” asked Rosemary.
“Most,” said Puck. “Legendary characters are uncertain of birth, but King Arthur rises every fortnight.”
Peter pointed ahead. “I see the other jetty.”
The boat coasted up to the jetty and stopped with a crunch against the shore. The beach of white sand stretched ahead for several feet before becoming darker and stonier. Trees rose up further inland, and a forest stretched into the distance.
Puck leapt lightly out and helped Rosemary and Peter step onto the jetty. Then he crossed his arms and bowed low to the Ferryman. He gave Peter and Rosemary a glance, and they mimicked the gesture. The Ferryman bowed in return.
Rosemary started up the beach, with Peter close behind, but Puck stopped them and turned them back to the sea.
“Look,” he said. “New characters begin their stories.”
Black shapes surfaced from the ink and crawled onto the shore. There, the ink dried on them, changing colour, and they got to their feet as princes and princesses, dwarfs and elves, orphans and detectives, monsters and villains. From the shore, they walked in straight lines to their destinies.
Peter and Rosemary stared after them, awed.
“Come,” said Puck, nudging them forward. “Let us begin our own story.” And they crossed the beach and slipped in among the trees.
CHAPTER FIVE
INTO THE WOODS
“What did she ever do to you?”
— Theo Watson
Five steps into the trees, Rosemary froze. Peter bumped into her. They looked up and around at the dense canopy and the little slivers of sky. Already they couldn’t see the beach that had been behind them. The scenery had changed as completely as if somebody had turned a page.
Puck bounded ahead of them, not bothered by the dense forest. Peter started after, but Rosemary pulled him to a stop. “Wait! Where are we going? What do we do?”
Puck stopped and came back, hunching down to Rosemary’s height, his hands on his knees. “The Land of Fiction is a patchwork of stories,” he said, “each with its own setting and its own challenge to face. We proceed through them until we find and rescue Theo.”
“But where is Theo?” asked Rosemary.
“That’s easy,” said Peter. “If he’s a prisoner in a storybook, then he is in a dungeon, right? How many dungeons are there in the Land of Fiction?”
“Four hundred and sixty-two thousand, five hundred and ninety-three,” said Puck.
Peter’s face fell.
“But we will not find Theo in a dungeon,” said Puck. “Find one and you will find them all; it is too insecure. No, to find Theo, we must proceed to the centre of the island.” He waved them forward.
Rosemary didn’t move. “Why the centre of the island?”
“Because it is the highest point of land,” said Puck. “It is a goal to strive for. Once we reach the peak, we will come to the climax of our story, and you will find Theo.”
“That’s kind of stupid,” said Peter.
