Handling the package carefully, as though it were a bomb, he tiptoed through the kitchen and laid it out on the dining-room table. Cautiously, he loosened the knot and peered inside. Instinctively, he jumped back.
At first glance, it resembled a large grasshopper or a cadaverous insect. A ghostly exoskeleton covered in hundreds of horned ridges, like scales, cowered at the bottom of the pouch. He half-expected the creature to leap into the air or spring out at him, but nothing happened. The creature was dead.
With his heart aflutter, Blake edged back to the table and this time untied the package properly.
It wasn't a grasshopper, but a lizard with a long tail snaking behind it, barely longer than his hand. Each of its reptilian legs ended in a sharp set of claws, ready to rip any unsuspecting prey to shreds. He prodded it gently with his finger. It rocked back and forth, perfectly harmless. Despite the scales plating its body like armor, it felt soft and light — like a husk. Picking it up, he realized that it was made from folded paper.
A strange sensual ripple traveled through him, setting off sparks in his mind. His heart began to thud. He knew exactly where the paper had come from…
He studied the scaly creature more closely, cradling it in his jittery fingers. It had to be the most intricate piece of origami he had ever seen.
For a moment, he considered unfolding it to see if the paper contained any extra information. And yet he didn't have the heart to destroy the lovely lizard. There was no sign of ink leaching through the scales and he doubted anything would be inside if he dismantled it. It was as if the object itself really was the message: a greeting or invitation or even a clue. But what did it mean?
Turning the lizard over in his hands, he unexpectedly triggered a mechanism that unleashed two scrolls of paper on either side of the animal's body. Near-invisible wings of parchment unfolded in his fingers. They were smoother and stronger than silk, yet virtually transparent. He held them up to the light. A network of fine veins glowed from within — just like the book he had found in the library yesterday.
He swallowed hard, his breathing in rapid, shallow bursts.
The creature wasn't a lizard, but a paper dragon: a dragon made from the most marvelous paper he had ever seen; paper that seemed to communicate with him directly; paper that could possibly connect him to
But that didn't explain anything.
9
Blake was so engrossed in his discovery that he almost forgot about the time. Luckily, his stomach intervened and a rumble of hunger, like distant thunder, reminded him of his rendezvous with his mother. She would be furious if he missed lunch as well as breakfast.
Grabbing an apple from the kitchen, he charged upstairs to get ready. As he passed his sister's bedroom, he felt a faint tugging motion in his right hand, as though the dragon were struggling to escape. A quiver of scales brushed against his skin.
He looked from the origami dragon to the closed wooden door. 'Hey, you're mine, not hers,' he told the creature firmly. 'I'm not sharing you with anyone.'
He placed the dragon on his bedside table.
Once he had eaten his apple and brushed his teeth, he snatched his jacket from the back of a chair and shrugged his knapsack onto his shoulders. Then, remembering the dog's bandanna, he rushed back downstairs to retrieve it. He stuffed the cloth next to the overlooked worksheets his teacher had given him to work on in his absence and finally place the dragon carefully on top. Wondering what he would say to the homeless man if he saw him, he took the spare key from its hook in the hall and let himself out.
The rain had stopped, but the air was damp and fresh. A cool wind tugged at the clouds, pulling them apart like fleece. He thrust his hands into his pockets and turned towards the river.
Twenty minutes later, he passed the bookshop where he had spotted the homeless man the previous afternoon. Apart from tourists wrapped in colorful windcheaters, the street was deserted. There was no sign of the man or his dog.
Disappointed, Blake watched idly as a young man rearranged a pile of books in the cluttered shop window. He was suddenly struck by an idea. Perhaps he could find the book his mother had liked as a child and buy it for her as a present — as a way of apologizing for last night. He knew a serious confrontation with her was coming, but surely this would help her to forgive him. He smiled at his own brilliance.
Glancing at his watch, he reckoned he had just enough time to locate the book, which he knew was about butterflies, and then sprint to the dining hall to meet his mother for lunch. Without another moment's thought, he went inside.
A little bell jingled above him and he stood awkwardly in the doorway for a moment, uncertain where to go. The shop was longer and narrower than he'd expected and the walls were crammed with books. Mismatched volumes spilled from the shelves onto the floor, where stacks of oversized hardbacks grew like primitive rock formations. Apart from the man rearranging bruised paperbacks in the window, the shop appeared to be empty.
'Excuse me,' Blake murmured, 'where—'
'Fiction in front; Literature behind; History round the corner,' the man started, without looking up. 'Nature, Crafts and all that Granny Stuff, not that you'd be interested, to the left; First Editions locked behind glass, away from grubby little fingers like yours; Modern Languages, Classics and Children's Literature upstairs.'
Blake listened in astonishment as the man recited all this in one long, short-tempered breath. With each new addition, his eyes bulged a little more and traveled along the rows of disorderly shelves. He still did not know where to go.
'What, you still there?' asked the man, sensing the boy's confusion. This time, he stood up. Not much taller than Blake, he had thick, bristly eyebrows that met in the middle like warring caterpillars, and was wearing a faded T-shirt with the name of a rock band Blake had never heard of before: the Plastic Dinosaurs. A hand-knitted scarf straddled his neck like a lazy python, its rainbow-colored ends trailing down to the ground.
Blake stepped back, feeling as though he had stumbled into a scene from
The man, sensing his apprehension, softened his approach. 'How can I help you?' he asked more reasonably. His mouth cracked into a grin and Blake realized that he was only pretending to be grumpy and troll-like.
Remembering what his mother had told him about the book she had liked, Blake tried his best to describe it.
'I don't recall a children's book being there,' replied the man seriously, scratching the back of his neck. 'Of course, it might have been sold since then — books in the window tend to go fast — but I put everything that was there this morning under the New Acquisitions. I didn't pay much attention to them myself. Science Fiction is the way to go.'
As if to prove his point, he pointed to a pyramid of cloned silver novels he had built in the window.
'Um, thanks,' said Blake, wandering over to the section the man had indicated.
He put his head down and got to work. It was going to be more difficult than he'd expected. A tower of brown books reached high above him, almost to the ceiling. Some had detached covers, held together with elastic bands; others mottled pages that either reeked of tobacco or ponged of damp churches the moment he opened them. Still more had fancy covers and gilt edges, like the finest strands of hair. And then, nearer the floor, were books in brightly colored dust jackets. These looked more promising and he knelt down to study them more closely.
Gradually, he became aware of a man standing close beside him, almost pressing into his back. A pair of dark trousers leaned against him and an expensive watch ticked above his ear. Blake felt uncomfortable and shifted his knapsack in front of him, guarding it with his body, just in case the man crushed the paper dragon he had placed inside.
Slowly but surely, the man picked his way down the stack of books, selecting a few volumes and then replacing
