The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [322]
“What is?”
“That noise you make at the back of your throat when you hear something funny. Let me know if you need anything. Bye.”
And he slowly faded out, from the tip of his tail to the tip of his nose. His grin, as usual, stayed for some time after the rest of him had gone.
I turned back to the book, murmured, “Sapphire,” and read the first paragraph aloud.
7.
Feeding the Minotaur
Name and Operator’s Number: Perkins, David “Pinky.” AGD136-323
Address: c/o Perkins & Snell Detective Series
Induction Date: September 1957
Notes: Perkins joined the service and has shown exemplary conduct throughout his service career. After signing up for a twenty-year tour of duty, he extended that to another tour in 1977. After five years heading the mispeling Protection Squad, he was transferred to grammasite inspection and eradication and in 1981 took over leadership of the grammasite research facility.
ENTRY FROM JURISFICTION SERVICE RECORD
(ABRIDGED)
I FOUND MYSELF IN a large meadow next to a babbling brook. Willows and larches hung over the crystal clear waters while mature oaks punctuated the land. It was warm and dry and quite delightful—like a perfect summer’s day in England, in fact, and I suddenly felt quite homesick.
“I used to look at the view a lot,” said a voice close at hand. “Don’t seem to have the time, these days.”
I turned to see a tall and laconic man leaning against a silver birch, holding a copy of the Jurisfiction trade paper, Movable Type. I recognized him although we had never been introduced. It was Perkins, who partnered Snell at Jurisfiction, much as they did in the Perkins & Snell series of detective novels.
“Hello,” he said, proffering a hand and smiling broadly, “put it there. Perkins is the name. Akrid tells me you sorted Hopkins out good and proper.”
“Thank you. Akrid’s very kind, but it isn’t over yet.”
He cast an arm towards the horizon. “What do you think?”
I looked at the view. High, snowcapped mountains rose in the distance above a green and verdant plain. At the foot of the hills were forests, and a large river wended its way through the valley.
“Beautiful.”
“We bought it from the fantasy division of the Well of Lost Plots. It’s a complete world in itself, written for a sword-and-sorcery novel entitled The Sword of the Zenobians. Beyond the mountains are icy wastes, deep fjords and relics of long-forgotten civilizations, castles, that sort of stuff. It was auctioned off when the book was abandoned. There were no characters or events written in, which was a shame—considering the work he did on the world itself, this might have been a bestseller. Still, the Outland’s loss is our gain. We use it to keep grammasites and other weird beasts who for one reason or another can’t live safely within their own books.”
“Sanctuary?”
“Yes—and also for study and containment—hence the password.”
“There seem to be an awful lot of rabbits,” I observed, looking around.
“Ah, yes,” replied Perkins, crossing a stone-arched bridge that spanned the small stream, “we never did get the lid on reproduction within Watership Down—if left to their own devices, the book would be so full of dandelion-munching lagomorphs that every other word would be rabbit within a year. Still, Lennie enjoys it here when he has some time off.”
We walked up a path towards a ruined castle. Grass covered the mounds of masonry that had collapsed from the curtain wall, and the wood of the drawbridge had rotted and fallen into a moat now dry and full of brambles. Above us, what appeared to be ravens circled the highest of the remaining towers.
“Not birds,” said Perkins, handing me a pair of binoculars. “Have a look.”
I peered up at the circling creatures who were soaring on large wings of stretched skin. “Parenthiums?”
“Very good. I have six breeding pairs here—purely for research, I hasten to add. Most books can easily support forty or so with no ill effects—it’s just when the numbers get out of hand that we have to take action. A swarm of grammasites