The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [358]
The elevator stopped on the first floor; I quickly made my way to Sense and Sensibility and read myself in. The crowd were still outside the doors of Norland Park, this time with tents, a brass band and a metal brazier burning scrap wood. As soon as they saw me a chant went up:
“We need a break, we need a break . . .”
A tired-looking woman with an inordinate amount of children gave me a leaflet.
“Three hundred and twenty-five years I’ve been doing this job,” she said, “without even so much as a weekend off!”
“I’m sorry.”
“We don’t want pity,” said Solomon Grundy, who, what with it being a Saturday, wasn’t looking too healthy, “we want action. Oral traditionalists should be allowed the same rights as any other fictioneers.”
“Right,” said a young lad carrying a bucket with his head wrapped in brown paper, “no amount of money can compensate the brotherhood for the inconvenience caused by repetitive retellings. However, we would like to make the following demands: One, that all nursery rhyme characters are given immediate leave of absence for a two-week period. Two, that—”
“Really,” I interrupted him, “you’re talking to the wrong person. I’m only an apprentice. Jurisfiction has no power to dictate policy anyway—you need to speak to the Council of Genres.”
“The Council sent us to talk to TGC, who referred us to the Great Panjandrum,” said Humpty-Dumpty to a chorus of vigorous head-nodding, “but no one seems to know if he—or she—even exists.”
“If you’ve never seen him, he probably doesn’t exist,” said Little Jack Horner. “Pie anyone?”
“I’ve never seen Vincent Price,” I observed, “but I know he exists.”
“Who?”
“An actor,” I explained, feeling somewhat foolish. “Back home.”
Humpty-Dumpty narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “You’re talking complete Lear, Miss Next.”
“King?”
“No. Edward.”
“Oh.”
“Mongoose!” yelled Humpty, drawing a small revolver and throwing himself on to the ground where, unluckily for him, there just happened to be a muddy puddle.
“You’re mistaken,” explained Grundy wearily, “it’s a guide dog. Put the gun away before you hurt yourself.”
“A guide dog?” repeated Humpty, slowly getting to his feet. “You’re sure?”
“Have you spoken to WordMaster Libris?” I asked. “We all know he exists.”
“He won’t speak to us,” said Humpty-Dumpty, wiping his face with a large handkerchief. “The oral tradition is unaffected by the Ultra Word™ upgrade, so he doesn’t think we’re that important. If we don’t negotiate a few rights before the new system comes in, we won’t ever get any!”
“Libris won’t even speak to you?” I repeated.
“He sends us notes,” squeaked the oldest of three mice, all of whom had no tails, held a white cane in one hand and a golden retriever in the other. “He says that he is very busy but will give our concerns his ‘fullest attention.’ ”
“What’s going on?” squeaked one of the other mice. “Is that Miss Next?”
“It’s a brush-off,” said Grundy again. “Unless we get an answer soon, there won’t be a single nursery rhyme anywhere, either spoken or read! We’re going on a forty-eight-hour stoppage from midnight. When parents can’t remember the words to our rhymes, the fur will really fly, I can promise you that!”
“I’m sorry,” I began again, “I have no authority—I can’t do anything—”
“Then just take this to WordMaster Libris?”
Humpty-Dumpty handed me a list of demands, neatly written on a page of foolscap paper. The crowd grew suddenly silent. A sea of eyes, all blinking expectantly, were directed at me.
“I promise nothing,” I said, taking the piece of paper, “but if I see Libris, I will give this to him—okay?”
“Thank you very much,” said Humpty. “At last someone from Jurisfiction will listen!”