The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [361]
Havisham caught his elbow as she rummaged in her TravelBook for her own mask. “We go together or not at all, Akrid.”
I found the correct page for the mask, pulled it out of its slot and put it on under the Eject-O-Hat. Miss Havisham pinned a carrot to my jacket, too.
“A carrot is the best litmus test for the mispeling vyrus,” she said, helping Bradshaw on with his mask. “As soon as the carrot comes into contact with the vyrus, it will start to mispel into parrot. You need to be out before it can talk. We have a saying: ‘When you can hear Polly, use the brolly.’ ” She tapped the toggle of the Eject-O-Hat. “Understand?”
I nodded.
“Good. Bradshaw, lead the way!”
We stepped carefully across the door with its mispeled hinges, and into the lab, which was in chaotic disorder. Mispeling was merely an annoyance to readers—but inside the BookWorld it was a menace. The mispeling was the effect of sense distortion, not the cause—once the internal meaning of a word started to break down, then the mispeling arose merely as a result of this. Unmispeling the word at TGC might work if the vyrus hadn’t taken a strong hold, but usually it was pointless; like making the beds in a burning house.
The interior of the laboratory was heavily disrupted. On the far wall the shelves were filled with a noisy company of featherbound rooks; we stepped forward onto the fattened tarpit only to see that the imposing table in the center of the room was now an enormous label. The glass apparatus had become grass asparagus, and worst of all, Mathias the talking horse was simply a large model house—like a doll’s house but much more detailed. Miss Havisham looked at me and pointed to her carrot. Already it was starting to change color—I could see tinges of red, yellow and blue.
“Carefool,” said Snell, “look!”
On the floor next to more shards of broken grass was a small layer of the same purple mist I had seen the last time I was here. The area of the floor touched by the vyrus was constantly changing meaning, texture, color and appearance.
“Where waz the Minotour kept?” asked Havisham, her carrot beginning to sprout a small beak.
I pointed the way and Bradshaw took the lead. I pulled out my gun, despite Bradshaw’s assurances that it was a waste of time, and he gently pushed the door open to the vault beneath the old hall. Snell snapped on a torch and flicked it within the chamber. The door to the Minotaur’s cage was open, but of the beast, there was no sign. I wish I could have said the same for Perkins. He—or what was left of him—was lying on the stone floor. The Minotaur had devoured him up to his chest. His spine had been picked clean and the lower part of a leg had been thrown to one side. I choked at the sight and felt a knot rise in my throat. Bradshaw cursed low and turned to cover the doorway. Snell dropped to his knees to close Perkins’s eyes, which were staring off into space, a look of fear still etched upon his features. Miss Havisham laid a hand on Snell’s shoulder.
“I’m so sory, Akrid. Perkins wos a good man.”
“I can’t beleive he wood have been sew stewpid,” muttered Snell angrily.
“We shood be leaving,” said Bradshaw, “now we kno there is definitly a Minotour loose, we must come bak beter armed and with more peeple!”
Snell got up. Behind his MV Mask I could see tears in his eyes. Miss Havisham looked at me and pointed to her carrot, which had started to sprout feathers. A proper cleanup gang would be needed. Snell placed his jacket over Perkins and joined us as Bradshaw led the way out.
“Bak to Norland, yes?”
“I’ve hunted Minotour befour,” said Bradshaw, his instincts alerted, “Stalingrad, 1944. They neffer stray far from the kil.”
“Bradshore—!” urged Miss Havisham, but the commander wasn’t the sort to take orders from another, not even someone as forthright as Havisham.
“I don’t git it,” murmured Snell, stopping for a moment and staring at the chaos within the laboratory and the small glob of purple mist on the floor.