Adult-FanFiction.org : Books

Just A Tiny Spark
By : JaneKrahe
Category: G through L > Inkheart
Views: 1795 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Inkheart. I make no money form this.
Chapter List
- 3
- 4
A/N: Alright, guys, sorry for the wait. We've been in the middle of moving, then my computer pulled the equivalent of a "red-ring" - it's just been real crazy. But as for the story - I wasn't really happy with the last chapter. It was fired off really fast, and while it hit the points I wanted to hit, it didn't quite get the feeling I wanted. So, I spent more time on this one. I hope it's a lot better. I'm certainly way more happy with it. So, yeah, thanks for reading, and listening to me bitch. :)
Oh, and P.S. : The title comes, again, from the song "Hannah" by Robert Downey, Jr. I can't help it, it's one of my favorite! I promise, it's the last one!
Chapter 4: A Bastard with a Problem

Dustfinger sat at the small table in his trailer, sketching out an idea for a new fire trick. He wanted to make the fire turn blue and undulate like ocean waves. The fire itself was being stubborn, but Dustfinger had a wicked tongue, and was positive he could persuade the flames to cooperate. He was more concerned with what the finished product would look like. He couldn't work on a stage - the curtains and wood was too much temptation for even the tamest of fires. He had to work on packed dirt, in the midst of the crowd. Unfortunately, fire got nervous when too many crowded close. So how to make the fire spread like water without it nipping at the feet of the awestruck masses?
Dustfinger was wrestling with this when the door to his trailer banged open. He was momentarily stunned, and turned to yell at the intruder. The young blonde in the doorway had a distant look in her eyes; her arms were laden with shopping bags, and new clothes hung on her bony frame. They seemed too big, but most things seemed too big for her. Dustfinger bit back his harsh words. This little girl, this Meggie, seemed like the type to burst into tears at the first shot of venom. Standing there in the doorway, framed by harsh desert light, she seemed made of glazed porcelain, beautiful and breakable. Dustfinger shook such thoughts from his head; they did him no good.
"What's on your mind?" he asked.
Meggie's blue eyes looked at him, but he could tell she wasn't really seeing him. "Did he lie to me?" she asked.
"Um... what?"
Meggie set the bags down and moved forward. "Did my father lie to me?"
Dustfinger laughed. "Most definitely." He didn't know what lies her father had told, but he was certain she'd been lied to. All parents lie, and for every reason in the world.
She sat down at the table across from him, looking stricken. "But... why?"
Dustfinger shrugged. "To protect you; to control you. Because he loved you; because he didn't love you. There are as many reasons to lie as there are lies themselves."
Meggie absorbed this, but remained silent. After a few moments, Dustfinger went back to his work. But he couldn't help glancing up at the girl every few minutes as she contemplated the worn, speckled table-top. She set his nerves on edge, and he couldn’t pinpoint exactly why. Finally, he sighed, setting his pencil on the table. “So, you met Angela,” he said, mostly to break the strange, thick silence.
Meggie jumped slightly. Her eyes found his more slowly than he would have liked. “Yes,” she replied. “She’s... nice.”
“Yeah, she is.” Dustfinger leaned forward, clasping his hands in front of him. “Listen kid,” he began, “whatever your old life was, it’s catching up to you. I can see it; it’s something you see a lot around here. The walls built up by your family or father or husband or whoever are crumbling. The rug has been pulled from under you, and everything you’ve ever known is gone. You’re trying to make sense of everything that’s ever happened, trying to reconcile your old life with what you’re seeing now. So, here’s my advice for you: don’t try.”
Meggie looked up at him in surprise.
Dustfinger nodded. “You’ll kill yourself trying to reason it out, give yourself an aneurysm trying to make the pieces fit. What you have to realize is that they don’t fit. Whatever has happened to you in the past is never going to makes sense to you. It’s never going to be okay. But the thing is, it doesn’t have to be. You don’t have to understand it; all you have to do, all you can do is accept it. Accept it and get on. Get on with your life. Don’t let the bastards in your past control who you are here. Because this place is for fresh starts, love, and you’re a fool if you don’t take advantage of it.” Dustfinger wasn’t sure what had made him say that; it was the same advice given to him years ago by a drunken old monk in an Italian village. Meggie just... she looked like she needed to hear it.
Dustfinger stood, planning on practicing the blue flames. As he turned away, he heard a small voice say, “Thanks.” Dustfinger just smiled and left.
*************

Mortimer Folchart paced the floor of his best friend's office. "I don't know, Zach, I just don't - "
"Hey, we'll find her." Zach's voice was calm, soothing. "I've got every cop from here to Timbuktu looking for her. I'm sure she's fine."
"I just don't understand what happened." Mo ran his hands over his face and through his hair. "She came into the barn, she gave me this big hug... then she just turned and... and ran. I mean, no warning, no nothing. She's never even tried to run away before.”
“Mo,” Zach began, voice placating, “she’ll be fine. Who knows? Maybe one of those Winchester boys got to her. Maybe something spooked her. I know she spends a great deal of time with that Fenoglio at his bookshop. Maybe something there’s been putting ideas into her head.”
Mo paused in his pacing, turning to his friend. “You know, I never thought of that. We should go talk to him.”
Zachariah nodded. “C’mon man, where‘s she gonna go? I mean, she’ll all alone out there.”
*************

Fenoglio hummed to himself as he placed books on the shelves. His store was empty. It was near closing, but then his store was usually empty. The town he’d set up shop in was rather... restricted. He hadn’t realized quite how restricted until a few weeks after opening.

A man had come in, dragging a girl of about sixteen behind him. He’d slammed a book onto Fenoglio’s counter, behind which Fenoglio was sat, reading a catalog. Fenoglio had jumped at the sound, and peered up at the man in confusion. “Is - is something the matter?” he asked.
“Yes, something is very much ‘the matter’,” the man had raged. “You’re selling filth to our children!”
Fenoglio’s confusion had increased, for the book the man had set before him was Peter Pan. “Forgive me, but... I don’t understand.”
“This book is filth!” the man insisted. “Boys coming into girl’s rooms in the middle of the night, half-naked fairies, grown men living together without a single woman in sight - it’s the work of the devil!”
Fenoglio had been rendered speechless. He’d heard some silly complaints about books before, but this was just insane. The man had snarled at him, “Clean the sin from your shop, or you may find yourself out of business!”, and dragged the girl back outside.
The next day, Fenoglio had been treated to a visit by the town sheriff, Zachariah Smithson, and the leader of the local church, Mortimer Folchart. Folchart was the most impressive, handsome, and frightening man Fenoglio had ever met, and it was obvious that, though he held no political power, he was the real leader of this small town. Zachariah stood behind him the entire time, silent, his smile like that of a hungry shark. Folchart had told him, with a smile and blessing, that if he stocked anything the local church considered “sinful”, that he would be unequivocally thrown out of town. The sheriff’s presence that day told Fenoglio that he would find no help of the lawful kind should such a thing happen.
Fenoglio had wanted to leave, but the subversive in him refused. He’d spent this youth protesting war, racism, sexism, and homophobia. And though he was now an old man, he wasn’t about to start succumbing to censorship, not completely anyway.
He felt out the locals, and when he met one he thought would understand, he gave them a password, and allowed them to see the back room. And while he stocked the main floor of his shop with bibles and other religious tracts, he kept the backroom full of fairies and magic, and all manner of poetry. Everything the fathers of the town hated was laid out for their wives and children.
In his own way, Fenoglio hoped that these books, these characters, might save someone. He hoped that Tom and Huck, and Frodo, and Harry Potter, and Lyra Belaqua Silvertongue, would encourage these children to seek out their own fortunes; to break the chains their fathers placed round their ankles.
And so Fenoglio ran his bookshop, ushering in a few at a time, hoping to show them the world.
His musings were interrupted by the bell hanging above his door. Fenoglio looked up, smiling, but frowned when he saw Mortimer Folchart, followed closely by his lapdog of a sheriff. “Mr. Fenoglio,” Folchart said, his voice smooth and deadly as poisoned silk. “How are you today?”
“Oh, um... fine, I suppose.” Fenoglio fumbled with his catalog, finally putting it down because his hands were shaking. Though Zachariah carried his police-issue Beretta on his hip, his hand resting on it like a favorite pet, and Folchart was unarmed, it was Mortimer who scared Fenoglio the most. Everything about him oozed a sweet venom, and it was obvious that he held the entire town in a web of charm and fear.
Mortimer nodded. “That’s good. I was wondering, do you have any reading materials that are... off the shelves, so to speak?”
Fenoglio tried to remain calm. “Um... what do you mean.?”
Mortimer shrugged. "Maybe something more like what you used to sell here. More specifically, have you sold any to my daughter?"
Fenoglio laughed dryly. "Your daughter? You'll have to be more specific than that. You've as many daughters as you have wives. Not sure how you tell them apart, actually. Heh. Not sure you even try."
Fenoglio saw the sheriff moving from the corner of his eye, but his reflexes weren't what they once where. So when the blade of the sheriff's small pocket knife came down hard on the back of the old man's hand, slicing between his tendons, all the way through to the desk, he could do nothing but scream and curse. "Ooh, you... you sadists! You sick, religious zealots!" He wrenched the knife from the back of his hand, and wrapped his handkerchief around the wound. Thick red blood dripped down onto his catalog, and the copper smell invaded his nose, making his stomach turn.
"Now, now, now," cooed Mortimer, leaning forward. "Is that anyway to speak to your fellow man?"
"You're not a man," Fenoglio hissed through gritted teeth. "You're a monster."
Mortimer nodded. "Perhaps. But this monster is missing his daughter. And if you know anything about it... you will tell me. Now."
Fenoglio gave a hitching laugh. "You... you've lost one of your precious breeding mares, eh? Ha ha ha... can't even watch your own... own stable."
"Her name is Meggie," Zachariah said. "Do you know her?"
"'Course I know her. Pretty little slip of a thing, blonde, smart as a whip. Too smart. You'll never find her." Fenoglio laughed, and continued laughing as Mortimer nodded to Zachariah, and the sheriff raised his pistol to the old man's temple.
Fenoglio took a deep breath. "Oh, Mr. Folchart," he said, grinning. "The wrath of Heaven shall be upon you for all the sins you've committed. I'll see you in Hell."
Mortimer smiled. "Perhaps." He nodded to Zachariah once more.
The shot rang through the empty store, the books on the shelves standing in mournful silence for the loss of their warden.
- 3
- 4
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Just A Tiny Spark	By : JaneKrahe Category: G through L > Inkheart Views: 1795 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Inkheart. I make no money form this.

Just A Tiny Spark