1

YIDAKI

When cats dream, they assume the august attitudes of mighty sphinxes stretched out in solitude and they seem to fall into a sleep of endless dreams. Magical sparks burst from their fertile loins and particles of gold, like fine grains of sand, dimly sparkle in their mystic eyes.

Charles Baudelaire

There was only a week to go before the start of the Christmas holidays when Peter found out that his holidays were going to be different this year. His parents had promised to pick him up that evening at six, but, as usual, they didn’t keep their promise. He waited for them at the gates to his boarding school for some time, watching how other boarders left school for the holidays, how the old iron gate closed and how night spread its cloak over the city. It was not one of those pleasant afternoons when you want to go for a walk in the park, but one of those wet and cold afternoons you get in winter when darkness devours the day before its time and the best spot in the whole world is next to the fireplace at home.

Peter sat waiting on a bench for hours and hours with a pile of suitcases next to him, his body shrinking from the cold as he hoped the small drop of rain that had just fallen on his nose was not the beginning of a downpour.

When the family limousine finally arrived to pick him up, he was hardly able to move a muscle and, cold to the bone, he got into the car with chattering teeth.

His mother gave him a kiss on the cheek, giving one of her usual excuses for being late, which he barely paid attention to. The truth was he didn’t care. More than three months had passed since they’d last seen each other, and that had been on his first day at the school.

When we think of boarding schools, we tend to think of grey buildings like bunkers or youth detention centres, but that could not be further from the truth in this case. This particular boarding school was very prestigious and was housed inside an old stone monastery, boasting velvet curtains and oak tables. But this didn’t mean that the school didn’t have timetables to adhere to or rules and punishments, strict teachers with too much wax in their ears, students whose only topic of conversation was how rich their families were and a strict reverence for discipline, a reverence that was both absurd and excessive at the same time. At that time, all bad things considered, Peter was happy to be leaving, even if he was only to be gone a few days and to be spending some time with his parents.

It was then that his mother told him, using that tone of voice that meant nothing good was about to come, ‘Peter, your father and I have to go away on urgent business.’

Those two words, ‘travel’ and ‘urgent’, were the two words he had heard most often in his lifetime. Peter’s parents had an absolute fortune, but this meant they had very little time as they spent most of it making sure their fortune didn’t vanish overnight in a bad investment or a ruinous business.

‘We thought it would be best for you to stay with my brother, your Uncle Basilius,’ added his mother.

His parents, like almost everybody else’s, always did what they thought best for their child. For Peter that meant travelling often, changing schools every five seconds and sleeping in a different hotel room every night. All this didn’t do much for his academic performance so, after a while, they decided that ‘the best thing for him’ would be to send him away to boarding school for the best part of the year.

‘Uncle Basilius?’ he asked, feeling displeased. ‘I don’t want to go to anybody’s house. I’m better off at school if that’s the only option.’

‘Come on, Peter,’ said his mother in a caring way. ‘Don’t you remember what a good time you used to have there when you were little? You spent all your time running around the house and playing out in the garden.’

His mother was a very beautiful woman who knew how to use her powers of persuasion to get what she wanted, but Peter was already well aware that she could talk a lot and make empty promises, and he wasn’t about to let himself fall into that trap again.

‘Mum, I’m twelve years old. I don’t enjoy running up and down stairs anymore. It’s actually quite dangerous.’

‘I know, Peter, but this is really urgent business,’ said his mother, carefully touching up her make-up.

‘He doesn’t even have a television,’ retorted Peter.

‘Did I hear you say TV?’ interrupted his father, taking his eyes away from one of the reports he was reading, something he rarely did. ‘Young lad, after all those poor marks you got, do you really think we’re going to let you watch TV?’

‘Your father’s right,’ said his mother while absent-mindedly twirling her spectacular blonde hair.

Peter’s father, Mr Hillman, was a very rigorous man. He didn’t like surprises or improvisation, everything had to go exactly as planned, and nothing annoyed him more than something coming up out of the blue or taking him by surprise. So, when something like Peter’s studies didn’t meet his expectations, he set out to resolve it as soon as possible.

‘Do you know how much it costs to send you to such a prestigious school?’ his father asked. His father had a small moustache, and his hair was slicked back. He didn’t look like the kind of man who could take a joke.

He didn’t wait for an answer and went back to his papers.

‘I thought the state paid for prisons…’ muttered Peter quietly though he felt that, even if he were to shout, his parents wouldn’t hear him.

He knew it didn’t really matter what he thought or said. It felt as though what annoyed his father most wasn’t that he was failing, but that he was wasting his money. His parents organized their lives so efficiently, always deciding what would be better or worse for Peter. But when things didn’t turn out how they planned, they blamed him, calling him lazy and telling him he would never be successful. Their relationship had changed a lot over the years, and memories of going for walks with his parents or spending afternoons at home together were nothing but a distant illusion.

He decided not to try again and rested his head against the window, watching the wooden and stone houses of the old part of the city pass by as he caught glimpses of windows lit up by orange glows and tables already laid for dinner by the warmth of the fire.

After some time they arrived at his uncle’s house. Peter hardly remembered what it looked like. It had been years since their last visit, and that wasn’t just because his parents were very busy, but also because Uncle Basilius seemed to travel a lot too.

He thought it a strange kind of house. When you first saw it, it resembled a traditional building made of stone and dark wood, but when you looked more closely, you could tell there was nothing ‘traditional’ about it at all. It must once have been one of those classic ramshackle houses to which balconies, small round windows, galleries and even new rooms held up by beams, like little tree houses, had been added. That was exactly what it looked like – a dream. The old palace seemed to have grown with time, its branches spreading over the starry sky.

Peter tried to remember the last time he had been there. Perhaps he was trying to find something to be happy about, but his head filled with blurry images of food and books, nothing else.

He remembered his uncle had been celebrating his fiftieth birthday, but his mother had since told him he’d been doing the same for years and they hadn’t been back since. That was three or four years ago, a period that for someone of Peter’s age felt like an entire lifetime.

Resigned, he got out of the car and walked with his parents across the beautiful garden where there were hundreds of different plants: fruit trees, flowers that were colourful even in the depths of winter and mushrooms that resembled animals!

When they reached the large oak door, his mother pulled on a small silver chain, and a bell rung inside the house.

Mrs Spinelli opened the door to them, wearing an apron.

‘Welcome! Perfectly on time!’ she sang in a strong Italian accent.

Mrs Spinelli had lots of energy about her. A woman with red cheeks and ample hips, she was never going to retire. She had been working there for so many years people had lost count. She was the keeper of keys, the cook and the seamstress, the one who ran any errands that needed doing and the one to whom all manner of other tasks fell.

‘Francesco! They’re here!’ she shouted into the house.

That was what she called her husband, Mr Spinelli, the gardener, chauffeur, carpenter and general handyman, and the one who kept a certain order in Basilius Hoffman’s eccentric life.

Mr Spinelli appeared in the corridor, walking slowly and dragging his feet. He was an old man, and the years were etched on him – although he was tall, time bore down on his shoulders and bent him like the branches of a weeping willow. He wore brown trousers and a grey jumper.

‘Buona sera, Mr and Mrs Hillman,’ he said slowly. ‘Good afternoon, young lad,’ he added, speaking to Peter.

‘Presto! Take the luggage up and tell the professor they’re here,’ urged his wife.

Mr Spinelli looked with resignation at the pile of heavy suitcases the chauffer had carried into the entrance hall. He picked up the luggage in one go with bored effortlessness and, as Peter gazed in astonishment, he started to walk up the stairs, slowly and with a heavy gait.

‘Come in, come in. Please don’t wait at the door,’ said Mrs Spinelli with the same marked Italian accent she shared with her husband. ‘You can wait for the professor in the living room.’

Peter couldn’t remember anything about this place and was surprised by everything around him. The house had an old feel to it, but was very well looked after. All kinds of wood had been used to build it and looked magnificent. There were rugs and mirrors all over the place and lamps that gave off a lovely light, giving the place a very comfortable feel indeed. From the kitchen, along with the muffled sound of a football match on the radio, emanated the smell of a veritable feast.

The Hillman family was led through to a large room. Peter’s father sat down in a comfortable Victorian armchair next to the fireplace and consulted his diary.

There were shelves filled with books that looked quite old. The titles were printed in gold and silver, many written in languages Peter didn’t know. On other shelves were lots of different objects: flutes, drums and kettledrums, curious musical instruments, all kinds of masks, long and short pipes, rudimentary weapons made from bone and stone, medieval swords and millions of other things he couldn’t recognize. On the walls hung paintings, etchings and tapestries with landscapes of remote lands: ardent deserts, snowy mountains, woods bathed in moonlight and tropical islands.

An old book bound in brown leather sat half open on a sofa and caught Peter’s attention. On the cover was a golden apple with the letter ‘A’ printed inside it. He surreptitiously flicked through the pages and was surprised to find that it was a collection of loose sheets of different kinds and ages. Some were fragments from stories written by hand on sheets taken from notebooks, others were drawings done by a young child with wax crayons from school, there were poems, old sepia photos, notes from diaries, large maps without references or scales – a pile of documents that seemed to bear no relation to each other, not even to share the same author.

‘Dinner’s almost ready,’ said Mrs Spinelli, causing Peter to put the book back carefully in an effort to make sure no one saw. ‘The professor will come down once my husband tells him you’re here. Apologies, but he only got back from a long trip to Australia a few hours ago and must be resting, he can’t have heard the bell.’

‘I heard the bell, Mrs Spinelli, don’t worry,’ said Uncle Basilius, who came into the room at that very moment. ‘I just couldn’t find my blasted slippers.’

As Peter could well see, he must have abandoned his quest since each slipper was a different colour. This made his appearance even more peculiar. He wasn’t a tall man. A man in good health, his stomach protruded somewhat. His ginger hair fell thickly on both sides of his face, and he wore it in a ponytail tied with an intricately designed bronze ring. His beard and the long moustache that grew below his red cheeks were also both ginger. He wore a white shirt and a brown waistcoat on which the gold chain of a pocket watch stood out. His black trousers were striped. He finished off this curious outfit with a red tie that looked like the decoration on top of a cake.

‘How lovely to see you again,’ he said, hugging Peter’s mother, who limply returned the hug. He took a step back, still holding her by the shoulders and gazing at her with those deep, blue eyes of his, perhaps trying to recognize the girl who had once been his sister and who had changed so much over time.

After shaking hands with Peter’s father, he bent down to look directly at Peter.

‘Mmm, you’re not very tall for your age,’ he said to everyone’s surprise. ‘A true Hoffman. We have chocolate and banana cake for after dinner. That was your favourite, wasn’t it?’

‘Ah, yes, thank you,’ said Peter, surprised his uncle could remember something he liked.

Mrs Spinelli brought out a delicious selection of dishes: pumpkin soup with croutons, tuna pastries, chicken and mushrooms in cream sauce and, of course, the promised chocolate and banana tart, crowned with a snowy mountain of delicious meringue.

After dinner, Uncle Basilius decided to show them the new musical instrument he had brought back from his trip to Australia. Faced with Peter’s incredulity and despite the hurriedness and reticence of his parents, he convinced them to stay a moment longer.

‘Mr Spinelli, could you bring through my latest acquisition, please?’

A few instants later, Francesco appeared carrying the most peculiar and bizarre of objects.

The instrument in question was a whitish wooden trunk about two metres in length that twisted and turned smoothly, much like a trumpet. It was carefully polished and had been inscribed with incomprehensible symbols. According to his uncle, it was a very rare version of the ‘Yidaki’, a strange instrument used by aboriginal Australians.

In accordance with his instructions, all the lights were turned out until the only light left in the room came from the fireplace. Uncle Basilius took a breath and blew into the straightest of the instrument’s tubes.

The note was long and deep, like that of an enormous horn. Peter felt as though the sound diminished only to come back as an echo. He shut his eyes. A strong wind blew around him, a fresh, invigorating kind of wind that whispered in his ears. As new notes were played, he felt like he was standing between two tall mountains, with the sound falling into deep valleys and resonating from their deepest point. The sound made Peter feel as though everything else had disappeared. It was as though he were dreaming. He felt as though he were at the top of the mountains, almost touching the sky, aware only of his own presence, his own thoughts, and without interruptions from people telling him what to do or how to act. He felt free. He remained like this while the echo from the last note faded away and the wind died down. They all opened their eyes and were back in the room once more.

The Hillmans didn’t waste a second in saying goodbye, they picked up their coats and were already opening the door to leave when Peter’s father reminded him to use the time to study and catch up on the subjects he had failed. His mother gave him a kiss and promised they would try and be back by Christmas. Peter looked into her eyes and felt as though something small had changed in her. Perhaps she wanted to stay there with him and not go off on this trip, but something bigger was forcing her to carry through with her duties.

‘So, would you like to learn how to play the Yidaki?’ Uncle Basilius asked Peter once his parents had gone. ‘Or perhaps you’d like to talk about something in my travel books. Your choice. What do you think?’

The thought of listening to the battles his uncle had been in was the last thing he wanted after the day he’d had, a day that had already been particularly long and tiresome for Peter, so he quickly responded:

‘Thank you, but I’m quite tired and I’d rather go to bed.’

‘Of course, I understand. What with your trip and everything else. OK, sleep well so you’re ready for tomorrow. I’ve some things planned that I’m sure you’ll enjoy.’

‘Fantastic,’ thought Peter. Just what he needed: to have to do a whole load of boring old people’s activities.

‘I’m not sure. I have some homework I have to get done,’ he excused himself in an effort not to get involved.

‘Well, that’s a shame,’ said his uncle, his voice tinged with sadness. ‘Studies must come first.’

He walked him to his room, which was on one of the higher floors. It was small, but welcoming, and had been fashioned in dark wood. There was a bed covered with a thick blanket, a wardrobe, hanging shelves, an old full-body mirror and a desk that appeared to be quite valuable. There was also a window with a small bench next to it so you could enjoy the room’s fantastic views.

‘I hope you like it. If you need anything, just pull on the chain next to the bed to let us know.’

‘Thanks. I just need to get some sleep,’ replied Peter.

‘Rest well then.’ Before shutting the door, he asked, ‘Peter, what did you feel when you listened to the Yidaki?’

Peter thought about his answer for a second. He hadn’t been expecting such a question.

‘Well, I’m not too sure. I felt as though a huge weight had been lifted from me, as though all my worries had disappeared. It felt quite relaxing.’

‘I see,’ said Uncle Basilius pensively. ‘Do you think your parents felt the same?’

‘I’m not sure, my mother perhaps… I don’t know… I think my father would need chloroform before he could relax,’ he said, laughing at his own joke.

‘Your mother…right. I’ll leave you to it now. Good night.’ Uncle Basilius closed the bedroom door.

Peter found himself alone in front of the mirror. He still had his uniform on. He moved away from the mirror quickly and then turned it against the wall. He didn’t like to look at himself. He didn’t have a slender body and knew he ran the risk of soon becoming obese. He had lovely, coppery hair that fell limply in front of his eyes. And, to add to his woes, his uncle deemed him ‘short for his age’.

It wasn’t long before he’d taken off the uniform he hated so much and replaced it with pyjamas. He quickly fell face first on the bed. Muffled notes from the Yidaki his uncle was playing downstairs began to sound while the stars and moon shone on the rooftops on the other side of the window. He went to sleep, contemplating them without thinking that very night his life was going to change forever.

That night, Peter’s first at Basilius Hoffman’s house, was truly strange. But, for those who knew the professor, the night wouldn’t seem so out of the ordinary – it might even seem normal.

Peter slept like a log and didn’t notice a small figure appear on the other side of the window. Had he done so, he would have seen the figure use a sharp fingernail to draw a circle on the glass, cut through it as though it were butter, and then stick a hairy foot through the gap and open the lock. With great care and without making even the slightest sound, the figure agilely jumped into the bedroom, muffling the sound with its catlike slippers.

The figure’s clothes were made of dark blue velvet and, even when standing on two legs, it was barely half a metre tall.

Trying to pass unnoticed, the figure opened a leather bag that hung from its shoulders and took out a small purple bag. Loosening the tie that kept the bag closed, the figure placed its small hand inside and took out a handful of something that looked like sand. Then it threw the sand into the air, leaving a cloud of golden particles floating above the bed where Peter was sleeping.

The reflection of an image appeared in the cloud, as though emitted by an invisible projector. It was Peter galloping on horseback through a wood.

Feline eyes, watching the scene, shone in the darkness of the room – everything seemed to be going to plan. Next, the figure opened a piece of material protecting a silver instrument that looked like an enormous syringe. He pointed it at the cloud and started to blow through it while the object acquired a blue glow. Once the figure had finished this operation and started to put everything back in its bag, the door flew open.

Peter woke with a start, looked around and saw his Uncle Basilius, who had just come into the room. In his right hand, he was wielding something with great speed, and his eyes darted around the room to identify the intruder. As soon as he spotted the mysterious figure at the back of the room, he threw the object at it with great force. Two metallic balls tied together with a cord rushed past Peter and headed towards a shadow at the foot of his bed. They didn’t manage to trap the figure. Emitting the same wail as an enraged cat, the creature jumped backwards, bounced off the walls, the ceiling, the floor and out of the window, leaving the balls to fly into each other, getting wound up in the hanging shelves.

‘Blast!’ protested Basilius, trying to reach the figure. But the creature was already lost in the night, jumping over the rooftops.

Peter turned the light on while his uncle closed the window and shut the blinds.

‘What was that?!! What was that thing?! What is going on?!’

‘Don’t worry Peter, stay calm,’ said Uncle Basilius.

‘But what was that?!’ he insisted.

‘Hmmm… The truth is I don’t know, but I think we ought to find out. It looks as though they left this behind in their haste,’ remarked Basilius, retrieving the curious metallic object from the floor.

‘And what is that?’ asked Peter, getting out of bed.

He approached the object, his face lit up by the blue light it emitted.

‘I’m not sure,’ replied his uncle, feeling frustrated. ‘And this isn’t the best place to find out. Let’s go to my study and take a closer look.’

Peter put on some slippers and a dressing gown, even though it always seemed to be nice and warm in the house, and followed his uncle.

‘So, Uncle Basilius, how did you know that someone had come into my room?’ he asked with intrigue.

‘It’s simple. Come, I’ll show you.’

The professor took him up to his bedroom and showed him the alarm system he had invented. It consisted of a set of small bells, each labelled with a different part of the house. He explained how they were connected to the doors and windows by an extremely fine nylon thread.

‘You never know who might want to come into the house or where they might come in.’

This didn’t surprise Peter in the least because there were a whole host of valuable things in that house.

When they got to his study, which was at the very top of the house, Uncle Basilius turned on a lamp on his desk and placed the object under the light. He found a curious monocle, which turned out to be a watchmaker’s lens, and started to examine the object in minute detail.

While he was carrying out this operation, Peter tried to look around the room, but the fact there was so little light meant he couldn’t see further than three feet from the table. He felt as though the room must be quite large and supposed it took up a good part of the house’s attic. The little moonlight that entered the room through small skylights emphasized the outlines of tall shelves and strange instruments. Peter even fancied he could see a staircase that got lost in the darkness.

‘Aha!’ said the professor, interrupting Peter’s examination of the room.

‘Do you know what it is, Uncle Basilius?’

‘To be honest, no. I don’t know what it’s used for, but I’ve worked out it holds something inside and, if I push this, we’ll find out what it is.’

He pressed the mechanism gently, and a small stream of sparkling sand fell on to the desk. He picked the lens up to examine the sand and used a letter opener to sift through the sand on the table.

‘How odd!’ murmured Uncle Basilius. ‘It looks like normal sand, but that gold sparkle is definitely something to worry about.’

He picked up some sand and held it between two fingers so he could feel its texture.

‘Astonishing! Look, Peter!’ he added. ‘It seems as though there’s a kind of magnetism between the particles.’

He divided the sand into two heaps that were similar in size, and they observed in amazement how the small grains started to slide towards a middle point, where they joined together and formed a single pile.

‘May I?’ asked Peter, wanting to experience this miracle for himself.

‘Go ahead,’ replied his uncle after pondering for a moment whether it could be dangerous. ‘Two heads are better than one.’

As soon as Peter touched the sand, its sparkle disappeared.

‘Well!’ said the professor with surprise. ‘What happened there?’

Peter’s eyes were wide open as though he had just remembered something important.

‘Are you OK, Peter?’

‘Yes…yes. It’s just that suddenly I felt something like a camera flash, but it’s not important.’

‘Perhaps it is. Think about how you feel, anything that comes into your mind, say the first thing that occurs to you.’

‘Well, I’ve just remembered that today I had a dream that I was riding on horseback, but I don’t know what that has to do with anything.’

‘A dream, you say?’ mused Uncle Basilius. He then put a little more sand on the table. ‘Touch it again, Peter, and concentrate.’

Peter reached out with his hand and, closing his eyes, put his finger into the sparkling dust. The sand lost its sparkle again.

‘Yes!’ said Peter, startled. ‘It happened again. Now I remember what I was doing. I was riding a horse through the middle of a wood.’

Basilius didn’t wait another second. He emptied all the sand on to the table and invited Peter to touch it. As soon as Peter put his hand in the sand, his face lit up.

‘It’s incredible, Uncle Basilius. Now I can remember the dream perfectly. The sound of the birds… I remember I was getting closer to the sea and riding over the waves… I don’t know how I could have forgotten.’

‘It’s not that you forgot, Peter,’ said the professor with concern. ‘They stole the memory from you. And…’ he said, moving the sand around again, ‘it seems as though the sand has lost whatever made it so magnetic.’

‘Stole? What do you mean? That’s impossible!’ exclaimed Peter as he followed his uncle, who, lamp in hand, was searching for something on a shelf.

‘Here it is,’ he said, taking out a book bound in black leather.

He gave the map to Peter, who, when he held the lamp to the book, could read the title: Compendium of Anglo-Saxon Legends.

The professor started to flick through the book, which was filled with drawings of mysterious creatures and lands.

‘Here it is… The Sandman,’ said the professor, holding the book open on that particular page. ‘According to legend, this figure carries a bag of magic sand with him. He appears to blow the sand into children’s eyes to give them sweet dreams.’

‘But it says “to give them”, not “to steal them”. Do you think the sand could do both things?’ asked Peter.

‘I don’t know. But I’m sure the creature we saw earlier didn’t look anything like the description we have here of the Sandman.’

‘No, it didn’t,’ said Peter, looking at the drawing in the book of a tall, thin man pale as sunlight. ‘The figure looked more like… a cat.’

‘Now I come to think of it, you’re absolutely right!’ exclaimed Uncle Basilius. ‘If it wasn’t on two legs and we could double its size, we could say it was some kind of feline creature.’

He closed the book and put it back on the shelf. Then he looked at his pocket watch, thought for a second and said:

‘I’m going to try and find out a bit more. I think I know someone who might know something about this.’

‘Now?’ asked Peter. ‘You’re going to go out at this time?’

‘It’s the right time. Believe me. This can only be done at night.’

Peter’s curiosity was piqued. He felt completely awake and, though he sensed this couldn’t be real, an excitement for the unknown pushed him to carry on.

‘Let me go with you, Uncle Basilius,’ said Peter, surprised at his own determination.

‘I don’t know, Peter. I’m not sure it’s appropriate.’

‘Please. I’ll behave myself.’

‘It’s not that, the place I’m going…’ He thought carefully about his words, looked into his nephew’s eyes and added, ‘Your parents wouldn’t allow it.’

‘My parents never let me do anything that’s not organized, supervised and boring. They’re not even here and, if they left me here with you, they knew perfectly well what they were doing so they must have thought of this too,’ replied Peter.

‘Ha, ha, ha!’ Basilius Hoffman’s laugh filled the room. ‘You’re sharp, those are good arguments. Very well. If you decide to come with me, you’ll have to keep a secret.’

‘A secret? What do you mean?’

‘The place where we’re going is hidden to most and must stay like that for the time being.’

‘I understand… I won’t say anything, I promise. You have my word.’

‘You may well be a true Hoffman. Perhaps… yes, perhaps destiny gave you this opportunity for some reason,’ declared Basilius as his gaze bore deeper into Peter, as though he was trying to get into his nephew’s mind. ‘Do you know, Peter? The place where we’re going could change your life forever. You would never have to be concerned about your worries or your problems again.’

‘If that’s true, then I want to go with you. I’m tired of living in fear – in fear of my parents, of my schoolmates, of not being able to make a decision of my own. I want to do this, Uncle Basilius.’

Although it didn’t look like it, Basilius Hoffman knew this would be one of the most important decisions Peter would ever take and only over time would the consequences of his choice become clear.

‘Very well, Peter. Wrap up because it’s cold out at night. Be ready in ten minutes,’ ordered Professor Basilius.

Peter didn’t hesitate a second before running to his room. He opened one of the suitcases that were still in the corner, took out some large brown boots, some gloves and a feather-filled jacket.

While he was getting dressed, he asked himself over and over again what this mysterious place where they were going could be. He started to think that perhaps his uncle wasn’t as dull as he had imagined and that the day had more in store than he had given it credit for that morning. Once he had finished getting dressed, he put on a woollen scarf and raced down the stairs. Seven minutes and eight seconds later, he was ready and waiting for his uncle at the front of the house. When the time was up, a voice came from the top of the stairs.

‘May I ask what you’re doing waiting down there? Come on. Come upstairs right away, we don’t have all night.’

Peter was even more intrigued.

He climbed the stairs, and together they returned to the study. Uncle Basilius was wearing a thick jacket and carrying an old gas lamp to light the way. The study was as big as Peter had imagined and in the dim light scared Peter a little. Passing by the shelves, the professor picked up an old leather bag that still had some mud on it from Australia.

‘He’s just come back from the other side of the world,’ thought Peter, ‘and already he’s starting a new adventure.’

They went through the laboratory and stopped in front of a shelf. Peter looked around and felt overwhelmed by the weight of secrets the books must contain and by the mysterious halo surrounding this sanctuary.

Uncle Basilius took a thick volume down from the shelf and put his arm into the hole left by the book. There was a click and then the sound of a mechanism turning. The piece of furniture separated from the wall, giving way to a hidden passage.

‘It’s not as simple as it looks. Get it wrong when activating the opening mechanism, and you can say goodbye to your arm,’ remarked Basilius sombrely.

The passage was barely three metres long and stopped in front of a wrought-iron spiral staircase that climbed into the darkness. Peter followed his uncle up while the metal structure groaned threateningly.

Finally they reached the top, opened a trapdoor that let the cold wind of the night in and emerged outside. They were in a small tower on top of the roof. There was nothing unique about it, except for a bronze bell that was the size of a pumpkin and hung from a wooden branch.

Peter looked around him until the fog blurred his view. The city spread out in front of him like a silent sea of rooftops. Only the wind and the occasional miaow broke the sense of peace.

Uncle Basilius put the lamp to one side and, searching in his bag, produced a small, golden hammer, similar to those used by geologists, and started to ring the bell. The sound was sharp and clear, and it seemed to awaken a soft wind that cleared the fog as it spread over the rooftops, like a rippling wave after a small stone has been thrown into a pond.

Once it had stopped ringing, he hit the bell again and did so three times. Then he sat on the stone floor and took out a pipe made of bone.

‘Now all we have to do is wait,’ declared Basilius while the smoke from his pipe floated off into the night sky.

2

ARGESTES

The city of cats and the city of men exist one inside the other, but they are not the same city.

Italo Calvino

Sat on the ground, Basilius Hoffman smoked his pipe and, each time he breathed in, an orange glow lit up his pensive face. He was thinking about that night and was gravely concerned by everything that had happened.

Peter decided not to disturb his uncle and whiled away the time by watching the dark grey clouds slowly but surely cover the sky, a thick fog invading the streets below. Soon he found himself sat next to the professor, seeking refuge from the icy winter wind.

Minutes passed without anything happening. Basilius had closed his eyes some time ago, and it looked as though he had fallen asleep. Peter, for his part, had started to wonder whether accompanying his uncle had been a good idea. Just as he had decided to go back to his room, something in the sky caught his eye.

‘Uncle Basilius! I think I saw something!’ said Peter excitedly. ‘There in the sky! Look! A blue light!’

And there it was, in the clouds they could distinguish a bluish sparkle. The light began moving closer, and Peter realized the house was surrounded by a sea of fog. Basilius Hoffman stood up slowly, held the lamp up high so they could see more, and said:

‘Here it is, Peter. Welcome to the Argestes!’

Right at that moment, a light pierced the clouds. Like someone emerging from the water, a cylindrical construction surrounded by small windows came down towards the tower. Above the basket, there was an enormous, old hot-air balloon, red in colour with gold decorations. The balloon was what held the structure up. It was a boat made of iron and wood, better than any Peter had ever seen before. It was the size of a room, and a circular corridor completely surrounded its outside, as though it were a balcony. It reminded Peter, unsurprisingly, of those capsules designed for plunging right down to the bottom of the ocean, called ‘bathyscaphes’.

The balloon continued its descent, controlling the manoeuvre by pushing vapour out of different tubes wrapped around the basket like bronze snakes. It continued until it came to a halt, suspended slightly in the fog. Light shone out through the small windows on the basket, and there was a door, now right in front of the tower, with a blue bell on either side of it. On the door was a metal plaque that read: ‘Argestes’.

Peter’s breath formed icy spirals as he exhaled. He had quite literally been left breathless by what he could now see before him.

The tower they were standing on was still bathed in light when the door of the balloon opened. A young man dressed in a curious uniform, comprising a red helmet and black trousers, stepped out.

‘Good evening, Professor Basilius. It’s a real pleasure to have you here again. If you could be so kind…’ he said, leaning out to give the professor a piece of rope with which to anchor the ship.

‘Good evening, Xonás. As you can see, I have company tonight. This is my nephew, Peter,’ he replied as he tied the thick rope to a metal ring.

‘Lovely to meet you. I’m Xonás, pilot of the Argestes. I do hope you enjoy the ride,’ said the man, who, in Peter’s eyes, seemed more like a lift attendant than a pilot, though it was true he had never met any balloon pilots before.

‘Thank you…’ was all he could say while, with the help of his uncle, he climbed up the staircase that Xonás had put out.

Once they were all on the platform, Xonás brought the ladder back up and released the ship from its anchor. The balloon slowly began its ascent, and the pilot gracefully jumped back on board.

‘Everyone inside! It’s mightily cold!’ he exclaimed jovially.

It was extremely comfortable inside, a circular room surrounded almost entirely by a plush sofa. Right in the centre was an enormous, old iron burner that fed the hot-air balloon and warmed the air. There was also a shelf with some books, which Peter thought must be there to entertain any travellers aboard the Argestes.

‘Good evening, Professor Hoffman and company,’ said a young girl as soon as they were inside.

Peter lost his breath for the second time that night. The girl was very pretty with white-gold, curly hair that framed her lovely face. Her huge eyes were a strange lilac colour, and she wore an elegant dress that was white and celestial blue.

‘Good evening, Miss Juliet. Call me Basilius, please. This is my nephew, Peter,’ replied the professor in a gentlemanlike manner, bowing slightly as a sign of reverence.

‘Pleased to meet you, Peter. My name’s Juliet.’

‘Would you like something warm to drink? Tea? Chocolate?’ interrupted the pilot.

‘Many thanks, dear Xonás,’ said the professor, who was already warming himself by the burner. ‘I’ll have something chocolatey, please, if it’s not too much trouble, and I’m sure Peter will have one too. We very nearly froze outside.’

Peter didn’t say anything, but inside he enthusiastically thanked his uncle.

‘Another cup of tea, Miss Juliet?’ asked Xonás, already pouring one for her before she had a chance to reply.

Once the drinks had been served and the passengers had made themselves comfortable in the armchairs, the pilot announced in a high and clear voice:

‘Lady and gentlemen, the Argestes is about to start its voyage, I wish you a pleasant flight.’

He pulled some levers and turned a couple of metal wheels on the burner, and then the balloon began its ascent up into the sky.

Peter couldn’t contain himself and walked over to one of the round windows. He saw his uncle’s house disappear beneath a curtain of fog, and then everything around him turned grey. Soon they had passed through the clouds, and a starry sky, with more twinkling stars than he had ever seen before, appeared. The city sat beneath a grey ocean, which the Argestes bounced through, leaving a puff of smoke in its wake.

Peter sipped his drink slowly to avoid burning himself while his uncle talked with the pilot some distance away so Peter couldn’t hear what was going on.

‘So, Peter, you’re Professor Basilius’ nephew, am I right?’ said the girl, taking him by surprise. ‘Come over here. They’ll spend the journey talking and leave us out.’

He moved closer, and Juliet invited him to sit down next to her. She had a lovely, delicate smell that reminded him of violets.

‘Is this the first time you’ve been on the Argestes?’

‘Yes, in fact until a few minutes ago I had no idea I’d be travelling in a balloon,’ replied Peter.

‘Wow!’ she laughed. ‘Your uncle sure loves surprises and theatricality. I suppose you don’t know where you’re going either?’

‘It’s a surprise!’ Basilius’ voice boomed from the depths of the basket. Apparently he had been listening to their entire conversation.

‘Your uncle has a very good ear,’ said Juliet. ‘But that’s hardly surprising. He’s a man of great strength and knowledge, the kind of explorer you don’t find anymore.’

‘My uncle?’ asked Peter in surprise. He had always imagined Basilius to be a bookworm.

‘Well, yes! I think so! One day, you’ll have to ask him to tell you about some of his adventures. Did you know he was once captured by a tribe of cannibals and managed to convince them to become vegetarians?’ asked Juliet, her words brimming with excitement.

‘What?! That’s impossible! How did he manage that? Why didn’t they eat him?!’ objected Peter.

‘I don’t know. He never wanted to tell me,’ replied Juliet, shrugging her shoulders.

‘I’d be delighted to tell the tale in all its detail, Miss Juliet,’ said Professor Basilius, who was still listening to the conversation. ‘You can come and have a cup of tea at my house whenever you feel like it, and I’ll make sure all your doubts disappear.’

‘Professor Basilius, it’s not proper to eavesdrop,’ remarked Juliet with a laugh.

‘I know. Such impoliteness would never occur to me,’ retorted Basilius. ‘The thing is I can lip-read.’

‘Touché, professor. I surrender before your logic,’ replied Juliet, laughing hysterically.

Her laugh, kind and sincere, was catching, and soon the others joined in.

‘You are very lucky to be able to travel in the Argestes, did you know that, Peter?’ she continued. ‘Very few have access to it.’

‘So why do they pick my uncle up at the door to his house then…? On the very rooftop, in fact,’ Peter corrected himself.

A mischievous smile spread across Juliet’s face, and Peter turned red.

‘I think your uncle should tell you why. All I’ll say is that the hammer was given to him as a reward for a great favour.’

The golden hammer, of course. He had seen his uncle use it to ring the bell. So that was the key you needed to travel in the balloon.

‘Do you have one too?’ asked Peter, intrigued.

‘Oh yes, of course. I work here.’

‘You work here? But…’

‘I’m an aeronautical alchemist,’ interrupted Juliet, smiling at Peter’s surprise. ‘I came to do some adjustments to the burner.’

‘The best, I might add,’ remarked Xonás, moving towards them. ‘A talent she inherited from her father, if I may say so.’

‘If only I had half the expertise my father or my grandfather had,’ commented Juliet with a touch of nostalgia.

‘Peter, do you want me to show you how it works?’ asked Xonás, changing the subject. ‘Come on, I’ll show you.’

Peter moved towards the control panel with its levers and keys.

‘So, the Argestes is propelled by vapour. This burner, an amazing piece of engineering we owe to Miss Juliet’s family, produces an incredible quantity of energy. These levers allow us to open valves and expel shots of vapour in different directions, meaning we can manoeuvre. These levers here mean we can move the balloon up and down, depending on whether we are heating or expelling air.’

All this seemed fascinating to Peter, but he was surprised not to see any kinds of navigational instruments. He had spent some time on boats during family holidays and, visiting the bridge, had seen a whole host of instruments such as sextants, compasses and maps, both cartographic and celestial. But here there was only one old, mouldy book with a balloon drawn on the front.

They spent the rest of the trip drinking chocolate while Xonás explained all the Argestes’ excellent features. He praised Miss Juliet’s expertise as a mechanic and inventor, and narrated a thousand and one dangerous journeys the Argestes had made through terrible storms.

Peter would have been unable to say how much time they spent there, whether it was hours or perhaps just a few minutes. What he did know was that for the first time in a long time he felt happy. These people welcomed him as though he were one of them. They didn’t ask anything of him, nor did they judge him for who he was. It seemed as though they actually liked him.

‘Dear travellers, we are arriving at our destination,’ said Xonás eventually. ‘If you look outside, there are some truly excellent views.’

Peter had almost completely forgotten how curious he was to see where they were going. He ran to one of the windows and looked outside. When he saw the City of Rooftops for the first time, he knew he would never be lonely again.

In this city, there are no houses or buildings, just rooftops, windows and attics, towers, terraces, balconies, dovecotes and chimneys. There are no roads in the City of Rooftops, only bridges and corridors, tubes and staircases that run through the foggy streets below. Here, in the City of Rooftops, people don’t live by day, but at night by the light from the moon and stars. An endless labyrinth of windows with lights shining through them and round street lamps stretched to the horizon, beyond places where nobody had ever set foot before.

‘This city,’ said his uncle, ‘is a city of painters, poets, musicians, historians. It’s where forgotten memories go, it’s where old photos with creased corners live, it’s the place for those old stories nobody reads anymore, for those music scores people don’t play anymore and for those canvasses people no longer paint on because the passage of time has consigned them to oblivion.

‘Here come those who know the world isn’t just cold and grey, those who hear echoes of stories when they hear the rain, stories that feel real and are filled with places far better than where they live, places that are waiting for someone to find the door that leads to them. This is the place for those who haven’t yet lost hope because only those who still hope can find the way.’

The Argestes landed on a stone platform on top of a tower while the city came into focus below. Xonás really paid justice to all the tales of his piloting skills since the landing was particularly smooth.

‘Professor, I suppose you want us to wait so we can take you back?’ asked Xonás as he closed the relevant valves.

‘Yes, please. If you don’t mind, we’ll be back in a few hours,’ replied Basilius.

‘Absolutely. I’ll take the opportunity to have dinner at Babel,’ said the pilot gratefully.

‘I’m also going to get off,’ remarked Juliet. ‘I have an errand that needs doing.’

‘Peter, you can leave your coat here,’ said Basilius while taking off his own. ‘You won’t need it.’

This surprised Peter somewhat, given how cold they had been, but he did what his uncle said, leaving his gloves and scarf on. Once he stepped outside, though, he understood why his uncle had said this: it was warm outside and felt like a lovely, fresh summer evening.

Xonás anchored the basket with a thick rope and closed the door with a beautiful key he hung from his neck and tucked under a cravat.

While they walked down a stone staircase that wrapped around one of the towers, Peter was able to focus on the place where they had arrived. He was in actual fact on the rooftops of an old city, on those parts of the houses that can’t be seen from the roads, those places most people never even look at. He could make out an irregular series of street lamps that served to guide walkers through the jigsaw of walkways and bridges that joined this amalgam of windows and attics together. Cats strode around the streets below. Peter wondered who had built this city – who could have built this impossible dream? He noticed how lights became less and less frequent before disappearing completely in the furthermost points where darkness took hold. It was as though the city were an oasis of light engulfed by night with the golden shine of a lighthouse right in the centre.

The staircase came to an end in front of a bridge made of thick wooden planks. Peter’s first thought was that the bridge must lie over a river of fog, but, after thinking it through, he realized it must be one of the roads below.

‘What’s under the fog, Uncle Basilius?’ asked Peter, moving towards the edge to take a closer look.

‘Get away from there, Peter!’ shouted the professor in concern. ‘There’s nothing down there. You should never go close to the edge. Do you understand me?’

‘Nothing? There must be something… roads or parks or something, surely?’

‘I don’t know, Peter,’ confessed his uncle. ‘Nobody knows for sure. What we do know is it can’t be good because not a single person who’s gone down there to have a look has made it back.’ Peter gulped and moved away carefully. He was still unaware that somebody down there knew his name.

What his uncle had said made the hairs on Peter’s arms stand on end. But he forgot all about it as soon as they started to walk through the mysterious city. He saw big terraces with lovely gardens of flowers and climbing plants that flowed down like waterfalls. Sometimes he heard melodies coming from some roof or other, sometimes he smelled things that reminded him of far-off places. At the top of one of the towers, someone was watching the stars with an unusual kind of telescope, and through a large, round window he saw a group of people sat together in front of a fireplace, listening to a traveller’s tales.

This place was nothing like the world he knew. He was beginning to understand why his uncle had asked him to keep it a secret – not in case the secret were uncovered, but because, if he were to tell someone about it, they would surely think he was mad.

After a while, the walkways began to join together and form a single road leading directly to the city centre. A little further ahead, they could see the glow of lots of lights and hear the babbling of a crowd.

‘Right. I’ll leave you here,’ said Xonás. ‘We’ll see each other in a couple of hours, professor.’

‘We’ll be there. Don’t worry,’ replied Basilius.

‘Are you coming back in the Argestes too, Miss Juliet?’ asked the pilot.

‘No, thanks, Xonás. I’ll spend tonight here.’

‘OK. I hope to see you soon and I’ll certainly follow your instructions on how to keep the burner in good working order. Have a good evening,’ said Xonás, wandering off along a walkway.

‘If I may ask, where are you going, Miss Juliet?’ asked Basilius. ‘If it’s no indiscretion.’

‘I have to sort out a couple of things at the fair,’ she replied.

‘It would be a pleasure to accompany you, if you don’t mind. It’s on our way,’ offered Basilius.

Walking in the direction of the lights, the murmuring soon became a din of voices and music. The air was filled with all those sounds and smells you find at any gathering that calls itself a fair. Soon an enormous space opened up in front of them.

From up high, they could see how the fair was set up in a large square that sat above several extensive rooftops and could be reached via many staircases leading down towards it, giving it the feel of a circus or an amphitheatre whose benches were formed by balconies and galleries. In the centre was a majestic lighthouse whose gold light they had seen when they arrived and which served to guide any reckless individual who went further than the refuge of the city.

Peter felt as though he was in the most marvellous place on earth and gazed in amazement at the little huts around him containing stalls where you could find anything that anyone had ever lost: all kinds of watches, clothes, herbs, creams and tools, but particularly books, notebooks, maps and all kinds of documents.

Melodies could be heard in different directions, floating in the air and mingling with the aroma of food and incense. The voices came together like a euphoric choir. Trying to explain what you can find at the City of Rooftops’ fair is an absurd task, worthy only of someone who is mad or pretentious.

Peter was surprised to find a dirt floor underfoot, given the frequency of gardens with exotic plants and leafy trees from which hung multi-coloured lanterns and under whose branches plays and lively concerts took place.

And the people! There were all kinds of people, dressed in the strangest outfits imaginable. There was a boy who went through the crowd playing a flute while a long, black snake followed him. There was a woman whose small boy floated along, holding the bottom of a helium balloon tied to his mother’s waist, and there were scholars with long, grey beards who felt obliged to join together and come up with some grand plan while others watched them.

Peter’s uncle, trying not to slow Juliet down, sometimes pulled on his nephew’s scarf, using it like a lead, particularly when Peter stopped to stare, eyes agog, at some street artist or stall. This was how they went along, navigating their path to a monumental marble fountain decorated with statues of animals jumping from the water. In front of the fountain were several stalls run by a selection of sculptors and carpenters.

The professor and Juliet stopped to admire a set of wooden sculptures. Peter suddenly felt a presence, as though someone was watching them.

He carefully turned around and confirmed his suspicions. In the shadows, he thought he saw a surprisingly tall man with his eyes fixed on him. Something suddenly knotted in his stomach, and he was consumed by an overwhelming sense of concern. Peter felt the fair going on around him, but it was as though a thick treacle had been poured over the fair – people moved more slowly, the choirs were quieter, magicians seemed to be frozen in full voice, pigeons slowly beat their wings, and the music became nothing more than a distant echo. He felt unprotected, alone in the middle of the crowd. That sinister look, as though it had been a silent warning, cut through him in the same way an icy wind would. At the same time, someone crossed his field of vision and, once they had gone, the strange figure had disappeared.

The music, smells, the sound of the fountain, everything came back suddenly, like a giant wave that hadn’t been there a moment ago and now flooded everything in its path, taking his fears far, far away. His memory of what had happened was now confused, even though it had happened just a second ago. He almost couldn’t remember the face of the man he had seen wearing a black hat and what might have been a black coat or maybe a jacket.

‘Peter, say goodbye to Miss Juliet,’ remarked Professor Basilius, interrupting his stupor. ‘It’s getting late, and we have lots of work to do.’

‘Ah, yes, of course’ was all Peter managed to say. ‘See you soon.’

‘It’s been a pleasure. I hope to see you again soon with a bit more time to enjoy the fair,’ replied Juliet kindly, with a smile that made Peter lower his gaze. ‘If your uncle has a gap in his busy schedule, that is…’ she laughed.

‘Always at your service, Miss Juliet!’ exclaimed the professor. ‘If you need any help, you know where to find me.’

‘Thank you very much, dear Basilius. I won’t keep you any longer. I still have to find a few things to finish off my latest invention. I hope you’ll be able to come when I present it.’

‘How could you doubt that, Miss Juliet?’ said Basilius, feigning offence. ‘I wouldn’t miss it for anything in the world.’

‘Good luck,’ Juliet wished them. And she disappeared into the crowd, leaving Uncle Basilius and his nephew in a cloud of violet perfume.

Basilius quickened his pace so much that Peter struggled to keep up with him. Their relaxed amble had slowed them down, and now the real reason they were there was spurring Basilius to move more quickly than before. They had to find out what the creature was and what it was doing going into houses and stealing people’s dreams. Someone somewhere in the City of Rooftops knew something, and they had to find that person.

They passed the lighthouse, and Peter felt as though the wind carried with it a moss-like smell and the distant sound of crashing waves. Next to the iron gate, he saw a plaque that said: ‘Old Giuseppe, may your light guide us on this night and your music take the sadness of our hearts far away’. Peter thought this felt almost like a prayer, but it wasn’t like the prayers he had been taught when he was small, those prayers that were full of fear and pleas that sounded so empty. These words were simpler, more intimate, and at the same time so pure he would always remember them.

He wondered whether he should ask his uncle about them or not, but he had so many questions he wanted to ask and, with each step they took, he thought of another question so he decided it was better to spend his time taking in every single detail of what he was seeing. He also wondered whether or not to tell his uncle he thought someone had been watching him, but now he deduced it could have been an unfounded fear. Perhaps someone had been looking at them, but that didn’t mean their motives were sinister, which is what he had thought at first. He didn’t want his uncle to think he was cowardly or paranoid. No sir! It was bad enough his uncle thought he was short for his age.

Leaving the fair behind them, they reached new paths, walking through the complicated and labyrinthine urban landscape until cats were the only company they had left. Not long after, the orange-tinged street lamps became less frequent, and there was much less light coming from people’s lofts. Peter knew they were reaching the outermost edges of the city. There was only darkness after that, a darkness they walked blindly through until a lamp in the distance came into view and helped to guide them. Peter often looked back, trying to catch sight of the lighthouse that would lead them back to the city.

‘Before we get there, you should know a few things,’ said his uncle. His voice calmed Peter, who was beginning to feel frightened. ‘The person we are looking for is called Rivka. Nobody knows whether she’s a girl, a woman or perhaps an old lady, but she seems quite young. Her background isn’t particularly clear. They say her mother died when she was born and her father, apparently a very important man, had wanted a boy. Since he didn’t get what he wanted, he paid little or no attention at all to the girl, who was brought up by an old maid they recruited from the south. Rivka never wanted for anything. She had the best dresses and the prettiest dolls, but none of that made her happy: she only had eyes for her cats. She had an enormous terrace at home where she would go each day to feed and play with them. Years went by, and Rivka became more and more distant from other people. Apart from her nanny, who treated her like a daughter, there were few lucky enough to have a conversation with her. People say her nanny knew an ancient secret that had been passed on to each generation in her family and had now been passed to Rivka; it was the language cats spoke. One day, Rivka’s nanny passed away, and Rivka began to adopt the customs and behaviour of the cats that were so dear to her. Her family, thinking she had gone mad, decided to put her in a mental institute, but after a few days she disappeared. One night, she just vanished from her room. Nobody knew where she went or where she was, but, when people started to hear about her again, they discovered she could talk to cats and, most importantly, the cats listened to her. We now believe the cats led her to the path that so many yearn to find – the path to the City of Rooftops.’

‘Wow, what a story! And you think she might know something about what happened at your house?’ asked Peter.

‘I hope so. If anyone knows what’s happening above the rooftops, it’s Rivka. She has eyes everywhere, thanks to her little friends,’ replied Basilius. ‘But wait, I haven’t finished yet. That’s not the most important thing. You have to remember that Rivka acts like a cat. That means she thinks she’s better than us, wiser and cleverer. She probably is. If she realizes she has something we need, she’ll play with us, like a cat with a mouse. We shouldn’t beg or plead and much less demand something of her. Like a good cat, she’ll choose whether to give us the information or not and she’ll do it whenever she sees fit. But we shouldn’t lower ourselves either. If we show that we’re as smart as her and she’s as clever as I think, she’ll want us to be her friends. Let her lead the conversation and treat her with respect. Do you understand, Peter?’

‘I think it’s best I stay quiet.’

‘Yes, quite possibly,’ laughed Basilius. ‘Look who’s come to find us. Good evening, Jim-Jim.’

A small, ginger tabby sat on a ledge, observing them closely. Jumping down from the ledge with the elegance that only a cat has, Jim-Jim started rubbing up and down their legs.

‘Hi, kitty!’ said Peter. ‘What a friendly cat!’

‘He’s marking you with his smell so he can find you whenever he wants. From now on, he’ll be our guide. We’re about to cross the city’s boundary, and the only way of knowing which way to go is if someone or something shows us the way.’

‘So Rivka knows we’ve come?’ asked Peter.

‘As I told you, there’s little that Rivka doesn’t know about what goes on around here, and that’s particularly true now we’re in her kingdom.’

There was no longer any artificial light, but it was a clear night so they could press on without any significant problems. Jim-Jim jumped along, guiding them with patient resignation. The kingdom wasn’t meant for clumsy human legs, but for agile creatures with nimble feet. As they went along, they could make out hundreds of gleaming feline eyes that watched them as they walked between the rooftops. When Peter decided to look back, he noticed the city lights were far behind them. Luckily, the lighthouse still shone in all its splendour.

A bored Jim-Jim was waiting for them atop a roof that led directly down into that dangerous fog when Peter and Uncle Basilius finally arrived.

‘Right, now we must follow exactly what Jim-Jim does,’ said Basilius. And, before Basilius could finish his sentence, the cat had jumped into the fog, suspended on top of it as though held in a cradle.

‘There’s a passage under the fog, but if you step in the wrong place…’

His uncle didn’t need to say any more, Peter knew very well what that meant so he let his uncle go first and followed him, holding on to his waist. Thanks to Jim-Jim’s help, it wasn’t difficult, but, if anyone were to try it without Jim-Jim, it’s very likely they would fall.

The path stopped in front of an iron staircase that led straight up. Jim-Jim turned around and, with a miaow of farewell, stepped on to the invisible platform and went back up.

‘We’re here,’ said Basilius, resting his hand on his nephew’s shoulder. ‘Remember what I told you, Peter.’

Together, they climbed the stairs towards Rivka’s kingdom without realizing there were cruel eyes watching them from the darkness below.

Text © Fernando M. Cimadevila

Translation © Harriet Cook