down on his huge black wings.
But how was I supposed to turn back into a bird?
I didnât want to let Nreur scratch my hand again ...
Just then I came around a corner and was suddenly standing right in front of the gate.
It was as tall as an elephant and as wide as three cars and made of solid silverâlike the door handle to the secret room.
The silver was carved with a bunch of intricate, delicate lines, and as I was looking at the gate, I noticed that the lines formed a picture of a garden.
No, not a garden: the garden. The garden I had wandered through, the garden with the sad trees and the birdcages.
But on the gate, all the birdcages were open and the birds were sitting in the branches and singing. How strange, I thought, for freedom to be the image on the entrance to the palace itself. But then I understood: It was just like the white tiles. The silver gate was made from the longing of the birds in the palace garden.
And I started to get really angry. Thisâwhoever he wasâthis Nameless One, he didnât own anything himself; he was just using the others to become more powerful. I would have bet that he himself hadnât contributed a single speck of dust to the whole palace.
In a fit of rage, I threw myself against the gate, since it didnât have a handle or a knob. But my rage didnât help. I just got a couple of bruises and bounced off the cool silver. The gate was still closed.
Helplessly, I let my gaze fall over the huge silver surfaces. And then I saw a tiny inscription, right at eye level.
P ULL was all it read.
I laughed. It was like the door to a department store or a school.
But I soon stopped laughing, because I realized it was impossible. Without a handle, you canât pull a closed door open, especially not if itâs made of silver.
The inscription seemed to look at me gloatingly. I gave it an angry thump, knocking my knuckles on the hard metal.
I cried out and shoved my aching hand into my pocketâ and then I found the feather again. I took it out and looked at it.
Then I had an idea. The feather had helped me once already, when I had felt the longing so strongly it had almost torn me apart. Whoâs to say it couldnât help me again? I stuck out my arm and touched the gate with it.
And honestly, I barely had enough time to jump back before the doors of the gate swung open silently.
For a moment I stood there hesitating in front of the open gate, and then I walked through.
Inside was a long corridor with doors along both sides.
I opened one, and behind it there was another corridor, also lined with doors, and behind the next door was another corridor and on and on ...
I walked through dozens of corridors, all alone; the squeak of my sneakers on the tile floor was the only sound. Yes, everything there was made of tiles: the floor, the walls, even the ceiling that lay far, far above me.
The checkerboard pattern was different here. It now had complex figures in it.
Tiny pieces of tiles formed all kinds of new flowers and stars. But it was impossible to orient yourself based on them. And after a while, I had no idea how long I had been wandering through the palace. An hour? Ten?
These corridors had to end somewhere!
Or had I gotten turned around a long time ago and been walking in circles?
For the third time since I had been there, I took out the feather. In fairy tales, I thought, everything happens three times, after all. I held it in front of me like a divining rod, and there was in fact a kind of magnetic pull on the feather that I could follow. Now I had the feeling that I was going through the right doors and going down the right corridors. Even though I didnât know what to expect at the end of them.
A butler holding out a red velvet pillow with a key on top? A band playing a fanfare for me? A room where Arnim was sitting on a stone bench looking at me?
I could at least be sure that I wasnât going in circles because I came to
But how was I supposed to turn back into a bird?
I didnât want to let Nreur scratch my hand again ...
Just then I came around a corner and was suddenly standing right in front of the gate.
It was as tall as an elephant and as wide as three cars and made of solid silverâlike the door handle to the secret room.
The silver was carved with a bunch of intricate, delicate lines, and as I was looking at the gate, I noticed that the lines formed a picture of a garden.
No, not a garden: the garden. The garden I had wandered through, the garden with the sad trees and the birdcages.
But on the gate, all the birdcages were open and the birds were sitting in the branches and singing. How strange, I thought, for freedom to be the image on the entrance to the palace itself. But then I understood: It was just like the white tiles. The silver gate was made from the longing of the birds in the palace garden.
And I started to get really angry. Thisâwhoever he wasâthis Nameless One, he didnât own anything himself; he was just using the others to become more powerful. I would have bet that he himself hadnât contributed a single speck of dust to the whole palace.
In a fit of rage, I threw myself against the gate, since it didnât have a handle or a knob. But my rage didnât help. I just got a couple of bruises and bounced off the cool silver. The gate was still closed.
Helplessly, I let my gaze fall over the huge silver surfaces. And then I saw a tiny inscription, right at eye level.
P ULL was all it read.
I laughed. It was like the door to a department store or a school.
But I soon stopped laughing, because I realized it was impossible. Without a handle, you canât pull a closed door open, especially not if itâs made of silver.
The inscription seemed to look at me gloatingly. I gave it an angry thump, knocking my knuckles on the hard metal.
I cried out and shoved my aching hand into my pocketâ and then I found the feather again. I took it out and looked at it.
Then I had an idea. The feather had helped me once already, when I had felt the longing so strongly it had almost torn me apart. Whoâs to say it couldnât help me again? I stuck out my arm and touched the gate with it.
And honestly, I barely had enough time to jump back before the doors of the gate swung open silently.
For a moment I stood there hesitating in front of the open gate, and then I walked through.
Inside was a long corridor with doors along both sides.
I opened one, and behind it there was another corridor, also lined with doors, and behind the next door was another corridor and on and on ...
I walked through dozens of corridors, all alone; the squeak of my sneakers on the tile floor was the only sound. Yes, everything there was made of tiles: the floor, the walls, even the ceiling that lay far, far above me.
The checkerboard pattern was different here. It now had complex figures in it.
Tiny pieces of tiles formed all kinds of new flowers and stars. But it was impossible to orient yourself based on them. And after a while, I had no idea how long I had been wandering through the palace. An hour? Ten?
These corridors had to end somewhere!
Or had I gotten turned around a long time ago and been walking in circles?
For the third time since I had been there, I took out the feather. In fairy tales, I thought, everything happens three times, after all. I held it in front of me like a divining rod, and there was in fact a kind of magnetic pull on the feather that I could follow. Now I had the feeling that I was going through the right doors and going down the right corridors. Even though I didnât know what to expect at the end of them.
A butler holding out a red velvet pillow with a key on top? A band playing a fanfare for me? A room where Arnim was sitting on a stone bench looking at me?
I could at least be sure that I wasnât going in circles because I came to
Similar Books
