Cars and Moving Pictures

Standard disclaimer applies – Cornelia Funke owns them all and not I.

Author's Note: This is just a little one-shot that I had to get out of my system. In Inkspell, Dustfinger mentions how much Farid loved the bright lights and modern conveniences of the world and I wondered what a snippet of that might have been like. Pointless fluff but please enjoy it. By the way, for those of you who don't know, a cinema is a theatre in America. But as I'm English, I've used the word I'm familiar with. Also, you may find some English spellings.

Too fast. Too damned noisy and smelly and fast. The man sighed and combed his fingers through his slightly matted locks with a grimace. It was probably time to find a proper shower again. A high pitched scream to the right of him caused him to snap his head round, fingers itching to find a flame or the knife in his backpack. But it was only a gaggle of pubescent girls who scuttled past, laughing hysterically at a picture on one of those mobile phone devices.

Dustfinger rolled his eyes heavenward and groaned, his gaze greedily soaking up the sight of the clear blue sky and warming sun as if reassuring him that they still existed, even this far in to civilisation. They lingered there a little longer than they should do – people were starting to give him odd glances: the shabby man in the long coat and scarf standing in the middle of the town centre, staring up at the sky. They probably thought he was about to start screaming declarations about the End of Days or the sky falling in. He laughed that ironic laugh – more of a low chuckle - despite his unease.

Someone pushed against his shoulder from behind and he stumbled forwards a step. "Watch it!" he muttered to the receding stranger, too busy in his own world with wires hanging out of his ears to notice the road kill in his wake. The man sighed again: it was the weary sigh of those unfortunates harnessed to the exuberant and insatiable energy of the young. It was no secret that woodlands, hamlets and tiny villages were Dustfinger's preferred abodes. He felt a margin of safety in them, born more from familiarity than rationality.

But, he thought to himself, as he eased his way through the crowds of bustling people and took shelter in a shop doorway, every once in a while he just had to give the boy a looser rein. Those pleading dark eyes entreating him for a little of the lights and life of this new world he was in – it was almost impossible to keep ignoring it. Of course, Farid would follow wherever Dustfinger went but those wistful glances over the darkened hilltops where they frequently took shelter towards the tiny groups of lights, illuminating, dazzling the patches of darkness below were not lost on the older man. Finally, after passing by a busy, thriving town, Dustfinger could ignore the pathetically sad sighs coming from the boy, no longer.

Dustfinger looked up sharply from where he still cowered in the shop doorway when realised he could no longer see Farid. As soon as the young Arab boy had realised where they were headed towards, he had let out a joyful whoop and run ahead, tugging the reluctant but resigned Dustfinger along behind him. At least, he did so for a short while until his older companion irritably tugged his sleeve out of the boy's grasp and snapped that he was not a bloody hound on a leash. But that hadn't stopped Farid from darting ahead, his eyes wide with wonder and excitement at all the whizzing cars, buses, neon lights and flashing signs surrounding him. His excitement even managed to poke a tiny hole through the fire tamer's dark cloud, producing a rare smile at the young man's obvious pleasure.

But now, the bobbing dark head that he had been tracking through the sea of heads and bodies around him was no where to be seen. Curse that boy and his nimble feet! He'd have a collar put on him when he caught up.

Irritated, Dustfinger slunk out of his retreat and began sidestepping his way around people. He supposed, in a very small way, this place was like the markets of Ombra. Only he didn't have a clue what half these people were doing here. Not that it mattered – there was only one person he wanted to find. He scanned to the left and right of the street but still didn't spot him. A sliver of panic began to rise in his chest. The last thing he wanted to do was roam this accursed place for hours.

He pushed on down the street, came to a pedestrian crossing and, just remembering in time that there was a signal he had to check, he jogged lightly over the road. The street opened out into a paved square, surrounded by buildings where young people seemed to be thronging. A sparse green patch of a park stood to one side, with a collection of small but shady trees and a tiny pond. It looked attractive and inviting, despite its size. But he wouldn't be finding Farid there. A car beeped suddenly and loudly from the road beside him, causing Dustfinger to almost leap out of his skin in shock. Damn this stupid, noisy place, he thought to himself, a scowl plastered across his scarred face.

The sun beat down even harder and beads of sweat glistened, unwelcome on his brow. Reluctantly, Dustfinger paused to pull his scarf off his neck and tug off his long coat. He draped the coat over one arm and stuffed the scarf into his backpack, ignoring the indignant growl from the sleepy Gwin. The marten would only use it as an extra blanket, thought Dustfinger, moodily, and cover it with hair so the animal had nothing to complain about.

Just then, with a huge sigh of relief, he spotted the boy. Farid was crowded in to a room full of brightly lit machines – machines that played music and made odd noises with pictures that moved on them. Arcades – Dustfinger recalled their name. That's what they were. He'd seen them on his travels before but he knew for a fact that Farid never had. And judging from the wide grin that spread from ear to ear, the boy obviously found them to his liking.

Picking up his pace, Dustfinger jogged over to his young companion. Farid afforded him a quick glance and happy smile when he saw his approach. "Dustfinger!" he called, waving him over. "Look at this!" he eagerly pointed to the picture of the racing cars, seemingly driving along a track. "The pictures move," continued, as Dustfinger finally reached his side, only a little out of breath. "Look!" Farid said again, pulling the man over to take a closer look. "The cars move along the road but this is a special road where they drive very fast." He pointed to a nearby machine where two boys were playing the same game. "You move them with those buttons and that small wheel," he announced, proudly, having deduced this himself.

Dustfinger, however, seemed less than impressed with his discovery. The sharp clip round the ear was Farid's first clue. His hand immediately shot to rub the sore area and his dark eyes widened in surprise, staring at the older man with a question hanging in them.

An annoyed finger was pointed at his chest. "Don't you go running off like that again!" Dustfinger snapped. "I've been running around this infernal place looking for you for almost twenty minutes." Immediately, Farid bowed his head, shoulders hunching as he did whenever he angered his friend. Dustfinger sighed when he saw it: he looked like a damned puppy waiting to be kicked. He took a deep, calming breath and counted to three in his head. After all, no harm was done – he just had to keep that in mind.

"It's alright," he said in as convincing a voice as he could muster. "Just stay near me from now on, okay?" Quickly, Farid nodded and Dustfinger could see that whatever guilt the boy had been feeling was gone as quickly as it came. The giddy expression was back and Dustfinger couldn't help but groan.

"I've been pushing the buttons," Farid continued, "but they won't move yet." Dustfinger gave the machine an irritated half glance.

"You need to put money it in," he muttered. Farid looked at him, questioningly.

"Money," the man supplied again. "It says it right there," and here he pointed to the red and yellow lettering above the machine, belatedly remembering that the boy couldn't have read it. For just a moment, Farid lowered his gaze in embarrassment, a rosy hue creeping into his cheeks.

"Oh," he said, quietly. Damn it! When the boy spoke quietly, Dustfinger invariably felt guilty. Wordlessly, he dug his hand into his trouser pocket and retrieved a collection of coins which he then dumped into Farid's hand.

"Use the two big silver ones first and then just keep putting the smaller ones in until it works," he instructed as Farid stared at them in delight. "But when you run out, that's it!" Then he nodded to the doorway. "I'll be in the park across the square." He pointedly ensured Farid followed his look. A meaningful finger was again, jammed in the boy's face. "Don't leave this place unless you're coming to find me. Understand?" Eagerly, his attention already being diverted, Farid nodded. Dustfinger knew when he was being ignored and gratefully made his way out of the arcade and across to the park. Finding a tree with a broad trunk, he sunk down to the grass, leant his back against it and savoured the feeling of the sun shining down and the relative peace and quiet.

As the older man closed his eyes and took advantage of one of the rare moments of relaxation he allowed himself, he couldn't help but smile at Farid's enthusiasm. Sometimes, just sometimes, indulging the boy's whims could be strangely satisfying.

It barely seemed like he'd rested his eyes for five minutes before he felt a shadow fall across him, blocking the sunlight from warming his face. He didn't open his eyes, however. Farid was quiet on his feet but not when he was brimming with excitement. Without a word, he heard Farid flop gracefully down onto the ground beside him. Although Dustfinger couldn't see it, he could practically feel the boy's beaming face. Again, although he kept his features elusively blank, inwardly the man acknowledged that affectionate glow, somewhere in his chest. Just when had the boy started worming his way in there, he wondered?

Finally, unable to take his friend's silence any longer, Farid exclaimed, "I did it!" The boy was sitting cross-legged on the grass, not especially concerned that for all intents and purposes, he was being pointedly ignored.

"Did you?" Dustfinger didn't sound too overwhelmed.

Not that Farid noticed or cared. "Yes. I was getting pretty good at it."

"Good."

"I can teach you, if you want?"

"That's good."

A short pause followed. "I could learn to drive a car. I think I would be good at it." At this, Dustfinger did open one eye. Even one-eyed, the look he shot Farid spoke volumes.

"Those cars are death traps," he snapped. Undeterred however, Farid pressed on.

"But it would be useful!" he insisted, leaning forwards into Dustfinger's space so that he could less easily be ignored. "I could drive us places and we wouldn't have to walk all the time. Especially in the rain!" The boy frowned. He never did like the rain and skirted as close as he ever got to sulking when he was made to walk in it for any length of time.

However, the mere thought of Farid behind the wheel of a car was actually giving Dustfinger chills. "You're not driving," he insisted again, forcefully. Then, for good measure, he added: "Besides, I don't think you're old enough." And he wasn't about to find out, either. The finality in his voice was unmistakable and Farid reluctantly scrutinised his features for a weakness or crack in resolve for a moment longer, before sighing and bowing his head in dejection. Dustfinger made a point to ignore the look.

Instead, he stretched his legs out and closed his eyes again, tuning out the traffic and the people and instead focusing his hearing on the sounds of the rustling leaves of the tree above him. The leaves didn't whisper the same way they did in the Wayless Wood but if you listened closely enough, you wondered if they were trying to. Silence, it seemed though, was in short supply.

"You could do a fire display?" Farid suggested, prodding his guardian in the side. Irritably, Dustfinger swiped his hand away and muttered –

"Not in this weather."

"But it's not windy!" Farid protested, nudging him on the leg with his foot, for good measure. Again, a hand reached out to blindly swat him away.

"Exactly," the older man affirmed. "It's bloody hot and I'm not going to add to that by making fire! End of story."

"Are we just going to sit here all day?" Inwardly, the fire-eater groaned. The kid did not like being told 'no'. He'd put Farid out and now the boy was grousing. A dark look was hovering over his youthful face.

"I am," Dustfinger replied, smoothly.

"But you said I couldn't go anywhere without you!"

"Your point?" He opened his eyes and fixed him with a hard look. "Now pipe down and find a space to sit that isn't in my sun." And with that, Dustfinger folded his arms across his chest and reshuffled his position against the tree, getting more comfortable. There was no mistaking the irritated noise coming from the back of Farid's throat but after a moment he heard the boy clamber to his feet, trudge noisily a few feet away and sit down again with an exaggerated sigh.

Thirty minutes passed by and Dustfinger had to give the boy credit. In all that time, aside from the muttered curses and mumbling coming from Farid, he had only had to snap his fingers and point to the ground twice, once more rooting the boy to his spot when he had strayed too far. His closed eyes had spared him the kid's scowl. But eventually, he relented. He had promised the boy he could have some time here, after all. When he looked at Farid, the boy was digging a furrow in the grass with his foot. Given their more public appearance, Dustfinger had bought him a pair of sandals and insisted he wear them in the town. It had been one of the conditions. Farid hadn't been happy but the sandals were at least less restrictive than the sneakers had been.

"Okay," he announced, causing Farid to look up in surprise. "Not that I intend to do anything, you understand? But where do you want to go?" The knowledge that he would soon be forced back into the hustle of the town was actually worth it when he saw the disappointment melt away from Farid's face.

Eagerly, Farid leapt to his feet and pointed to a large, rectangular building across the far side of the square. Long lines of people were outside where tickets were being sold. Large, colourful posters adorned the outside walls. Dustfinger followed the boy's finger and smiled, ruefully. He should have guessed. Farid loved the few glimpses of television that he caught whenever they would move past a shop window or even a house where a television could be seen playing inside. There had been several times when Dustfinger had been forced to backtrack his movements when he realised his companion wasn't with him any more and invariably, he would find the boy still standing by the window, staring at the sight of lions and tigers or bizarre children's programs with puppets and moving drawings.

Farid would laugh and call them magic, even though Dustfinger had tried several times to explain what they were – at least, as well as he himself understood it. That didn't matter to Farid, though who seemed to enjoy the enchantment. Dustfinger took a look at the films that were being shown at the cinema. He'd seen one, in his time, just out of a burning curiosity once but had never felt the need to return. It was hard enough to comprehend the world he was in, much less try to understand the worlds in their imaginations.

But Farid did not share that sentiment. "Which one do you want to see?" he asked the boy. Farid squinted a little and looked over at the posters on the wall. There were some with painted drawings – they were called cartoons, he knew but they didn't interest him. Others simply had people standing in a group but that didn't give him any clue as to what the film would be about. There was another one with flowers all over the background – that looked girly and was also, therefore out of the question. The odd stranger they would talk to would be forever commenting about how pretty his eyes looked – almost like a girl and Farid was getting mightily sick of it, despite the amusement it gave Dustfinger.

Finally, Farid pointed to one that looked exciting – a girl and a kind of…monster. Dustfinger slowly read the title – it wasn't easy from so far away but at least the letters were clearly written. "The Hills Have Eyes," he read. Then he snorted. "Sounds like a ridiculous title to me but if that's what you want?"

Farid nodded, firmly. "It is!" Then he grinned and grabbed Dustfinger by the arm, tugging him along. "Come on!" he urged. Dustfinger, however, dug in his heels and brought them both up short. A question in his dark eyes, Farid turned to him.

"Now don't give me that wounded look," Dustfinger exclaimed, holding up a staying hand. "I said you could go. I'm not going to sit in a dark room for hours watching their moving pictures. But here," – he dug his hands into his pocket again and pulled out a note – "take this. It should be more than enough." Farid stood, staring at the note in his hand for a moment, as if it would bite him. Dustfinger sighed, took the boy by the shoulders, turned him round to face the cinema and gave him a gentle shove in the right direction. Hesitantly, Farid took a few steps forward, pausing to glance back at his friend.

"Go on," the older man urged, shooing him away with his hands. "I'll be somewhere round here when you get out." Cowering away in a corner somewhere, probably, he thought but decided not to voice. At last he saw Farid smile.

"I'll see you in a little bit then," the boy said. Dustfinger nodded and watched as Farid made his way down the little grass slope and back into the square. He kept watching until Farid was in the line for tickets before he turned back to find his tree. He wasn't being protective, he told himself…just paranoid.

Less than twenty minutes later, Dustfinger started at sudden sound. There, sitting with his back to him a little way off, was his very own little fire-eater. Good grief! The boy must have crept up like a panther because he never heard a sound as he approached. The young man was sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest, hunched forwards. His dark arms were wrapped protectively around his legs and his long fingers rubbed and toyed with the thin material of his short sleeves. The blue t-shirt clung to his thin back, in the sticky August heat. He couldn't make out his face because the boy's head was bowed. He seemed to just be staring, silently at the ground.

Why hadn't the kid gone to him? Dustfinger wondered. He had obviously seen him when he approached. Concern began to drift into his mind. Cautiously, Dustfinger rose to his feet, slung his backpack over his shoulder and moved to sit next to Farid. The boy didn't look up – just continued to stare blankly at his shoes. He often tried to make his face as expressionless as his older friend's and this was obviously one of those attempts. However, he couldn't quite manage it and when Dustfinger moved aside the curtain of curly hair from his face, he could see the glassy eyes and pressed lips.

Terrific! Dustfinger groaned, silently. Comforting people had never been one of his strong suits. However, for Farid, he would give it a go. Besides, if anyone had hurt the boy, Dustfinger would know the reason why. Tentatively, he broached a conversation.

"Decided not to see it?"

Farid actually turned his head towards him, slowly and nodded. Wordlessly, he held out the crumpled note which Dustfinger quietly took. He took a deep breath. "So, what did you want to do instead?" Could we start with talking? he added, silently.

But Farid simply shrugged then, after a pause, said: "Nothing. Let's just go back to the villages." His older friend widened his eyes in surprise.

"Go back? Are you sure?" Again, the boy nodded and looked back to his feet.

"I hate these shoes," he muttered, quietly. He wriggled his captive toes.

"I know," Dustfinger admitted, though he could tell the shoes were not the cause of this current dark mood. He should just pick up the backpack and lead them back into the nearest village. Maybe even find a nice little woodland. After all, he'd done his part- he'd given Farid the run of this town. He'd been self-sacrificing, hadn't he? And now Farid had legitimately given him a reason to go. But damn it! It wasn't natural for the boy to be so quiet! How was he supposed to leave it alone? And when did his conscience start dictating his actions?

So he stayed where he was and stared straight ahead. "So why change your mind about the film?" At first he thought he wouldn't get an answer but eventually Farid replied:

"She said I needed to prove how old I was."

"Who? The lady selling tickets?" Farid nodded and shifted a little where he sat, still staring at the ground.

"So…" - Dustfinger hated the feeling of floundering – "is that what's upset you?"

"I'm not upset!" Farid snapped, for a moment seeming to come to life again.

"No," Dustfinger agreed, voice dripping with sarcasm. "That's just incredibly interesting grass beneath your feet." He regretted it, of course, when he saw Farid scowl and try to turn away from him on the spot. A strong hand on the boy's arm, however, tugging him back around was all that was needed to stop him.

"Well if that's not what's wrong, then what is?" he demanded, sharply. He wanted to be gentle with him – he really did – but sometimes the boy just responded better to force. He guessed it had a lot to do with the way he was raised.

He raised the boy's head to look at him, with a firm hand under his chin. But it seemed to do the trick because Farid awkwardly began to talk. "She asked me if I wanted to see a different film instead and I thought that I might so I asked her what they were." He took a slightly hesitant breath. "Then she said that they were all on the board in front of me. I think she was in a very sour mood. She thought I was being difficult. But there were no pictures – just words and she obviously thought I could read them and I didn't want to tell her that I couldn't. And the people behind were getting angry, too and no-one could work out why I was just standing there like an idiot. They were all staring at me and so I just left." He finished very quietly, refusing to meet Dustfinger's look.

The moment Farid had started to explain, however, Dustfinger had seen the whole picture and would have groaned out loud, if only he hadn't known how Farid would take that. "Oh, Farid!" Dustfinger started, gently. "It's not the end of the world. Honestly – reading's over-rated." Hesitantly, he put an arm loosely around his narrow shoulders. It felt odd and a little uncomfortable but he knew it was a sure-fire way to comfort the boy who ached to be held when he was afraid or upset. As if on cue, Farid leant ever so slightly against him.

However, even as Dustfinger offered his assurances, he realised just how difficult the boy would find it, going through this world alone if he couldn't read – all the little doors that would be closed to him. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to try and teach him a little, he wondered. Just the letters, if nothing else but he was hardly the world's best teacher.

"It doesn't matter," Farid breathed, almost as if he had heard Dustfinger's thoughts. "They knew I was stupid – too stupid." His eyes became bright and glassy again as he fought his weakness.

"Hey!" Dustfinger's voice was firm and sharp. Pointedly, he turned Farid to look at him and took him by the shoulders. "You are not stupid, Farid!" He gave the shoulders a light shake but he was prepared to shake a darned site harder if the boy continued talking rubbish. "Look at me," he demanded and reluctantly, Farid did so. "You're not stupid," Dustfinger repeated again, emphasising it with another shake. "You've just never been taught. Doesn't mean you couldn't learn if you wanted to."

But he didn't want to ask if he wanted to: that would probably mean giving him back to Silvertongue. And Dustfinger, as selfishly as it sounded, didn't want that. The man had his wife and his daughter but damn it – he had Farid! "You're the best tracker and the best trapper I've seen!" he continued, provoking a welcome smile to spread over the boy's lips. "And you've taken to fire like a duck to water. I'm going to have to start watching my back, soon. So don't you ever let me hear you say you're stupid again, you got me?" Relief flooded through him when he saw Farid grin and nod his head, shyly, unused to such praise but lapping it up, eagerly.

"Okay," Farid agreed bashfully. Dustfinger let the boy go and stood up, pulling Farid up to join him.

"Right. Are we still leaving then?" He paused to see the hopeful look pass over Farid's face. He shook his head, affectionately. "Or do you think there's something else that would amuse you here?"

"I'm starving!" Farid exclaimed, holding his stomach for emphasis. His companion laughed.

"Of course you're starving, my little friend! How silly of me to forget." Farid ignored the jibe and instead pointed to a garishly furnished fast-food restaurant.

"We can eat there. They do meat inside bread – with those potato sticks!"

"That's not actually food, Farid. They eat it, but it doesn't make it food."

"But you'll come with me, right?" Farid asked, already taking him by the arm and leading them both out of the park. Dustfinger gave a put upon sigh.

"Yes, I'll come with you. But when you're sick as a dog tonight, don't blame me."

As they walked across the square, the boy laughed. "Hah! You should have seen what I ate in my story!" And Dustfinger simply chuckled as he shuddered.

"Let's leave that story for another day, huh?"

Well, that's it. I hope you enjoyed it and if you've read this far, please drop me a note to tell me what you thought.