The Second Forever by Colin Thompson Read Free Book Online Page B

make a copy as a precaution, but then we decided it would be too dangerous. One copy is bad enough.’
    Peter turned the book over in his hands. It felt weak, distant and faint, but alive as if it knew it was in the hands of its saviour. And there on the spine in gold letters, just like its brother, were the words:

    How To Live Forever
    It sent shivers down Peter’s spine. Until then he had thought, or rather hoped, that there might be some way things could be made right without actually re-creating the book, but this took away that hope. There was no other way.

They decided to work in the room where Peter had first been given the book by Bathline, the room at the end of the attic corridor where they had left Archimedes the day before. Peter’s father gave them the key to the door he had installed when he had hidden the way back from Festival’s world so that they could lock themselves in. The children took enough food and drink for a few days and went back along the hidden corridor to the last room. Although the book was only a few pages long, there was no knowing how much time it would take to re-write it. They assumed they would be able to remember it all, but there was always the possibility there would be empty spaces intheir memories that would take time to recover.
    â€˜You go in first,’ said Peter. ‘I know we buried him, but I’m scared we’ll find Archimedes dead on the chair.’ He waited in the corridor while Festival went inside.
    â€˜It’s okay,’ she called out. ‘Archimedes isn’t here, but look who is.’ She came back carrying another cat. It certainly wasn’t his oldest friend, although it was exactly the same colour. It looked how the old cat must have appeared when he had been nearly a kitten, but not quite full-grown. His eyes were bright and clear and looked happy to see them.
    â€˜Do you think it’s Archimedes’s son?’ said Peter.
    â€˜It must be,’ said Festival. ‘What are you going to call him?’
    â€˜Syracuse,’ said Peter, not realising just how perfect the name was. ‘It’s where the original Archimedes lived and died.’
    â€˜Syracuse?’ repeated Festival and the cat looked up and meowed, then fell asleep with its head on her shoulder, quite unconcerned that she was not Archimedes’s son, but daughter. It was obviously the right name.
    Peter pulled a table into the middle of the room and the two of them sat side by side, Peter left handed and Festival right, ready to write. They had taken a jar of pencils and erasers.
    â€˜In case we make mistakes,’ Festival said.

    They also knew, though neither of them admittedit, that pencil doesn’t have the permanency of ink, especially if people keep running their hands over it as they read.
    â€˜I think we should only write,’ said Festival. ‘I mean, not say it out loud. You can never tell who might be listening.’
    â€˜But there’s no one here,’ said Peter.
    â€˜There’s Syracuse,’ said Festival, ‘and for all we know, the whole place could be bugged.’
    â€˜It’s all right,’ Peter whispered, gesturing towards Syracruse, ‘he’s fast asleep.’ Then he began to write as lightly and silently as he could –
    Before the beginning was the void, before time, before light, before day and night. I was the darkness that created the first breath of life. I was the vacuum that was nothing. Yet it was not nothing, for I was there. And I was part of it, the spark that lit the shadows for the very first time, as life crawled out of the abyss.
    I was the darkness.
    I was the . . .
    Peter paused.

    Vacuum, Festival continued. I created myself and became life – the giver of life and the taker of life, too. For all life sits in my hands.
    I was, am and will always be – forever more.
    â€˜There’s no “more”,’ Peter whispered, reaching