[Neverwhere/Books of Magic] Through The Angel Door.
By Rossi.
***
Chapter One: Openers.
***
There is another London. A London few know of, and even fewer see. A London of myths and monstrosities, of the dispossessed and the daring, where Night guards a Bridge, where Ravens hold Court, and where there once was an Angel called Islington.
London Below.
It was here a young man called Richard Mayhew found himself after helping a mysterious street-pixie called Door. Their story, which is also the story of the Angel Islington and its mad quest for Heaven, has been told elsewhere. That book is closed, that tale is ended.
["Close the door! I'll tell you where your sister is She's still alive "
Door flinched.
And Islington was sucked through the door, a tiny, plummeting figure, shrinking as it tumbled into the blinding gulf beyond.](1)
No story is ever truly ended. There's always a loose end, somewhere, that someone stumbles over.
***
"All right, you lot, stop your shoving or we'll be right back on the bus before you can say, 'Aw, sir!' Jenkins, I've already told you, get rid of the chewing gum! Watson, put that down! You don't know where it's been. And Hunter? Hunter! Someone give him a prod, will you?"
It wasn't difficult to find someone to oblige. Tim was startled out of his rapt study of the baroque angel on the advertising poster as Michael Tibbins jabbed him sharply in the ribs.
"Ow! You bloody "
"Hunter!"
"Mr Higgins?" Tim looked up into the usually-kindly teacher's face, his expression cherubic with innocence.
"I've got my eye on you, young Tim Hunter. No funny business, or you'll be having a word with the Head when we get back, are we clear?"
'Must be the stress of taking this lot on an excursion to the British Museum,' Tim decided. He nodded. "Yes, sir."
"Then stop your dawdling and get into line, quick smart. We've got a lot to cover."
"Um, sir? Are we going to be seeing the Angel exhibit?" There was sniggering from his classmates as his question fell into one of those unfortunate momentary lulls. Tim's ears reddened.
"Never picked you for the religious type, Hunter," Mr Higgins said with a small chuckle. "No, I think the Wonders of Ancient Egypt will be keeping us well and truly occupied this afternoon. If you lot ever quieten down enough for us to go in. Watson! Let go of Heather Carson's hair this instant or the Museum will have a new cadaver on exhibit - Snotty English School Boy!" The beleaguered History teacher made his way back up the unruly line of school children, and once they were arranged to his satisfaction, they started moving off. Tim cast one more glance at the poster - "Angels Over England", it proclaimed, "An Exhibition at the British Museum. Sponsored by Stocktons PLC" - it proclaimed. The brightly enamelled eyes of the angel on the poster seemed to hold his gaze, almost seemed to be saying something
"Hunter!" called Mr Higgins again, and Tim hurried to catch up with his classmates.
***
(1) quoted from Neverwhere, Neil Gaiman, page 255.
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The first bit:
Date: 2001-06-25 05:49 am (UTC)By Rossi.
***
Chapter One: Openers.
***
There is another London. A London few know of, and even fewer see. A London of myths and monstrosities, of the dispossessed and the daring, where Night guards a Bridge, where Ravens hold Court, and where there once was an Angel called Islington.
London Below.
It was here a young man called Richard Mayhew found himself after helping a mysterious street-pixie called Door. Their story, which is also the story of the Angel Islington and its mad quest for Heaven, has been told elsewhere. That book is closed, that tale is ended.
["Close the door! I'll tell you where your sister is She's still alive "
Door flinched.
And Islington was sucked through the door, a tiny, plummeting figure, shrinking as it tumbled into the blinding gulf beyond.](1)
No story is ever truly ended. There's always a loose end, somewhere, that someone stumbles over.
***
"All right, you lot, stop your shoving or we'll be right back on the bus before you can say, 'Aw, sir!' Jenkins, I've already told you, get rid of the chewing gum! Watson, put that down! You don't know where it's been. And Hunter? Hunter! Someone give him a prod, will you?"
It wasn't difficult to find someone to oblige. Tim was startled out of his rapt study of the baroque angel on the advertising poster as Michael Tibbins jabbed him sharply in the ribs.
"Ow! You bloody "
"Hunter!"
"Mr Higgins?" Tim looked up into the usually-kindly teacher's face, his expression cherubic with innocence.
"I've got my eye on you, young Tim Hunter. No funny business, or you'll be having a word with the Head when we get back, are we clear?"
'Must be the stress of taking this lot on an excursion to the British Museum,' Tim decided. He nodded. "Yes, sir."
"Then stop your dawdling and get into line, quick smart. We've got a lot to cover."
"Um, sir? Are we going to be seeing the Angel exhibit?" There was sniggering from his classmates as his question fell into one of those unfortunate momentary lulls. Tim's ears reddened.
"Never picked you for the religious type, Hunter," Mr Higgins said with a small chuckle. "No, I think the Wonders of Ancient Egypt will be keeping us well and truly occupied this afternoon. If you lot ever quieten down enough for us to go in. Watson! Let go of Heather Carson's hair this instant or the Museum will have a new cadaver on exhibit - Snotty English School Boy!" The beleaguered History teacher made his way back up the unruly line of school children, and once they were arranged to his satisfaction, they started moving off. Tim cast one more glance at the poster - "Angels Over England", it proclaimed, "An Exhibition at the British Museum. Sponsored by Stocktons PLC" - it proclaimed. The brightly enamelled eyes of the angel on the poster seemed to hold his gaze, almost seemed to be saying something
"Hunter!" called Mr Higgins again, and Tim hurried to catch up with his classmates.
***
(1) quoted from Neverwhere, Neil Gaiman, page 255.