Salutations. If, by any chance you have read the fairly entertaining book entitled Inkheart by Kernella, (or was it Carmelita?) Funke, you are probably a bit surprised to discover that I can read and write. You probably know very little about me besides the fact that I'm small, furry, cute, and way to fond of biting people's fingers. My name, as you may have guessed, is Gwin. This is not to be confused with Gwen, which stands for Gwendolyn, which is a girl's name. So there.

As you are most likely aware, I happen to be a marten. Anyone with questions concerning my species can read the following:

mar-ten (noun) any of several small, flesh eating mammals (genus Martes) like a weasel but larger, that live chiefly in trees and have a long slender body, short legs, and soft, thick, valuable fur.

Over the coarse of my life I have, on several occasions, been mistaken not only for a cat and a Pomeranian dog, but for a fire breathing dragon and a hat rack, so this should clear some things up. If you are a zoologist and happen to care what specific kind of marten I am, I haven't got the faintest idea. The Encyclopedia of Animals has descriptions of no fewer than seven different types of martens, none of which have horns. I suppose this means that most humans are under the mistaken impression that I am an imaginary creature. However, a close inspection of the book's index revealed that there are no human beings listed in the encyclopedia either, and surely people don't believe themselves to be imaginary. Go figure.

So, anyway, I'm here to tell you my version of the events recorded in Inkheart. No doubt you know the basic story line from somewhere else. In the nine years prior to the opening of the book, myself and my so-called "master", Dustfinger, were hanging around in the 20th Century after being tele-ported there against our will by some idiot called Silvertongue. What did we do for those nine years? Well, mostly we wandered around aimlessly, and tried to survive while most of the "normal people" we encountered mistook us for an escaped convict and a mutated kitten.

Meanwhile, the bad guys, a.k.a. Capricorn and friends, set up their little village and used it as a sort of a base while they terrorized the populous. Every so often, we went and hung around there. Most of these visits to the lair of the archvillian were coupled with various heroic, but ill-fated attempts to rescue that oh-so-pretty damsel in distress, Resa. Most of these escapades seemed to end in a great deal of pain and humiliation on Dustfinger's part, so we gave up eventually.

Needless to say, my "master" was not to happy to be stuck in the real world, so once or twice we went back to Silvertongue's place to beg for mercy. The man generally listened patiently while Dustfinger gave him a long speech about how much he hated it here, how he didn't understand what this ekletricety stuff was, how everything was to fast, how the air was so polluted he couldn't breath, and how if he was stuck here much longer, his wife would give him up for dead and marry someone else. I even added a few things about how annoying it was that people kept mistaking me for a funny looking cat, but I don't think anyone was listening.

When we finished, Silvertongue seemed a little sorry for us, but evidently not enough to actually help us, unless, of coarse, you consider letting Dustfinger sleep on the couch a solution to all life's problems. My opinion of Silvertongue has always been that he is as polite as he is useless.

After this, there is not much more to be said about the first nine years in the 20th century. Dustfinger was generally miserable, I was generally bored out of my mind, no one else seemed to really care, and if you want any more information, you can wait till the next chapter.