by Tanith Lee
I apologise, the book I was searching for isn’t here after all that. Might be hiding upstairs. Yes, there is an upstairs, but I generally keep the stairway concealed behind that stack of shelves there. I’ll just turn the sign round on the door for now, just in case, pop the bar across like so, and you can follow me up.
Okay, here we go. I just move this box, and there – see the handle? It’s actually a door. Mind, these stairs are old and narrow. Watch out for the tight turn at the top, here. There we go. Welcome to the office!
And here’s where I keep the Auchentoshan… just the thing for an occasion like this. And a couple of tumblers, keep it proper. Go on, have a sip. It’s good stuff. There you go…
About the Kelmscott… I did have it, you know. Can you guess where I had been keeping it all that time? Yes indeed, it was in this office. Turn around and you’ll see my glass cabinet. I’d been keeping it in there. So, after I’d tidied up all the fallen books, I came up here to look at the book and consider what I should do.
I like to think that my books act as wardens, keeping out low-level sorts of trouble... You might conclude that was the reason why all the bookshops got left alone in the riots – which I’ve heard said – but no, books can indeed be prized material objects, and just as prone to pickpockets as cheese and fillet steak for those with the want but not the means. The rioters just had different material objects in mind. Books do get stolen. Believe it or not, the sort of book you’re after tends to be stolen the most. As if these would-be magicians think a stolen book on how to do magic is somehow more imbued with magical energy – or deviant energy, perhaps. However, the other sort of book that gets stolen a lot is a rare book, like the Kelmscott I held in my hands that day; the one I had lied about having in my possession. It should have been quite safe in this little annexe – a very determined ne’er-do-well could find it out, I suppose – but at that time I felt utterly convinced otherwise, and I can’t explain why.
The Kelmscott was in the glass case you see behind you, huddled for company against another book made of vellum, Oliver Goldsmith’s The Vicar of Wakefield, and a copy of Marquis de Sade’s Justine, bound in distinctive light tan leather. These three were perhaps the most valuable and rare books in the entire shop. I assumed that the rude woman I’d thrown out, seemingly cold to ordinary books for the treasure of words within, was interested solely in their monetary value, and all three were at risk if left in the office, so I took them home with me that night. Which turned out to be a very silly idea…
Ah, I can see in the glass cabinet now is one of the books I was going to show you. Here, let me just reach past you. There. That’s a 1960s facsimile reprint of The Ancient Science of Magic translated into English from the original sixteenth-century German in the 1800s. Contains a rather good ritual for making a magical sword. If that’s the sort of thing you’re after, I can do you that for eighty quid. Very good price. No cheques, I’m afraid.
However, I rather suspect you might be after something a little more... exceptional. Something extraordinary. Yes?
I might just have the sort of thing you need, but I must caution you. So many souls walk through my door in search of a little magic: teenage girls with broken hearts; cuckolds seeking vengeance on their rivals; victims seeking restoration from the universe. Twee little books of love charms are ten a penny, of course. Delia Smith-like cookbooks of the occult, which include recipes for cocktails that taste unpleasant, but offer no change in the practitioner’s actual circumstances. That sort of thing is always turning up in stock. But the sorts of things I can procure for you aren’t for the likes of just anybody.
Lots of books are special, of course. Like that little Kelmscott: a simple tale concerning a trickster fox, but oh so very fine and precious.
I took the book home that night – and the other two I’d picked up with it – driving with them on the seat beside me; the full moon ever at my back. When I got home, I went into my kitchen, set a pot of coffee on the go, and pulled up a chair by my breakfast table where I had put down the books. I picked up the Kelmscott and read the pages by the light of the single bare bulb – I don’t believe in lighting up the whole house for no reason – speaking the words aloud as I read, all the better to comprehend them:
“Now go forth Grymbart and see wel to fore yow, Reynart is so felle and fals and so subtyl, that ye nede wel to loke aboute yow, and to beware of hym.”
And so on and so forth...
As I read the words, I heard a sudden shuffling noise. It made me stop for a moment and look around the floor, wondering if it had been a mouse I had heard. But I couldn’t see anything. All I could hear was the drip and gurgle of the coffee machine. Then I heard the shuffling again, quite close to my ear. I regarded the books on the table. The Vicar looked as dormant and dull as any school text. But there was something strange about the Marquis de Sade book. I looked closely at the cover, noticing with dismay a semi-circular slit in the surface that hadn’t been there before. Had I damaged it on the journey home in the car? What could have caused it?
As I brushed the mark with my fingertips, the scar appeared to widen. A gelatinous line appeared; the colour of buttermilk. The leather peeled back, revealing what looked like a flattened eyeball, the iris as opaque as a dead shark’s. The thing was apparently animated by a monstrous sentience, however, for it looked at me. Why I did not leap away in alarm, I cannot say. Instead I remained remarkably calm. I wondered if I were tired and rubbed my own eyes, feeling the barely yielding form of my own eyeballs behind my lids. I looked at the book again. Smiling to myself, I pointed my index finger towards the eye of the book in a poking gesture and watched as the lid clamped shut. I stroked the wrinkled leather and found it rough and firm to the touch. It was no eyelid at all. Just a fault in the leather. I laughed. I must have been seeing things!
I turned then to The Vicar of Wakefield and read the Advertisement, which goes something like:
“There are an hundred faults in this Thing, and an hundred things might be said to prove them beauties.”
As I watched, something strange happened to the text. What I saw was now written in some sort of gobbledegook. I tried to work out the language, and realised that it was in fact still in English! But so horribly misspelled and twisted, it was almost an alien language visually. Reading the words, even to myself, was like hearing a bad foreign accent in my head.
“Ar ar a hundred felts in dis tin, and a hundred tinz mjt be sed tui pruv dem butiz.”
It was as though the book knew my prejudices. Seeing those awkward letters filled me with a shuddering sense of horror and I quickly pushed the cover back down, lest the text transmogrify once more into something even more abhorrent – like text speak.
I turned back to the Kelmscott… only to see the words slide from Middle English to Middle Dutch to French and back. As the words translated and re-translated themselves, the sentences made less and less sense. I rubbed my eyes again. Below me the Middle English had re-asserted itself, and I read about the fox, dressed in his priest’s habit, encountering two sister hens, Justine and Juliette. I knew the story well, and though the fox was suspected of murdering the chicken’s daughter, the name of the child was Coppen. Something in the story had been corrupted.
I thought I had better pour myself that coffee. I took a long sip, and savoured the bitter, rich flavour.
Just then I heard an almighty crash. The sound of shattering glass. I glanced up. The sound had seemed to come from upstairs.
Very slowly and quietly, I pushed back my chair and padded out into the dim hallway. I keep one or two putters in the ceramic umbrella stand near the front door, for a little golf practice on the front lawn, you understand. I thought I’d best take one with me as I went to investigate.
I trod softly up the dark stairs, listening out for the creaking steps of intruders. I heard nothing. A window on the landing was letting in a little streetlight from outside; all else was shadow. Rounding the top of the stairs, I almost started
at the movement of a ghostly apparition in the corner of my eye but, turning, saw that it was no more than my white summer drapes, billowing into my bedroom. A shaft of moonlight on the floor revealed the large lump of brick that had put the hole in the window.
Crash! Another noise, this time coming from downstairs. I had been duped!
Down I raced, back towards the kitchen, as quickly as I could. A figure in black was fleeing the scene; the books were gone. From somewhere inside emerged a spirit of strength and ire, and in rage I threw my putter at the thief’s back. Of course, in the kitchen there were all manner of obstacles to get in the way of that missile, and the awkward shape of the object hammering through the air should have had it crashing cacophonously to the tiles. But had I been Thor himself my aim could not have been more true, my strike more effective. The titanium blade landed messily on the back of the escapee’s head. It was neither the heaviest nor the sharpest of the clubs I could have selected; nonetheless it cracked against the thief’s skull and drew blood as it knocked her down – for the intruder was none other than the woman who I’d thrown out of my shop earlier.
I thought I had best make her comfortable, but first things first: I emptied the books from her holdall back onto the table. She was lying on my kitchen floor, which I am afraid was not terribly clean. I was just starting to think that perhaps I should call an ambulance, when she began moaning and came to.
“Hello,” I said. “The police are on their way.”
It was of course a lie. Her eyes widened. I thought my mentioning of the police had made her nervous. But her eyes were focussed at a point beyond my shoulder.
“Get. My . Book. Away. From. That. Thing,” she rasped. I heard a rustling and looked up. The de Sade was leaning over the edge of the table, as though there were someone holding it at an angle; the eye glared down at us. The woman pushed against me and tried to get up. I found myself fighting against her, forcing her down, my full weight on her shoulders. She rocked and arched her spine to shake me off, took a side kick at my ankles. I lost my balance and toppled, and she got to her feet, taking another kick at my head. I grabbed her ankle and she fell back herself, slamming her shoulder against the corner of the fridge. I found myself grabbing a pair of scissors from the tidy, pointing the blades down at her. She grabbed my abandoned putter and – blocked by the cooker – took a weak swing at my shins, hitting the shaft against the table leg. I stabbed at her hands with the scissors, leaving angry red welts on her skin. I kept the scissors closed at first, but when I saw I was not breaking her skin, I went at her with the blades open. She screamed, but managed to grab me by the wrist. Then it was her strength against mine as I bore down on her. I almost had the blades to her neck; could see the pulse in her veins there. I fought until one of the tips was near to slicing a mole in the V-shaped bone between neck and décolletage. We were both shaking with the effort.
“Stop, stop,” she pleaded. “It’s the book. It’s making you do this.”
“You broke into my house,” I bit back. “I’m defending my property.”
“Don’t be an idiot!” she cried. “Can’t you sense the build-up of energy in here? My book is a trickster fox. A grimoire. Read him one way and he’s a villain. Another, a hero. In the wrong company he’s easily corrupted, and can corrupt others in his turn. And not only do you not give him back to me, you go and put him with another of his kind. The worst of all! That book is mad. Debased and debauched. In other words – put that de Sade in your library and within an hour, your Enid Blyton books could all read like Irvine Welsh!”
I sat back on my heels, relieving the intruder of my weight – and the threat of scissor blades. “That doesn’t sound terribly… evil.”
The woman sat up and swished the hair from her face, releasing a long-held breath. “Don’t be ridiculous. A grimoire is a magical book. Books are not moral or immoral objects in themselves. It’s all about intent. The writer intends them to be read one way; the reader intends to read them another. The stronger determinant wins.” She nodded at the baleful eye of the book, turned in my direction. “And then you have the determinism of the bookbinder.”
She reached and with her uninjured hand picked up the de Sade. The book blinked at her like a curious child. “I’ve heard of a few examples of this sort. Anthropomorphic bibliopegy.”
“Anthropodermic bibliopegy,” I corrected her. “Yes, I’d guessed it was bound in human skin. A lot of de Sade’s early fans did this when criminal cadavers were more generally available. A lot of the covers had nipples, you know–”
“No, I was right the first time. Anthropomorphic bibliopegy,” she interrupted. “It’s my own term. It means the maker has ascribed human attributes to books like these. They are little characters. Rather simple ones, though.”
“You’re saying the de Sade is a corrupting influence?” I said.
“Exactly,” she said. “And I would rather my little fox was returned to me, where he can be safe. There will be far too many creatures to sway his intentions at your shop. And he’s good company for me.” And then she smiled, all sweetness and charm, and I – I smiled back…
Oh – let me just top up your Auchentoshan. It’s really rather good isn’t it? So, yes, my little thief and I came to an arrangement. She was utterly forgiving of the wounds I had caused her. So very, very grateful to me she was. And so pretty. It was a shame to do her harm. She told me her name was Juliette, and whether that was her real name or not, it matters little.
Anyway, once I’d cleaned up the mess and blood I did a little research online about anthropodermic bibliopegy, and I hadn’t realised it was such a lucrative business. One of those areas of bookselling where demand far outweighs supply – and the money offered! I tell you it makes the fine print and rare editions business look like spare change. A seller’s market, if you will. Of anthropomorphic bibliopegy there was not a single hit, but of people asking for grimoires. Well, the world is full of saps. Nerdy characters for the most part. The victims of the world. Like you, Mr - . Ah, it doesn’t matter what your name is. You are a victim, most assuredly. I don’t know what your story was before you came to me. Perhaps you were bullied at school. Maybe your boss is mean to you. Perhaps you’re crippled with impotence, or can’t even attract a woman to your bed. It really doesn’t matter.
You see, Juliette was right. The books are… I would say innocent, but that’s the wrong word. They are amoral. Perhaps the writer wanted to spread certain concepts to the readers, perhaps the bookbinder and the bookseller had their intentions, but then the reader would need to be susceptible to all those ideas to be corruptible. And perhaps the reader can see beyond the intent of all those people put together. The reader can create something far more corrupt, far more insidious than anything the creator ever envisaged.
You look tired, sir. Let me take the glass from you now. It is almost time to conclude our business. I’ve kept you long enough.
You said you wanted to see a true grimoire – a book embodied with magical properties. Not a false conjurer’s book of tricks, nor the ancient tome of a charlatan.
Here, I keep my most precious books in this miniature cabinet on my desk. The Kelmscott fox is the epitome of artistic endeavour and so I am afraid it is not for sale. I went to such trouble to keep hold of it; I could not even bear to let it go to the University collection in the end. Don’t worry, they’ve had plenty more off me since. All sorts of unusual stock seems to be turning up these days. From the Kelmscott fox, I have acquired all my cunning.
Here is de Sade’s Justine. See how she looks at you. From this creature, I have learned all there is to know about corruption and cruelty.
And look, here’s her sister, Juliette. Just look at the work that went into that cover. I bound that one myself, you know. The leather I really wanted to use was too fine for the outer cover, but if you rub the paper on the inside you can still feel that little mole underneath. I also acquired my own press; it’s in this building, concealed behind yet another
door. An extra bonus chapter, if you like. I make all my own paper, and print on an old Victorian press. It’s rather rustic, but works remarkably well. And of course, I’ve been bookbinding for years – quite a therapeutic little hobby. I love working in all the different materials. Especially leather.
And of course, last but not least, The Vicar of Wakefield. That turned out to be a grimoire as well. From him, I learned the value of a pleasant character and a trustworthy face. I do a very good job of seeming amiable. At least I like to think so. The lovely thing about grimoires is that they make the very best of people.
Now, sir, the time has come for my tale to end. And you, who came here looking for a exceptionally special grimoire are going to acquire the very best, and at no price to you whatsoever. No price but your soul. As I thought, the powder in your drink has taken effect and you are paralysed. I am wondering what to make of you. What adventures in your life would you have had with the courage of your conviction? A Salome I shall make of you, perhaps? A Faust… Then perhaps I will sell you to someone wise enough to not enter a secret stairway in a bookshop that sells such things as I do. Or perhaps you can stay here and keep me company. I always did prefer books to people. From one shelf to another, young man. Welcome to your new life. Now, are you sitting comfortably?
Good. Then I shall begin.
Lifeline
Susan Sinclair
Anne flipped her collar up and headed down Bridge Street. A south-easterly wind from Delapre Park blew icy rain down her neck. Her sodden fringe glittered with the glare from every passing car that sprayed her coat with oily water and splashed her jeans above two inch heels.
This outing on a bleak October night was intended to brighten her day, but had turned into a twilight endurance mission with missed buses and inclement weather.