It was a book. A dark, heavy tome. Something was compelling him to lift it out, though it was repulsive to the touch, like leather still animated by some force. He wanted to look at it now, where he was, with the trees around him. But he couldn’t be discovered outside again. He would have to go into prep. He closed his satchel and continued on to the form rooms.
He looked through the window and saw that the master in charge that night was Mr Bartlett. Edward loathed Mr Bartlett–his red, puffy face, his secondhand, stained tweed suits. He was a pedantic, unimaginative teacher, and he acted as if he was only at Oldstone Manor because he’d fallen on hard times.
Edward noticed that he was reading a newspaper and hoped Bartlett wouldn’t notice his arrival. He sidled slowly into the room and took a spare desk quietly. There were some empty ones in the top form room, for those in Eudoky to sit at. He opened the desk and thrust the book into it, slamming the lid shut. The book seemed to be making a noise, scuzzy, fiendish, horrid, low, but nobody else had noticed it. Somebody made a sound, and Bartlett looked up from his copy of Racing Post, which he was studying intensely.
‘Pollock.’
Edward tensed.
‘Out here, please.’
Feeling the eyes of the form room on him, Edward made his way slowly up to where Bartlett sat, looking at the floor.
‘Stand up straight, boy!’ said Bartlett. ‘Come on, march properly! Not like that! Left right, left right, left right, round the room …’
The whole class joined in as Edward marched round the room, his arms out stiffly. Bartlett halted him by his chair. Edward could smell the reek of whisky on him. Bartlett’s face was mottled, the veins showing clearly through the skin. Bartlett affected not to notice Edward for a second or two, continuing to read his paper.
‘Got a good tip from a stable lad today,’ he said, folding the paper and putting it on the desk. ‘You’re late, aren’t you, Pollock?’
Edward looked straight ahead of him.
‘Speak up, boy. You’re late!’
‘Yes, sir!’ said Edward.
‘Why are you late?’
‘Don’t know, sir!’
‘Well, I suppose we can’t all be as special as you. I suppose you think there’s a different time scheme in place for you, eh, Pollock?’ Bartlett gave him a hefty whack round the shoulder.
‘No, sir,’ said Edward, to a background of whispering and turning heads. He still felt the noise from the book like a wad of material in his ear.
‘Two kappas,’ said Bartlett.
Good, thought Edward. I’ve got away with it. He edged back towards the desk.
‘Oh, and Pollock.’ Bartlett was stirring in his chair.
‘Sir?’
Bartlett had removed his shoes, revealing two red-socked feet. ‘Polish these.’
The room erupted into laughter. Edward was seething with hatred.
‘Sir, that’s not fair!’
‘Life isn’t fair,’ said Bartlett smugly, and pulled two brushes and some polish out of the bottom drawer of his desk. Edward noticed the gleam of a bottle in it before Bartlett slammed it shut.
In front of the whole class Edward polished the shoes, with Bartlett occassionally shouting, ‘Faster, boy,’ and, ‘I can’t see my face in them yet.’ Eventually they were judged passable and, with another clump round the shoulder, Edward was dismissed.
‘Well, get on with your letter now. I’m studying the form for the 3:15 at Fontwell. It’s my ticket out of this hellhole.’ The boys laughed appreciatively.
‘I don’t have any paper, sir,’ said Edward. He’d left it in the library.
‘Well, borrow some.’ Bartlett got up, went to the nearest boy who was composing a letter, picked up his pad and tore off three sheets. ‘There you go,’ he said, tossing them towards Edward. They fluttered to the ground and Edward rushed to pick them up, smiling apologetically at the boy whose paper it was.
Humiliated, Edward went to the desk and tried to write a letter to his parents. But he couldn’t even start the standard formula. He couldn’t write ‘I’m fine’. He wasn’t. Not only was he burning with hatred for Bartlett, but he wanted to spill everything out on to the page, to let someone know about the strange figure he’d seen in the library, the book he’d found. The whole day had been so odd, he felt at a loss. If he put his thoughts down on paper, someone might find it and read it. If anything was going on, then he had to be sure who he could trust.
He could feel the book’s presence, even through the lid of the desk, as if it were alive, as if it wanted to reach him. He lifted the lid as sneakily as he could to take another look.
‘Pollock!’ said Mr Bartlett, rustling his paper, and not bothering to look at him. ‘I am sure that it is not necessary for you to open and shut your desk every three seconds. Are you writing a letter? Or are you part of some new percussion band?’
The room filled with low laughter. ‘No, sir,’ said Edward meekly.
‘Don’t do it again, Pollock,’ said Bartlett in a lazy sing-song way.
Edward felt in his pockets for a new ink cartridge, came across the piece of paper in his pocket, and pulled it out. He had entirely forgotten about it. He had been distracted by the book. Now it seemed to him as if it might be able to help him–for it had led him to it.
It was old, faded, fragile. He unfolded it carefully and laid it out flat on the desk. It was handwritten, in careful spidery writing, decorated with many curves and tails. He began to decipher it:
What has been hidden will rise up again:
Beware those who seek it for their own gain.
Though the line of the wizard and witch is strong,
A pure one will find it, not one who seeks wrong.
The blood of a maiden must surely be spilled,
For the source of evil to be truly killed;
Lest words of nightmare and terror are spoken,
And the wall between ghost and man is broken.
It made very little sense to him. But it brought back the nightmare he had had that morning, which had come from the gloomiest, rockiest recesses of his mind. It brought back the feeling he had had when he had laid the raven on the monument. Perhaps the wall is already broken, he thought, thinking of the figure he had seen in the library … He shuddered. Maybe, he thought, if I think about something else I’ll be able to solve it. He filled up his pen with the cartridge, and tried to start his letter.
As prep dragged on, he ached to look at the book. Every time he unfolded and reread the poem, it made less sense to him, until it was like reading meaningless sounds. The bell boy finally left the room and Edward watched him sprinting down to where the bell hung. He rang it ferociously and the boys all started clattering and putting away their things. Edward carefully folded up the poem and put it back in his pocket. Eudoky had a bit of free time before they had to go up to the dorms, and his punishment had been forgotten.
Edward lifted the lid of the desk, and took out the book. It felt cold now, and less horrific. He held it close to his side. He didn’t want to put it in his satchel; he felt that he needed to keep it in sight. Bartlett was still immersed in his paper, not having quite got up the strength to stumble down to the staffroom for his evening whisky. Edward sidled out of the room, trying not to let anyone see what he was carrying. It was far too conspicuous. It looked like he’d stolen it from the locked cabinets in the library. He couldn’t pass it off as a tatty old textbook.
He’d made it out of the form room when Mr Bartlett called out, ‘Po-llock! PO-LLOCK!’
Edward halted, rocked back on his heels, and turned round.
‘What’s that you’ve got there?’ asked Bartlett, huffily.
Sudden alarm filled him.
‘A book, sir,’ he said.
‘No, Pollock, I can see that you are carrying a book. Most people could see that. Even some of these imbeciles here.’ He indicated the dispersing boys with a languid hand.
Edward looked blankly at Bartlett.
&nb
sp; ‘In your other hand, idiot!’
He looked blindly at his hand.
‘Your letter, nitwit! You haven’t handed in your letter! How can I check it if you don’t hand it in?’ He harrumphed. ‘Are you hiding something?’
‘No, sir,’ said Edward, immensely relieved.
Bartlett looked disappointed. Edward ran to him and thrust the letter into his hands, dashing out before he could say anything else.
The clock was striking seven as Edward made his way up the stairs and into the dorms. His dorm was one of six on the first floor of the Manor, on the same level as the library. Everybody else had gone out to play cricket in the nets, or to play tennis or just relax on the grass.
Upstairs in the Manor the dormitory was quiet and still, all the beds made, all the chairs tidy. Edward’s bed was in an alcove by the window, overlooking the courtyard below, and further beyond, the lush greens and blues of the valley. The window seat was a haven for him, and he would often sit there and absorb the light or listen to the river when there was nobody else around. It proved useful at night as well, as he’d sit there in the dark, with a torch, and read. The curtains were so thick and old–probably left over from the war, when they had been blackout curtains–that they kept the light out, and thanks to them Edward had not yet been caught.
Edward settled on his bed. He breathed in the calm of the warm room. Carefully, he lay the book on the duvet. It looked so strange, sitting on the familiar texture of his bedcovers.
When he reached out to touch it, it seemed to him as if the book was giving off heat. Delicately, he just brushed its surface, and then recoiled. It was covered in little hairs–like a nettle, or a spider. He held up his hand to see if he’d been stung–and then relaxed. How could a book hurt him?
With more resolve, he carefully gripped hold of the cover with one forefinger and one thumb. And a delicious sense started to spread up from his finger, all the way up his arm and into his brain. He could hear, at the edge of sound, voices whispering. The sensation gripped hold of his brain. It was pleasure, but with a sharpness he had never felt before, something that was so beyond any experience he had had that he could not name it. He felt his eyes close, against his will, and began to lift the cover of the book …
‘BUUUUNDDDDLE!’ shouted someone. Three of his dorm-mates came rushing in–Munro, Murdoch and Peake. They bundled themselves on top of him, everyone kicked and shoved and pushed for a bit, then Edward heaved from the bottom and toppled over the whole pile.
‘What are you doing?’ said Edward, hastily thrusting the book under his pillow.
There was silence for a moment as everyone caught their breaths. ‘I can’t breathe … I can’t breathe!’ shouted Munro, and began faking a choking attack on the floor.
‘The nets are all full,’ said Peake, elbowing Murdoch.
‘What’s the point, Peake?’ said Murdoch. ‘Why did you do that?’
‘Do what?’ said Peake, and shrugged his shoulders mysteriously.
‘Look, you’ve made me bleed!’ said Murdoch.
Munro stopped his choking. ‘What?’
‘Well, somebody’s been bleeding. Look at this!’ Murdoch pointed to Edward’s duvet cover. There was a small bloodstain on it.
Edward looked at his hands, and there where he had gripped the book was a vivid, bloody pinprick. ‘It’s me,’ said Edward. ‘But it’s OK. Anyway, I’m trying to read!’ He kicked the last bit of Peake on to the floor, who slid off the bed and put all his weight on to his arms, collapsing on to the carpet, making a noise like a pack of rabid dogs.
All peace had been disrupted. Peake, Munro and Murdoch stayed in the dorm until everyone else had come in from the nets, as cheerily and noisily as usual. They all undressed and brushed their teeth at the cracked and stained sink. Mrs Ferrers, mouse-like, came round to tuck them in.
‘Don’t forget to change your pants and socks,’ she said. ‘That means you, Munro. And Peake, why you can never remember to pin your socks together, I don’t know. Go and do it now.’
After Peake had slunk out and slunk back in again, and the boys were finally settled, and Mrs Ferrers had told them all what frightful little monsters they were, she said goodnight and set off to her tiny flat.
O’Brien was on duty that night, and he came in now, holding a clipboard. ‘Now, boys,’ he said. ‘I want you all to sleeeep,’ drawing out the ‘ee’. ‘Sleeep is a tonic. It is nature’s marvellous medicine, to make your brains all ready and raring to go in the morning. Sleeep.’
‘He sounds like the Wicked Witch,’ whispered Edward to Munro. ‘He’s probably making flying monkeys in the labs!’ Munro giggled.
‘I want everybody to drop off as soon as his head hits the pillow,’ O’Brien said, marching up and down the dormitory, muttering his lecture, waiting until he was sure everyone was settled. Soon all was quiet, and O’Brien slipped out. The light on the landing cast one last orange bar on to the floor before it was clicked off, and the room was in darkness.
Edward waited for an hour by his watch. He had to be absolutely sure that no one in the dorm would be awake to question him. He sat up in bed, as carefully as he could. If he got up too quickly, he risked making a loud noise that would wake everyone instantly. If, on the other hand, he raised himself more slowly, then the creaking of the ancient bedsprings would be extended. The decision was made for him, as he bolted at a movement from the bed next to him, and scrambled on to the window seat, pulling the curtains tightly shut behind him.
The window seat gave a tremendous whine as he settled down on to it. He sat stock-still for a minute or so, as if concrete had been poured into his limbs and set solid. Not a sound came from the dorm.
Edward fitted his back into the corner, settling into the soft cushion. To feel Oldstone Manor behind and beneath him was comforting. He let his mind wander, and he thought of all the other people who had sat here, in years and centuries gone by. They too had gazed across the valley, or been absorbed in a book. He wondered what they had thought, how they had felt. Did they feel the scored lines of the stone in their back? Did they see the fat, bright moon casting a ghost-light across the valley, and dream of strange, dark things in the night?
His reveries were interrupted by the book he was holding gingerly in his hands. It seemed to be calling to him.
The quiet rustle of the trees made a scratchy accompaniment to the gauzy lapping of the river. The big oak tree that stood by the pond stretched its arms out benevolently towards Edward.
He trembled a little, feeling that every movement he was making was magnified a hundred times. He weighed the book in his hands. His breath was coming unevenly. The book seemed a lot heavier now that he was still. Its blackness was inviting. It was telling him that he would not need his senses, that it would immerse him, make him disappear. Astronauts must feel like that when they stood on the edge of the sky.
He set the book down on the seat, since it was now too heavy to hold, and was making his wrists ache. He studied the cover. It was pitch-black, with no title or design on it.
As he opened it, the dark matter of the universe shifted. Even if he had been able to stop reading, his doom had already been chosen for him, the black threads of his fate already woven.
Around the edges of the frontispiece was a curious design, that looked like Ms and Vs intertwined, each loose end sprouting into patterns. There was a picture in the front, the like of which he had never seen. It was so delicately, so finely drawn, that every feature seemed to live, every leaf had energy, every letter had grace.
A man and a woman were drawn on either side of the page. They were split by the thin trunk of a tree, but they were joined together by a line which looped from head to head and heart to heart. They were both dressed in long, flowing robes, which seemed to blow and shimmer even as Edward watched. Their expressions were neutral, but had an air of mystical serenity that filled Edward as he gazed at them. The pair stood on top of a mountain, and beneath them spread what looked like the w
hole world. In each corner of the page were drawn figures. Judging by their attributes, Edward thought they represented the four elements of earth, air, fire and water.
The picture seemed to move, and live, and Edward came closer to it, the details becoming clearer and clearer. At first he saw the dark curls of the man’s hair, the purple richness of his robe. His hand lay on the head of a black dog, that twisted its neck up to look at its master. He saw the woman’s slender, elegant hands, with jewels more prized than kingdoms, sapphires as deep blue as where the whales dwell, emeralds that sang of jungles. Neither man nor woman acknowledged him, and he felt their presence as a troubling sensation–that of great calm and benignity which could swiftly turn wild and savage.
Then the perspective lengthened, and he saw whole cities rise and fall beneath the gaze of the man and the woman; he saw the rise of civilisation, of beauty and grace, and he saw that everything was good beneath them. And then he saw creatures massing together, making low, wailing noises, and they seemed to scratch at an invisible barrier around the bright world of the man and the woman.
These creatures roamed the barrier, calling, raving, scratching, slobbering. The rustling sound they made filled Edward with horror and he turned over the page. His heart fluttered within him, and he felt sick, the bile rising up in him, scorching his throat. There were letters on the page. But the book was not in English. It was not in French, or Latin, or Greek, or any other language that he could ever hope to decipher. It didn’t look like the Arabic script that he had seen among his father’s books, or the Japanese pictograms on the paintings in the music room. It was a symbol language that seemed harsh and brutal. As his eyes went across the page the sickness in him grew, and he felt dizzy.
He saw on the page, as if it were real, a knight in gilded armour. He was mounted on a grey horse, with green and gold caparisons. The knight had his helm off. He had tousled hair so black it was almost purple, and thoughtful eyes. He looked familiar, but Edward couldn’t place him. The knight smiled at him and started to speak, but Edward did not understand him. When the knight realised this, he began to ride his horse up and down, nervously. Then Edward became worried, because the knight had put his helm on and set his lance, and began to gallop towards him, the lance pointing directly at his chest.
The Other Book Page 5