The Other Book

by Philip Womack

  ‘Ye have the book: the charm is written in it.’

  Her gaze was directed at Edward. The Other Book was humming, mounting infinitely slowly, obscuring his thought processes. The science class was getting nearer, led by Mr O’Brien, bent on some pond-dipping expedition. Everyone turned their heads to look. Lady Anne had lost the attention of her audience. She put her book down, but remained seated on the grass, her legs stretched out sideways, long and elegant.

  ‘Ye have the book!’ she said quietly, in Edward’s direction. There was no mistaking it. She had fixed Edward with the eyes of a cobra and he could feel the sudden thinning between worlds that signalled the workings of the Other Book, the jostling of hideous creatures.

  Edward watched Mr O’Brien march up to them. A group of chattering boys, all carrying test tubes, nets and other things from the lab followed him. They set up a few yards away from where Edward was sitting. Lady Anne picked up the book and continued to read. Her words were now interrupted by splashes and shrieks from Mr O’Brien’s class. Edward could hear fragments of O’Brien’s commands, but he was intent on listening to Lady Anne.

  ‘Naked ignorance delivers brawling judgments …’

  She said these last words with particular emphasis. Edward looked at Will. But nothing was happening to him. Instead he felt the same buzzing he had felt before Bartlett had killed Imp … he prepared himself for the worst.

  Lane Glover was splashing around, knocking into people, putting pondweed on to their heads. Lady Anne stopped reading and looked across. Edward could see that she was immensely annoyed. When she rearranged her legs, to Edward she looked coiled up, like a snake.

  Eudoky was now more interested in Lane Glover’s antics than in Lady Anne’s reading, though Edward just caught her last words, which she read out as loudly as she could manage without shouting:

  ‘And every square of text an awful charm,

  Writ in a language that has long gone by …’

  Every square of text an awful charm, in a language long gone by. Edward was suddenly cold.

  Guy Lane Glover had just knocked over a glass tube arrangement. Mr O’Brien was shouting at him. Lady Anne, without saying anything, got up and walked away to get Mr Fraser. She smiled to herself. Everything was playing into her hands. Eudoky didn’t notice. All eyes were on O’Brien.

  ‘Lane Glover! What the heck do you think you’re doing! Stop it at once!’

  ‘Nothing, sir, wasn’t me, sir, didn’t do it, sir!’ said Lane Glover. He ran back to where he’d been thrusting pondweed down Peake’s shirt.

  ‘Glover! Stop it! Or you’re going straight to the headmaster!’

  Edward found that he could not pay very much attention to the scene in front of him; the noise and whirl of the Other Book was too much for him, and it was all he could do not to black out. His face was outwardly calm, but his hands were gripping the grass so tightly that his knuckles were standing out white like the snowy peaks of mountains. This is it, he thought. This must be what Will felt when he opened the Book. Edward glanced across towards him. Will looked disturbed.

  There was a sudden silence from the boys. Edward heard O’Brien saying ‘like your father’ and then Guy saying, very quietly, ‘What did you say, sir?’ In the pause after this, Edward felt the future waiting for him like an arrow about to be loosed. He felt a pattern forming, he sensed pieces slotting into place, when Guy hurled himself at O’Brien and started beating him with his fists, yelling and screaming.

  O’Brien started shouting too, but Lane Glover was strong and quick. The science master was trying to grab his wrists, and they grappled. Someone shoved, they scrabbled, and then Lane Glover sprawled backwards, crashing through test tubes, straight into the pond, bringing O’Brien swearing after him.

  Edward saw Lady Anne turn the corner with Mr Fraser.

  O’Brien and Lane Glover were splashing around in the pond, covered in weeds, spluttering. Lane Glover was still fighting, jumping at O’Brien, trying to drench him even more. Mr Fraser came to the edge of the pond, and looked down, arms folded, an inscrutable expression on his face. O’Brien said nothing. Lane Glover might have been in tears, but it was hard to tell.

  The Other Book relaxed its hold, and Edward released the grass. He saw that Will had fallen on his back, and wondered if he should go to him.

  Then to his horror he found that the Book had metamorphosed, and he was holding the clammy thing in his hands. It’s come back to me, thought Edward.

  It was a clear sign. It was his. It had not chosen Will. He was not going mad. He had a task to fulfil.

  ‘Well, you do look a sight, don’t you,’ said Mr Fraser, grimly, to O’Brien and Lane Glover. He turned to Lady Anne. ‘Lady Anne, would you take all the boys up to the form rooms, and keep them there until I get back?’ She nodded, with a slight moue of disappointment, because she could feel the sudden corporeal presence of the Other Book. The boys all trooped after her, collecting experiments and books hastily together. Edward lagged behind to see if he could run off and hide the Book, but Mr Fraser said, ‘Go along now, Pollock,’ then marched off with O’Brien and Glover.

  Will was wandering just ahead. Edward grabbed him, quite roughly. Will tore away. Lady Anne was near them. She had felt the twisting of reality, the drawing together of strands of fates, and she was closing in on her prey.

  ‘Get it away from me,’ Will snarled. ‘That thing … it’s done something to me … it made me do something … I didn’t want it to happen … something was pushing me … this creature, all hooded and odd, it forced me …’

  Edward remembered the thing that had appeared when he’d first read the Book.

  ‘We can’t let her get it,’ whispered Edward. ‘You have to help me.’

  Lady Anne sensed Will as the source of the turbulence. She headed towards him, slowly, moving through the boys with dreadful purpose, her regal fingers quivering slightly. Edward could see her eyes fixed on Will. They reached the form rooms.

  She’s made a mistake, thought Edward. She thinks it’s with Will. He bent towards Will’s ear. ‘Pretend you’ve got it. I’ll find the knight, get him to explain.’ He remembered calling out to the knight, and the bright figure who had rescued them from the ropes in the dorm.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ Will was crumpled.

  ‘Create a diversion,’ said Edward. He felt like a butterfly scrabbling at a windowpane, seeing freedom ahead of him but not knowing how to get there.

  ‘What sort of diversion?’

  ‘Too late,’ said Edward, as Lady Anne came into the room, and Mrs Phipps appeared at the other door to the classroom. She radiated malevolence, occasionally making insect-like hissing noises, and they both advanced upon the boys. Edward gripped Will’s arm. ‘Sorry,’ he said, and then he turned to Lady Anne. There was only one thing he could do.

  ‘It’s with him,’ he said and, as they turned their attention to Will and bore down upon the shivering boy, he darted out of the room and ran for it. Those two seconds during which Lady Anne and Mrs Phipps seized Strangore, pretending to be concerned for his health, and realised that he was not carrying the Book at all, were enough for Edward to escape.

  He sprinted out of the form rooms, round the corner and up a narrow gravel path which led to the woods. Clumps of hawthorn in bloom lined the path. Coming round a corner, he nearly slipped, but righted himself and carried on, beginning to pant in a ragged way. Come on, he said to himself. Temple. I’ll make it to Temple.

  His camp was in the north-west corner of the woods, hidden away near the boundaries of the school. Beyond it was totally out of bounds, fenced off by barbed wire. He came to the end of the path and powered on into the woods, darting around trees whose green, calm leaves made a silent, living cathedral. He was lucky that he knew every inch of the woods, or he might have fallen many times; he leapt over logs, dodged round stumps and once cleared a small ditch.

  Even as he ran he saw himself laying the Other Book before Lady Anne, receiv
ing her favour, becoming her equal. It was hot and he was sweating, the sunlight oppressive.

  ‘Ye have the book,’ she had said, staring right at him, through him, until he felt as if she was X-raying his mind and knew every little thought and impulse. He stumbled over a log, scrabbling for balance, twigs catching at his clothes.

  He made it to Temple, pushing through the branches. The entrance was small and hidden. As he went in, the light filtering through the leaves made it seem as if he were underwater. He held his breath and heard the blood pounding in his ears. He looked around. It hadn’t changed. Then he saw that someone had tied a small mirror to a branch. It felt uncomfortably like an eye fixed upon him, so he turned it round. He settled down and held the Other Book as if it were a lizard, slippery and alive.

  He opened it and felt as if he was teetering on the edge of a precipice. From where she was standing in front of the Manor, Lady Anne felt the surge of power. ‘Find him, Phipps,’ she whispered to her henchwoman.

  The signs were spiralling, burning in Edward’s mind. He tensed himself, putting up barriers, thinking of what he loved the most. He felt strong. He fell headlong and came out into the green and gold of the dreamworld which the Other Book created for him.

  The knight was sitting on a log, looking patient and tired.

  ‘Who are you?’ said Edward, before the knight could say anything.

  ‘My name is Tristram de la Zouche.’

  ‘Are you Lady Anne de la Zouche’s ancestor?’

  ‘I am. It was my tomb on which you laid the raven. It was a test, to prove your worth. The raven is the noble crest of the de la Zouches. You saw it given dignity. You showed you despised cruelty and would aid those in distress. I knew you were the right child. I knew you were pure, when I saw you converse with the spirits.’

  A pure one will find it, thought Edward.

  ‘I put Idylls of the King in the library as a guide for you, I showed you the Other Book.’ Tristram came closer to Edward. ‘The Other Book was our family’s heirloom, the source of our power. Our honour–and our burden. The line continued here unbroken, since it began with Merlin and Vivien, for generations.’ He stood up, and began to pace, fiddling with his scabbard.

  The Ms and Vs on the tomb, thought Edward, and in the front of the Book. Merlin and Vivien. The line of the wizard and witch – it must be them.

  ‘One of my ancestors was a foolish man. His name was Wentlake.’ When Tristram said the name, his voice wavered slightly. ‘He damned the old stories, and turned Oldstone into a haven for gamblers, drunkards and worse. He used the Other Book for great evil. It came to Merlin’s notice. He sent guardians to Wentlake to try to persuade him to abandon his ways. But he slew them. Merlin sent more powerful agents, and they won, but at the price of Wentlake’s life.

  ‘The Other Book was poisoned. Wentlake’s corrruption was of such great potency that the Book could not be restored until it had been purifed. And Wentlake’s son was destined to see that happen.’ Tristram looked up, his eyes suffused with something Edward could not quite place–was it grief? Or pleasure?

  He asked gently, ‘What happened next?’

  ‘Now the seed of evil is flourishing. Now you must see that the Other Book is returned to its rightful owner.’

  ‘But who is it? Will you help me?’

  A change came over Tristram. He was alert, his face strained, his body tensed. ‘Something is approaching,’ he said. ‘Your body lies vulnerable. You must go.’

  Edward imagined his body and experienced the fearful dislocating sense; then he was back in Temple, and he could hear someone coming though the woods. The Other Book was in his hands. It began to glow with sharp light. And it began to melt, and he felt it seeping into him like hot wax.

  Temple was circular, and roofed by a low screen of branches. There was no other way for him to get out. He was enclosed. He could smell alcohol and he felt sick. The Other Book shone brilliantly for a second, and then there was nothing.

  Edward could just make out a black, hulking shape. A hand grabbed him by the scruff of his neck. He held his breath. The smell of sweat was overpowering. Edward trembled. Something came into the centre of the round camp.

  Eleven

  The thing stank. Edward felt like retching but forced himself not to. It came into a patch of light.

  Edward saw at once that it was Mr Bartlett.

  Bartlett didn’t have a beard–that must have been what he was using the mirror for. And he was still wearing the scratchy tweed suit which Edward detested so much. It was covered in dirt and was torn in several places. His shirt was untucked, and his tie, usually of such military precision, was undone. His shoes still shone, though they were beginning to look scuffed. Edward was so angry with him. Bartlett had violated Temple.

  ‘It would be you, Pollock, wouldn’t it?’ Bartlett was shivering with fever, and his eyes shone. Edward felt as Imp must have felt before Mr Bartlett had killed him.

  ‘Sit down, Pollock. Do. Sit down in my castle. An Englishman’s home and all that.’ He laughed. ‘It was a conspiracy, you know. A full-blown, gunpowder treason and whatsit conspiracy.’

  Edward cleared his throat. ‘What for, sir?’

  ‘What for? What for? What do you think for? Imbecile.’ He coughed and spat out a huge glob of phlegm. ‘Do you think old Bartlett would be living here by choice? Of course not. It was a conspiracy to drive me out of Oldstone Manor.’ He stopped talking, and scratched himself under his armpits. His hands fumbled in his pockets and he drew out a half-empty packet of tobacco. With trembling movements he rolled a cigarette and then, after many attempts, struck a match and lit it. Bartlett jabbed in the air with his roll-up. He coughed again, a wrenching cough that shook his frame. ‘Bartlett’s been hounded out–hah! Hounded out like the shivering cur he is.’

  In that moment, Edward realised what the Book had done to him. And he felt a sort of pity for this man. His anger faded.

  Edward heard branches crack. Bartlett spun round. ‘Who’s there?’ he said.

  A figure appeared, bent. It was Mrs Phipps. Edward felt fear expand in his body. Mrs Phipps leant forward and a voice issued from her mouth: ‘You’re wanted, Pollock. She is waiting.’

  Edward could not push past her. The camp he had so lovingly built had become a prison.

  And then he remembered. He remembered the spirits of the wood that he had seen in this very place. He focused his mind, and spoke to them. There was silence for a second, and then he heard creakings and rustlings.

  He wondered whether what he was seeing was real–the branches of the trees were reaching around Mrs Phipps. He blinked, but when he looked again, they were twining round her arms, preventing her from moving. Ivy trailed across the ground and snaked around her ankles, pulling her aside. Logs piled up around her. Edward did not stop to wait, but ran. He heard Mr Bartlett saying, ‘What the devil?’ He looked behind him and saw Mrs Phipps struggling to break free from a thicket that had sprung up around her.

  Now his only thought was to run. He didn’t know where. The woods around him seemed to make way for him as he pelted along. When he came down the gravel path, he hesitated. The only thought in his mind was to take it to the highest authority around, and that was Mr Fraser. His mind set, he jumped down the three steps on to the drive, and careered towards the Manor.

  He was halfway down it when Lady Anne came round the bend.

  Keep going, he thought to himself. Keep going. Just go straight past her. He focused his gaze ahead of him and galloped ahead, passing her in a flash.

  ‘Edward! Edward Pollock! I need to talk to you!’ she called after him.

  He’d made it down the drive. The friendly bulk of Oldstone Manor appeared ahead. He looked behind him.

  There was the approaching figure of Mrs Phipps, shedding twigs and leaves. They were closing in on him. Edward ducked into the side door of the Manor and took a left turn down the passageway. He heard the heavy, oak front door squeaking open and dashed through a d
oor opposite him. It led into a corridor which led straight into Kakophagy. He closed the door behind him and ran into the empty room–the tables had been cleared after supper and the kitchens were silent. He didn’t have time to run across to the kitchens, from where he’d be able to escape. He was cornered in the dining hall. The only thing he could do was hide. So he slid under the nearest table and started crawling to the far right-hand corner of the room, sliding uncomfortably around the legs of tables. He reached the wall and leaned heavily against it. He heard something click.

  The door to Kakophagy opened.

  ‘I saw him come in here,’ said Mrs Phipps.

  ‘Check in the kitchens,’ said Lady Anne. ‘He might be hiding in there.’

  Edward heard her footsteps approaching and pressed back even further. Lady Anne’s perfume was advancing too–sweet and mystical, almost hypnotic. He held himself tightly against the wall, and suddenly he was falling backwards. A panel swung shut, closing him into a dark space. He heard Lady Anne coming closer, then stop, move the benches back, and turn away. He breathed out and looked around him. It was completely black. He felt around. The space was quite large–large enough for a full-grown man to sit in. He put his hand out tentatively and felt the rough stone of the wall behind him, his hand contracting when it touched something mossy or wet.

  It was a tunnel. He let his hand run up the wall on his side, which was remarkably smooth, and felt the roof of it about half a foot above his head as he crouched. He wasn’t able to stand up. He hoped it led somewhere. Then he remembered–it must be the secret passage that he had spent so long looking for when he was younger, that had been rumoured to take spies and monks to the church.

  The church–that must be a safe place, he thought. Nothing evil could happen in a church.

  He started crawling on his hands and knees. He wished that he had some sort of light. The air was dank and caught in his throat. He crawled faster, scraping his knees on the slimy stone, bumping his head. The darkness was beginning to clear a little, as his eyes adjusted themselves, but the tunnel was claustrophobically narrow. In the gloom he could hear many strange noises, but dismissed them. He kept going.