The Other Book

by Philip Womack

  He heard a louder scuttling behind him. It was such an odd sound that he stopped. He could not see any light ahead of him. He moved again, and the scuttling came, faster this time. Edward crawled more quickly. And then the scuttling noise became a scraping, and he felt something grabbing his leg. It was hard, and cold.

  He was frozen with terror for a moment, then kicked his leg out sharply, and was surprised to find that there was no weight on it. He looked back over his shoulder.

  It was like nothing he had ever seen before.

  A creature. It was made out of earth, it seemed, and twigs, and bits of stone and litter and grass. It extended itself. It was attracting everything in the tunnel to it. Moss detached itself from the walls and stuck on to it. Little stones were drawn to it, bits of debris and dirt and dust.

  Its grip was pitiless. Every time Edward pushed a bit off it created another limb, trapping him.

  He kicked it off and scrambled further. He could make out light ahead of him, the outline of a square. It must be another panel, he thought. I’ve got to get to it.

  But the creature was so strong it was pulling him back. There was a slope leading up to the light. Inch by inch he scrabbled, the creature elongating bits of itself further up his leg, now on his back, and he could feel it tickling his spine. He crawled up the slope and felt around the light. It was another panel. He pushed against it as hard as he could. It wouldn’t move. A piece of plastic was turning itself into a noose around his neck now, and it was tightening.

  For a moment he saw himself dead in the tunnel, picked over by worms and rats, the Other Book surviving him, yellowed and dirty, speaking more horrors than his bones could tell.

  Then Edward gritted his teeth and pushed again. This time something loosened and the panel swung open. He crawled out hastily and slumped against the wall, panting and tearing at the plastic which had closed around his throat, coughing out the horrible taste that had settled in it. But he could feel it choking him, squeezing the last breaths out of him.

  Edward grappled with it and threw it off.

  But it re-formed, and twigs and rocks began to cover him. Still he fought, as his face turned blue, still he battled until he could breathe no more and his head was filling up with white light …

  ‘Dear God, what is that!’ said a voice, and somebody rushed across and pulled the panel shut, then said something in sonorous Latin. There was a piercing noise, and Edward was released, and felt the air rush into his lungs.

  Somebody splashed liquid over him and the creature started to come apart, the various bits which had come together sinking away until there was nothing left but a pile of small stones, the plastic ring on top.

  ‘Communion wine,’ said the voice, going to the panel, opening it and throwing the rubbish back in. ‘That should do it.’

  As Edward came to he looked around. He ran a hand through his hair. It felt wet, and he realised he had cut his head on the roof of the tunnel. He relaxed a little. His knees were a mess.

  ‘Well, Mr Pollock. I do find you in the oddest of places. Have you been burying something bigger this time? You’re terribly dirty. I’ll ring through to my wife.’ The Reverend Smallwood picked up the receiver of an old dial phone and spoke into it.

  Edward looked around him. He was in the vestry. Dusty cassocks were strewn everywhere. Old hymn sheets were mixed up with parish newsletters and school calendars; half-burned candles and forgotten prayer books lay on top of cases of Communion wine. Books with titles like Ordo Judiciorum and Shelford on Tithes lined the walls. The Reverend replaced the receiver and sat down in an old brown armchair. The stuffing was coming out of the right arm.

  Edward said, with some difficulty, ‘You’ve got to help me.’

  ‘Hold on there,’ said Smallwood, ‘let’s get you cleaned up first.’ A few minutes passed in which the Reverend studied him closely. Edward did not say anything. The door to the vestry opened and Mrs Smallwood rushed in.

  ‘Edward! What have you been doing to yourself?’ she said, and swiftly sprayed him with iodine and bandaged him up. ‘There now. All better. Have a chocolate.’ She patted him on the head, and then leant in to kiss her husband on the cheek.

  ‘See you tonight,’ she said to the Reverend, and went out.

  ‘Now, how, my dear boy, did you end up being chased by something like that, into my study?’ said the Reverend. He had stayed remarkably composed. Maybe he knew there was a passage there, in case something terrible happened and the school had to be evacuated. Smallwood motioned to Edward to sit down. He perched on a stool, sweeping off some choral music.

  ‘Something’s going on–something evil.’ Edward caught his breath and coughed. ‘Evil’ seemed to him to be the right word to use in a place like this.

  He began to explain everything breathlessly. Smallwood remained calm throughout, staring just to Edward’s right, at a small crucifix which stood on a table.

  ‘So this … Other Book which you have been talking about. Where is it now?’ said Smallwood, idly turning over a coaster on a table which was next to his armchair.

  Edward paused, and then said, with confidence, ‘It’s inside me. I’ve absorbed it. I don’t know how. It’s weird, I know, but …’ Edward stopped talking.

  There was a long silence. Smallwood regarded him with great interest, his eyes suddenly as cold as a dead fish.

  ‘The Other Book … yes … yes … yes …’ he muttered. ‘I think … I think that this is it …’. His eyes were glinting slightly and his shuddering almost seemed as if it were from pleasure. ‘It has that property, yes …’ His tone changed. ‘Of course, Pollock, if you had told me about this earlier then we could have saved an awful lot of trouble, couldn’t we?’

  The Reverend got up from his chair and paced across the room. Edward felt enclosed, embattled.

  ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Pollock, than are dreamt of in our philosophy. And I have dealt with a lot of them. Will you excuse me for a second. I made a promise to someone.’ He went over to the phone, picked up the receiver and dialled. He whispered something into it and then replaced it with a strange grin on his face.

  ‘And now, for this, Pollock, I thank you. You were meant to find it. Maybe you are like Galahad–too pure to see the darkness when it comes to you.’

  Edward was unnerved.

  ‘And you will be with me. You have a connection with it. This is something we must explore … It has to come out of you.’ He put his hand on a heavy crucifix. ‘It is a shame I don’t know how …

  ‘I had been looking for the sign for years, and then it came. When I saw you with the raven on a de la Zouche tomb. And with it … Oh, Edward! I had heard about it when I was just a boy, of eighteen. I found a reference to it in a manuscript when I was reading theology at Cambridge. Of course I knew then that it was all I needed. The world is so full, Edward, of pain and fear. And I could stop it all! With this Book, I could control all minds, all thoughts … The glory of heaven on earth, Edward! Everyone, calm, beautiful, worshipping our Creator! I had to become a lawyer to earn enough for my researches, but it has paid off in the end …’

  It sounded like a nightmare to Edward.

  The vicar advanced towards him, and put his hands on the boy’s head. ‘What are you doing?’ said Edward, startled.

  ‘Looking,’ said the vicar, and closed his eyes.

  Edward tore away, taking Smallwood by surprise, and banged at the panel. It wouldn’t open.

  ‘Oh, the spring for that is hidden very carefully,’ Smallwood said. ‘Do calm down, old chap.’ The Reverend moved towards him, as if to comfort him, but Edward feared him. As Smallwood made to grab him, Edward performed a little dodge and slipped past him, making for the door.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said a cool, elegant voice. Lady Anne stepped into the vestry through the door that led from the church.

  ‘Lady Anne,’ said the Reverend, composing himself.

  ‘Thank you for letting me know about this.’ She tu
rned to Edward. ‘You will come with me.’ She took hold of his arm and led him through the church, calling back to Smallwood that she would speak with him later.

  Pictures of saints looked down on them, keeping their inscrutable thoughts to themselves. Lady Anne marched out through the church into the graveyard, pulling Edward behind, gripping his arm so tightly it hurt. She said nothing more, but she moved quickly and with grace.

  The cemetery was full of noises and movement, of birds singing, the rustle of bushes in the slight breeze, the low-level droning of bees. The blazing heat made sweat bead on Edward’s forehead. Lady Anne stopped by the de la Zouche monument. Edward’s raven had long since gone from it, removed by the sexton.

  ‘Sit there,’ she said. Sheep bleated in the distance. Edward didn’t move.

  ‘Sit there,’ she said again, and this time her voice compelled him. He scrabbled up and sat in the exact centre of the monument, where he had knelt before with the raven. The air was full of strange moanings carried from far away on the wind. The trees, though, were silent, watching. The thick air was like a blanket and Lady Anne’s voice cut straight through it.

  ‘Edward,’ she said. He looked away. ‘Please, Edward. Look at me.’

  Reluctantly, he moved his eyes to her face, and felt the full force of her charm. He picked up some dead flowers, but they fell apart in his hands, dry and withered, as soon as he touched them.

  ‘The Book,’ she said. ‘It is inside you. I want it. Give it to me.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know anything about it.’ He didn’t know how to get it out of him.

  ‘You know what I’m talking about. Look at Bartlett, Lane Glover …’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He glanced around to see where he could run. They were very close to the gate that led to the Manor. The gate, set in its old stone walls. Once he was through it, he thought, he would only be a few yards from Mr Fraser’s office. Unlike the raven he could fly away. I’m not broken yet, thought Edward.

  ‘Edward. Let me tell you something.’ Lady Anne leant in confidentially. ‘I have been looking for this for a long, long time now. Longer even than you have been alive. Since … well, since I was your age, really,’ she said, remembering the night she had first seen Wentlake’s portrait and felt the draw of his power. ‘It is such a beautiful thing, Edward. So perfect and so right. It belongs to Oldstone Manor. And the Manor belongs to me.’

  She continued, ‘I had a feeling that it might come to a boy. There are reasons for that. It had to be an untouched mind, a pure mind. Galahad, indeed!’ she laughed. ‘A maiden!’

  A maiden, thought Edward. What does she mean? He saw a brooch in her hair glint like a star.

  ‘And you did my work for me … they knew that I would find it eventually, that I would want to restore it to its powers under Wentlake. One of my ancestors tried to tell me of the horrors that would happen to me if I used the Other Book in the wrong way. But I despise such weakness. I should have known it would be you when I found you on the drive. I should have taken you then, but you slipped from my grasp. Now one thing stands in my way, and that is you. The Other Book, dear Edward, has chosen you as its vessel. I can feel it inside you. But you know that it is rightfully mine. You can either stand with me or fall by yourself.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’ Edward felt the coolness of the tombstone through his shorts. He was seeking out a chink in her armour, just as Tristram would have done with an enemy knight. Seek out the weakness and aim for it, hard and true.

  ‘Don’t you? You have been dealing with powers stronger than you’ve ever known, Edward. You saw what I have done. I control Oldstone Manor, Edward, and much beyond it. Just try and break free. Just try.’

  This was the moment. She relaxed, confident. Edward sprang off the other side of the monument. He scudded through the cemetery, jumping over the smaller graves, dashing round the bigger ones, and hurtled through the gate. He skidded to a halt in the courtyard. There was only one place to go, one person he could talk to–sensible, safe Mr Fraser. He ran to the door and banged on the glass panes.

  ‘Mr Fraser! Sir! Sir! It’s very important! Mr Fraser, sir!’

  Fraser hurried to the door, unlocked it and let him in.

  ‘What on earth are you doing out here, Pollock? It’s late. You should be in the dorms by now.’

  ‘Sir … sir, it’s very important.’

  ‘Sit down, Pollock, quickly. Spit it out.’

  Edward did as he was told, but could barely contain himself.

  ‘Lady Anne …’ He coughed. ‘She … she’s plotting to overthrow you, sir!’

  There was a big pause.

  ‘I’m sorry, Pollock? Could you say that again?’

  ‘She’s plotting to overthrow you, sir! She’s going to take over the school, and then when she’s done that, God knows what she’ll do!’

  Mr Fraser sighed. ‘Pollock, what are you talking about? I have better things to deal with than listen to you ranting and raving about plots.’

  Edward remembered that Will had seen the Other Book, had felt its influence, had seen it play out his thoughts. ‘Ask Strangore! He knows!’

  ‘Am I wasting my time, Pollock? Or will Strangore be able to throw some light on the matter?’

  ‘Sir, please, you really need to hear this,’ Edward pleaded.

  ‘All right, then, Pollock,’ Mr Fraser said, picking up the phone abruptly and dialling an extension. ‘Mrs Ferrers … yes, could you send Strangore down to me here please? Immediately? Thank you.’ He replaced the phone in its cradle.

  Edward writhed with frustration, every second seeming too long. Two or three minutes later, during which Mr Fraser tapped furiously at his computer, there was a knock on the door. It was Will. Edward looked around and saw his cousin standing, owlishly, in the doorway.

  ‘Strangore, come in, do.’

  Will looked pale and nervous. He was in his pyjamas and clutching a toothbrush. He was still wearing his glasses. ‘Sir?’ He stood at the entrance.

  ‘Strangore. Sit down.’ Will sat down on a rickety chair that was on the other side of the room from Edward. Mr Fraser put his arms behind his head and clasped his hands together. ‘What do you know about a conspiracy, Strangore?’ His voice was gentle. Will looked puzzled, and shook his head.

  ‘Conspiracy, sir?’

  ‘Yes, Strangore. Conspiracy. Pollock here tells me that you might be able to throw some light on the matter.’

  Edward looked intently at his cousin. He watched as Will hesitated, before saying, ‘I … I don’t know, sir.’

  Edward was shocked. He didn’t know that Will was ashamed, confused. He couldn’t believe that Will didn’t do the noble thing, the right thing. Edward couldn’t see how he looked to Will, hair wild, eyes strange, covered in stains, his face bloody and his clothes torn. Edward looked at his friend imploringly, not realising that this made him look even madder.

  ‘What don’t you know, Strangore?’ Mr Fraser inquired.

  ‘I don’t know anything, sir. I know that Edward read a book and thought that something bad happened because of it, but that’s all, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Strangore. You may go back to your dorm,’ said Mr Fraser.

  Edward watched as Will backed out of the room, without having acknowledged him at all.

  ‘Is this true, Pollock? Is this something you read in a book? Now tell me the truth. What happened?’

  Edward gulped. He began to tell Fraser everything he knew, right from the beginning.

  When he had finished Mr Fraser looked at him gravely. ‘Well, Edward. I’m not sure how seriously I can take any of this. I shall have to talk to Lady Anne.’

  ‘No need, Headmaster,’ said Lady Anne. She had come up slowly from the churchyard, and had been waiting outside in the courtyard, where she could hear everything. She moved in from the doorway. ‘I think I can explain. Edward, we know, is a highly sensitive boy–he is given to, shall we say, fantasising? I think that
you got specially frightened, today, didn’t you Edward? And it all came tumbling down on you and you cooked up this little dream. Now come on, Edward. You know that I’m right.’

  Edward shook his head. ‘I’m telling the truth, sir.’ He stayed silent and strong, remembering Tristram. His eyes were blazing and his voice didn’t waver.

  ‘Edward, this is a very strange story. If you would just admit that you made it all up, we can forget all about it, and we’ll write this one off, shall we? You’ll have a clean slate from tomorrow. This isn’t the first time you’ve made things up, is it?’

  Edward, trembling, turned towards the headmaster.

  ‘Can you show us this book, Edward?’ said Mr Fraser.

  ‘No,’ said Edward, frustrated. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Fraser.

  ‘It’s … oh God, you won’t believe me … it’s sort of absorbed itself into my mind!’ He looked at Mr Fraser beseechingly.

  ‘There, you see,’ said Lady Anne. ‘He’s admitted it!’

  ‘Edward, are you lying? Lying is a terrible thing, you know,’ said Mr Fraser. ‘Tell us the truth, Edward.’

  ‘The truth is what I’ve told you!’ Anxiety clogged up his throat.

  The phone rang. Mr Fraser answered. ‘Oh botheration,’ he said. He looked tired. ‘I’ll do it now, yes.’ He fiddled with a pen. ‘OK.’ He put the phone down. ‘Right, I have to go out for a bit. I’ll be back in five mins. Anne, would you mind looking after Edward?’

  ‘No!’ said Edward. Things were going beyond his control. Mr Fraser’s brow wrinkled, and he leant back in his chair, making it creak. The computer beeped again.

  ‘Look, Edward, don’t be silly. I’ll be back in a jiffy.’ He got up and left the room, leaving Edward alone with Lady Anne.

  Edward felt the scuttling around his vision, the sensation that the boundaries of the world were thinning. He felt as if some greater presence were taking control over him, and that he was at one with the world; he felt that he was at the centre of the universe, and that everything flowed from him.