Magic Ink

by Steve Cole

  “Oink! That’s exactly right, old bean.” Posho had suddenly appeared, his eyes bright and his topper askew; I guess he’d crept in through the window. “And tonight, when the moon is full and the shadows long. . . ” He held up a piece of parchment with nine neat blank boxes arranged in three rows. “You, Stew, will soon be drawn into a conversation with the mystical Merlin. . . Oink! You will make comic-strip contact with the Big Man himself!”

  GETTING READY FOR MY UNCANNY STRIP COMMUNICATION WITH THE ONE AND ONLY MERLIN

  I’m going to cut to the chase, now. Which means skipping the normal stuff that happened that day like tea with my family (takeaway pizza), watching TV (nothing good on) and trying (but failing) to read a book (I can’t remember what it was but obviously it was nowhere near as good as this one).

  I wanted to text my best mates back home but didn’t know what to say; we were far enough apart as it was, and if they thought I’d gone completely crazy since moving they might stop talking to me all together.

  Anyway, picture me sitting in Granddad’s attic, later that night. While Dad, Mum and Lib were counting sheep (or, more likely, counting power-tools, headache pills and mermaids riding unicorns, respectively), I was feeling stupendously scared. Here I was facing up to whatever Granddad had turned his back on. Why? Why didn’t I just tell my parents, or run away from home, or. . .

  “YOO-HOOOOO, STEW! COO-EEEEEEEEEEE!”

  You hear that? Destiny was calling.

  The climb up the attic stairs seemed to last hours. A curious shine came from inside the room – it was the silvery moonlight beaming through the skylight. It fell onto the old drawing board; Posho stood beside it like a bacon-scented sentry, a smile on his face. I saw that the parchment page with its nine panels was already taped in place.

  “Good chap. I knew you’d go through with it,” Posho murmured. He raised the old pot of ink in one trotter and the inking brush in the other.

  I took the inking brush doubtfully. “I. . . I normally use a felt-tip.”

  “It’s the magic ink that will let you speak to Merlin across the centuries.” Posho nodded solemnly. “Oink! An ordinary felt-tip will be no good at all.”

  “Across the centuries?” I echoed. “You mean, he can speak to me. . . from the past?”

  “He is trapped there,” said Posho grimly. “Don’t worry. The Big Man will explain.”

  “OK, but. . . ” I stared at the empty comic strip panels. “What am I supposed to draw, in any case?”

  “Why, Stewart Penders, of course, old chap.” Posho smiled. “Oink! It’s a conversation, isn’t it? So, to focus the connection over the ink-link, you draw a picture of yourself, and you write your questions and answers—”

  “In a speech balloon?” I hazarded.

  “Go to the top of the class.” Posho smiled piggily. “Merlin will respond in kind with his own illustrations.”

  I felt seriously doubtful about it all. But then, Dad did have a game app on his phone where a bunch of players around the world hook up and take it in turns to draw pictures and guess what they’re meant to be. I suppose this was kind of the same – just a whole lot weirder and creepier.

  “Hang on, though,” I said, “won’t the moonlight bring my drawing to life?”

  “This is talking paper,” said Posho. “Talking paper is quite different to the living paper from which I sprung. Oink! It’s been charmed in an entirely different way to allow you to communicate. I do wish you’d pay attention!”

  “Well, pardon me. . . !” I walked over to the drawing board. “I wonder where Granddad kept his dip pen? It’s, like, an old-fashioned pen you use with ink. I prefer it to a brush.”

  “Oink! You’ll find two in the tin on the shelf over there.”

  I opened the tin reverently, ditched the brush and picked out the precious dip pen – a Hunt Hawk Quill 107, to be precise. What characters had Granddad drawn with it? I wondered. To think I was holding it just as he would’ve held it as he perfected page after page of comic book cool. . .

  This was awesome. Beyond awesome.

  My jitters left me. I dipped the nib into the magic ink—

  And began to draw.

  It was kind of tricky, using the dip pen. I tried to pretend Granddad was watching and giving me tips, like he used to. You can’t press too hard or you’ll damage the nib, he’d say. And you have to keep your arm moving so the ink flows smoothly. . .

  Well, my efforts weren’t too smooth, but I managed to put an OK self-portrait in the panel.

  Now it was time for the lettering. . .

  “What should I say?” I wondered aloud.

  “Greet the big man,” Posho suggested. “Oink! Say it is your honour to serve him.”

  “I’m not serving anyone – I just want to find out what’s going on!” Ignoring the pig’s disapproving look, I dipped the pen once more in the ink and scratched out:

  I drew a speech balloon round it and stepped back, watching the blank panel next door on the moonlit page, full of anticipation, waiting for something to happen.

  And within a couple of minutes, before my disbelieving eyes, it did.

  MERLIN!!!

  Merlin’s artwork was cool but I wasn’t sure about his dialogue. I frowned over at Posho. “Is he calling me simple?”

  “I’m sure he merely means ‘uncomplicated’,” said Posho quickly. “Remember, he’s translating his words into English from old Anglo-Saxon. And he’s talking to us from the ancient past, from a terrible prison where time has no meaning.”

  “That’s where those old stories about him end,” I remembered. “It was a woman who locked him up, right? Viviane. She learned his magic tricks and dumped him.”

  Posho nodded so hard his hat almost fell off. “A pestilential devil woman!”

  I turned back to the comic strip and filled panel three with another picture of me.

  I didn’t have to wait long for the next panel to appear.

  Posho chuckled. “It rather suits him, doesn’t it?”

  “Mmm.” I didn’t want to upset Merlin, so in panel four I drew myself with a big beard and pointy hat as well. What to ask? I had so many questions – like, If you can send your spirit through time, why do you need me? You say you want to fend off magical attacks – but from who? And is that Viviane woman still after you?

  But what was my biggest question? This:

  I waited tensely, my eyes glued to the parchment. Well, not literally glued to the parchment. That would hurt. Merlin was good; he came back at me with two panels.

  “And?” I breathed, waiting impatiently to see if a third panel would ink itself in. For every question Merlin answered, another dozen seemed to form in my reeling mind.

  Then I forgot them all, as another image came through. It was a little sketchier than the first two. And the scene it showed gave me the creeps.

  If this was a proper self-portrait, then Merlin really was in trouble.

  “Reward?” My heart quickened. “What reward?” I looked at Posho. “What does he mean, ‘reward’?”

  “I don’t know.” The pig looked kind of rueful. “I’m not the chosen one, old bean. Oink! You are.”

  “You mean, my granddad was,” I shot back.

  “Oink! Well, yes – but now, blood of his blood, with the same love of drawing superheroes, you’re the closest thing to the chosen one the Big Man has.”

  “But if he can travel through time, why does he need me?”

  “You heard him, old boy,” said Posho shortly. “His spirit self was able to flit across the centuries but the real him had to stay put. Oink! Now, locked up as he is, only his artwork can escape – carried on moonlight and drawn here through the ink-link. You alone can help him now!”

  My mind was whirling. Me, Stew Penders, comics geek, a chosen one! Chosen by fate – and by a mythical wizard. I could almost hear the ancient scratch of Merlin’s fading whispers, like the rasping of a pen nib on parchment. . .

  Was I going to wimp out like Gran
ddad? Run away? Let the chance go? Let the reward go?

  I found myself hastily scribbling a heroic silhouette – one fist raised to the sky above him. It was me – as STUPENDOUS MAN.

  I stared at the freaky tag-team comic strip conversation I’d just taken part in, while Posho taped another blank-panelled page to the drawing board.

  Together we waited for Merlin’s reaction. My stomach churned like a washing machine, my guts tossing like laundry.

  But as the minutes passed, my excitement ebbed. The next panel remained blank.

  Unknown.

  Like the future. . .

  (AND FOR ANYONE WHO’S NOT A TEEN BUT WHO MIGHT WANT TO READ IT ANYWAY. PARTICULARLY ANYONE INTERESTED IN MEDIEVAL SUPERHEROES)

  Posho and I waited for several minutes for any further message from Merlin. You know, like a ‘Thanks, mate!’ or ‘Cheers!’ But nothing came through. Even the smears on my finger and thumb had grown faint.

  “Er. . . Why has he stopped talking?” I whispered.

  “Oink! You saw that picture. He’s in a bad way.” Posho sighed. “We’ll try to reach him again tomorrow night. We must find out which superhero he needs.”

  He needs Stupendous Man, I thought to myself, boggling at the prospect of my super-charged alter-ego springing to life in the moonlight. “Hang on, though, why can’t Merlin just magic himself out of that cave?”

  “There are many barriers around it, both magical and physical, which can only be broken from the outside,” said Posho gravely. “But it’s late now. Oink! I’ll clue you in on all the details tomorrow.”

  “Right. . . ” I looked at the dapper pig. “Posho, if my granddad drew you into life and then ran off, how come you know so much about Merlin’s situation?”

  “Er. . . Well, I was made with Merlin’s magic, wasn’t I?” Posho looked a bit shifty. “Oink! I’m here to help him find a hero in his time of need! His right-hand pig, you could say. Now, no more questions, old bean. Off you go, and take some Magic, Inc. comics with you. You must get as acquainted with the Big Man’s creations as a piglet with its litter-mates’ tails.”

  I picked up the bundle of yellowed pages from the table. “All right. See you tomorrow.”

  “Oink! Toodle-pip!”

  Quietly, I crept out of the moonlit attic and down the stairs. I could hear Mum and Dad softly snoring in unison, and Libs grinding her teeth in her sleep. Again, I felt shut out of that ordinary, careless world, with my secrets and my bargains, my late-night promises and my talking pig. . .

  As I pulled the sheets over me, I thought, ‘What have I got myself into?’ Had I said yes to Merlin for the right reasons? I realised, kind of guiltily, that the thought of a magical reward had definitely helped persuade me. And yet I didn’t even know what the reward would be.

  Money?

  Special powers?

  My mind skipped and skidded around the possibilities.

  To try and calm myself down I started looking through the comics. Though the smudge on my thumb was fainter than before, by wiping it across the words I could still make sense of most of them.

  And I came to the conclusion that Magic, Inc.’s superheroes were a pretty weird bunch.

  Obviously, things were different back in Merlin’s day – and his costumed characters reflected this.

  There was. . .

  The hay-mazing HARVEST BOY, with the unnerving ability to gather one million turnips an hour! THRILL as he reaps an entire wheat field in seventeen minutes flat! GASP as he tills the soil with his bare hands! BLINK IN DISBELIEF as he leaves harvested potatoes out in the sun for a while to harden their skins so they store better!

  In Harvest Boy Issue 1, Harvest Boy helped the women and children of a village gather in their harvest while the men were away fighting in a war. It wasn’t really that exciting. Except for the women and children in the story, who got a nice couple of days off thanks to their helpful hero being so efficient.

  Another of the weird old comics was the first issue of The Living Trebuchet. Now, I’d been on a school trip to a castle the year before so I knew a trebuchet was a giant catapult that propelled big rocks at big buildings to try and knock them down. And I was pretty sure that most trebuchets were dead, being made of wood and stuff.

  So what was a living trebuchet?

  The answer was. . .

  SONNY SIEGE, a teenage boy who was apparently King Arthur’s ultimate weapon against enemy nobles. His super-powers were amazing strength, resistance to disease and the ability to fling rotting cows and horses over the top of a castle wall to try and spread illnesses.

  STARE as he summons zombie plague-rats from the dead to attack people! HOLD YOUR STOMACH as he tricks the population of an entire castle into drinking water infected with cholera (or something) so they all die and King Arthur can breeze in and take over!

  Nice, huh? Wonder if any of these mags made it to issue two?

  My eyes were starting to droop by now. You might be wondering, how could I feel sleepy after seeing all that craziness? After translating old languages with an inky thumb?

  Well, once you’re forced to accept that this mad stuff is real, that’s about it. You can’t deny it any more, so you just get on with it.

  And you get yourself in deeper.

  I decided to flick through the War Commander comic.

  It was about a knight called Lance Lott who seemed to mainly fight Vikings and warlords who bad-mouthed Arthur. This was a bit more like it.

  Last on the pile was The Adventures of Lantern Girl, Issue 1 – and it was perhaps the weakest comic of all.

  Lantern Girl was an orphan who’d been bitten by a radioactive glow-worm (which seemed kind of unlikely to me, as there wasn’t any harmful radiation back then, was there? And can worms bite? I don’t think so.)

  She had the power to make her hand glow brightly.

  I mean, OK, I guess back in those days before electricity, a bit of extra light would come in handy but. . . Well. A glowing hand for a superpower? Really? Wow.

  YELP IN SHOCK as she helps a monk finish writing his book after his candles have been stolen. GAZE IN AWE as she illuminates a forest track so a messenger on horseback doesn’t stumble into a small hole. . .

  I ended up sleeping very well indeed that night.

  TO THE SUPERMARKET!

  (or, EXCUSE ME, there’s a wizard in my potatoes)

  I woke the next morning with Merlin and his prison on my mind and fear and excitement swilling about in my stomach. But before I could sneak upstairs to get more info from Posho, Mum intervened – and forced me to go with her to the supermarket in town. Not Lib, who got to stay home with Dad watching TV – just me, so I could push the trolley for her. Mum knew better than to bring both of us on a shopping trip. Things normally worked out badly.

  Anyway, I was standing in the fruit and veg section while Mum poked about at some cherry tomatoes, when suddenly I saw a cloud of smoke come billowing through the air towards me. Before I could react—WHOOSH!

  A tall, bearded man in a dark cloak and pointy hat appeared, standing on the potatoes in the weigh-your-own section! I staggered back, trying to scream, but my voice had shrivelled to a croaking whisper. . .

  “Don’t be a-feared, boy,” the man in the potatoes said kindly, his voice rich and deep. “I am the wizard Merlin, here in my astral form. Only you can see me!”

  “H. . . huh?” I whimpered. “How come you didn’t just appear like that last night?”

  “Last night?” Merlin frowned. “Ah. No. No, no, no, boy. I am not the same Merlin you must have spoken to. I am an earlier, younger version, still at liberty, acting on special instructions. You see?”

  “Er. . . not really, no,” I said, not believing my eyes – let alone my ears. As I watched, an old woman wandered over and helped herself to a handful of the potatoes under the apparition’s bare and dirty feet (euww!) without comment. And no one else was so much as glancing at the strange, slightly transparent, cowled figure standing on the veg. They wer
e looking at ME – flippin’ cheek! – as if I were the only weird thing around here!

  “A younger Merlin. . .” I breathed. “Then. . . the Merlin I spoke to is still a prisoner?”

  “Eh? Prisoner of what?” Merlin frowned. “No! Don’t answer that. Speak not a word of whatever has already passed between us – for you, it is in the past, for me, it is still to come in the future. What you see before you now is but my spirit self – an intangible shadow of the real me, projected through the ages by the power of my mind.”

  I groped around in my own mind for something intelligent to say. “Uhh. . . why are you in a supermarket?”

  “This is the time and place I was told I would find you,” Merlin began.

  “Told by who?” I asked.

  “Stop interrupting, lad!” Merlin grumbled. “You see, before me there lies a—”

  “Grapefruit!” said Mum, bustling back over with the tomatoes. “We need a grapefruit. End of the aisle. Come on, Stew, stop staring into space and get with it!”

  I couldn’t believe that my senses-staggering conversation with the one and only actual Merlin was being interrupted by a grapefruit. With a helpless look at the ghostly wizard, I wheeled the trolley off after Mum.

  As we reached the end of the aisle, Merlin appeared again – this time on the cereal counter opposite the grapefruits. His insubstantial form was perched impressively on a stack of Golden Nuggets. I tried hard not to stare so that Mum wouldn’t get mad, but it was difficult.

  “As I was saying,” Merlin went on patiently, “before me there lies a great and terrible challenge. I sense that I will soon be struggling for my very life.”