Master of the Scrolls

by Benjamin Ford

  ‘Be still, James Trevayne!’ The unmistakably evil voice of Samuel Wylams hissed in his ear, spitting venom. ‘I can squeeze thy life from thee with no effort!’

  James struggled to remain calm. With his hearing still muffled, unable to see anything but spiralling stars, James was concerned for Gloria. ‘Please, do no harm to my Lady Ria!’ he implored.

  Samuel’s booming laughter sounded in his ear. ‘It took thee not long to forget thy beloved Isabella!’

  ‘I have forgot not my wife, nor forgot what you did to her, Samuel! Vengeance shall be mine!’

  ‘I think not!’

  As the Warlock shoved him backwards, James stumbled, reaching out for something to cling onto. He found the window seat and sunk into it with relief.

  ‘Where be my parchment?’ Samuel demanded coldly. His bewitching voice commanded servitude, and Gloria found herself unwillingly rising to her feet.

  She knew she was about to make the biggest mistake she could ever possibly make, but there was nothing she could do to stop herself: she was in no way in control of her actions, though this time she knew exactly what was going on, unlike when Isabella took control.

  You must resist. You must give him not the locket! Lead him to believe the manuscript is what matters. When you have it, you must flee. It matters not where you go. Anywhere from here!

  Isabella’s voice floated once more inside Gloria’s mind, this time oddly comforting.

  ‘Where be it?’ shouted Samuel, his voice rising an octave in anticipation as Gloria rose to her feet, moving slowly towards the fireplace. ‘Yes… yes… fetch it. Bring it to me!’

  Concentrate. You must concentrate. Resist him. I shall help, but you must resist his will!

  Gloria fought Samuel’s bewitching control, focusing on Isabella.

  I am in control of myself!

  Yes… yes, you are in control, Gloria! You must give James the time needed to do what he must.

  Gloria knelt beside the fireplace, struggling to remember what James had done to reveal the secret compartment. She managed to open it, reached inside and grasped hold of the manuscript. She clutched it tightly in her sweating hands, not wanting to let it go.

  ‘What are you doing?’ gasped James aghast, his vision now clear enough for him to see that Gloria had the manuscript in her hands.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she sobbed. ‘I have to!’

  She took a couple of faltering steps towards Samuel, clutching the manuscript to her breast, struggling for breath as she fought to maintain her control over the situation.

  ‘Fight him, Ria. You must fight! Give him not the book!’ James’s voice betrayed all the desperation he felt, for the parchment secreted within the bindings of the manuscript would allow Samuel to create each of the Alchemic properties: he would be invincible and invulnerable – unstoppable!

  Samuel’s dirty black cloak swept past James’s muddled view as he walked slowly towards Gloria, hands out-stretched, a manic gleam of triumph in his eyes. ‘Yes! Yes – bring it to me. Give it to me! I must have it!’

  Gloria glanced across to James. ‘Forgive me, my darling, you know what has to be done; you know what you must do! I shall return; look for me in one month!’

  If Samuel heard her words, he did not show it. His concentration centred solely on the manuscript. He reached for it as Gloria extended her arm, slowly, inexorably holding it out towards the Warlock.

  ‘What you seek is in the bindings of this book!’

  With a cry of undisguised triumph, Samuel grasped hold of the manuscript, paying no attention to anyone or anything else around him. Nearly one thousand years of searching was almost at an end. By the time he realised Gloria still held onto the book and was speaking intensely, it was too late. He did not hear what she was saying, but all of a sudden felt himself ensnared within the tight grasp of some unearthly hot, spitefully pain-fuelled power.

  James managed to raise up onto his elbow as a harsh crackling, hissing sound echoed around the room, but by the time his eyes focused on the spot where Gloria and Samuel had been battling for control of the book, there was no sign of either of them.

  He was quite alone in the room.

  June 1987

  Louise lay beneath the sheet on George’s bed, resting her head upon her elbow as she watched him dress. ‘You really could do with some new clothes,’ she idly muttered without thinking. She cursed silently as the words left her mouth, hoping they did not sound unduly critical.

  George regarded his appearance in the mirror, striking a typical model’s pose in his ripped and faded jeans and patched plaid shirt, which he had casually thrown on without fastening the buttons. ‘There is little point in wearing new clothes in my job, my dear. They would too quickly be ruined!’

  He came over to sit on the side of the bed, bending to plant a gentle kiss on her lips.

  ‘Hmm, I could get used to all this,’ Louise sighed contentedly. ‘You’re actually really nice. I cannot believe that I have always been so vile to you! I like it when you kiss me, and I like waking up next to you!’

  George chuckled. ‘You merely like me?’

  Louise trailed her fingers up his chest, tracing patterns through his coarse chest hair. ‘Yes. I like you… a lot!’ She leaned up to kiss him. ‘I don’t deserve you, George! The way I treated you before was utterly unforgivable.’

  ‘Is that not how we know this to be more than lust? There is no way we would be abed together should you have no real love for me, so forgiveness is easy! You must put it from your mind, for it is in the past. Have we not our entire future to look forward to?’

  Louise lay back on the bed seductively, stretching her arms above her head languorously. ‘I’m glad,’ she said. ‘Somehow I can’t imagine my life without you now. How peculiar is that?’

  George smiled. ‘Does not the heart work in a mysterious way? It is not always obvious whom we really love.’ He leaned in and kissed her again. ‘My dear, I could kiss you all day!’

  ‘Then why don’t you? It is Sunday after all! Surely you don’t have to work on a Sunday?’

  ‘There is work to be done. Have I not been returning to you earlier than I should for most of this week?’ He arched his eyebrows and Louise giggled. ‘My dear,’ he continued, ‘if we are to begin properly, there must be no secrets, agreed?’

  Louise nodded. ‘Absolutely.’

  Sitting beside her, absentmindedly stroking her thigh beneath the sheet, George took a deep breath. ‘Then please, can you not tell me what happened at Miss Schofield’s house yesterday? I know something happened, for you have been most quiet since your return. You are angered and upset about this man, Peter Neville. Was he there when you saw her?’

  Louise felt oddly tearful. She had no desire to start her relationship with George amid secrets, but no way could she even begin to tell him of the completely unbelievable events that had unfolded the previous day. Even though she had witnessed first hand Gloria and Phil together, apparently possessed by spirits from centuries ago that did not seem to realise their time on this Earth was long gone, she was having difficulty reconciling what she had seen with rational thought. George would think she was completely mad.

  ‘George, I can’t tell you.’ She almost burst into tears when he shrugged away from her as she said those words. ‘Oh please, George, don’t be mad. It’s not a case of not wanting to tell you, I just can’t! I promised Gloria I wouldn’t breathe a word to anyone.’

  George smiled at her. ‘Your word is your bond to your best friend, such sentiment I understand, but when something is wrong, to speak of it is good for the soul. Miss Schofield has revealed to me many secrets herself in the past, and I have told no one. I am completely trustworthy where all of my employers are concerned, especially Miss Schofield, and if it might ease the burden from your shoulders...’

  George’s voice trailed off, leaving the proverbial ball in Louise’s court.

  Louise thought hard. She really needed to talk to someone uninvolved, to
get a rational perspective on the situation. ‘All right,’ she said with a sigh, sitting up and clasping the sheet to maintain her modesty. ‘You may not believe what I’m going to say, but that’s fine, because I’m not sure I believe it myself. I need you to tell me, honestly, if you think it is all madness!’

  Suddenly attentive, George touched her hand eagerly. ‘I am the soul of discretion, remember. I am listening.’

  *

  Rachel sat in the kitchen of her London home, staring blankly into her cup of cold, barely touched tea. Consumed with fear and worry, and unable to sleep, she had arisen at four, her confused thoughts still centred on her daughter.

  She had believed her mother to be mad when first she had told her the tale, for it was a tall tale indeed. Then, they had witnessed first hand the coupling between Gloria and Phil, and had she not heard both utter the names Isabella and Peter instead of their own, she would merely have thought her daughter had taken leave of her senses and abandoned all reason to embark upon an affair.

  Sitting in her kitchen for the past three and a quarter hours, the thoughts had merely circulated within her tormented mind. She was unable to focus on anything else; her daughter, possessed by the spirit of this long dead woman, Isabella, had a destiny preordained hundreds of years ago, and nothing anyone could do would change the course of events that were even now beginning to unfold.

  Why did you have to burden me with this knowledge, Mother? she thought bitterly. Why couldn’t you have kept it to yourself?

  It was one shock too many, a dozen extra grey hairs to add to her collection.

  Rachel chastised herself for being selfish; after all, it was obvious why Mary had told her. The old woman had known the family secret – curse might be a better word – for a great many years, and she had been forced to keep it to herself for as long as possible. Now that the time of resolution was almost at hand, Gloria herself would undoubtedly need a steadying hand to help her come to terms with what fate had in store, and there was only one person to fulfil that role – her mother.

  Me! I am her rock. It’s always me she comes to, and I have to be strong for her!

  Mary had not said when the time would be, other than it was soon. There was a distinct possibility that it might be tomorrow – or today even!

  I might actually never see my daughter again!

  ‘I’m going to make the most of whatever time we have,’ she said to herself as she glanced at her watch. It was not yet eight, but she knew her daughter rose early, even on a Sunday. Making her way to the hall, she picked up the telephone and dialled the number, but when after twenty rings there was still no answer, she hung up.

  ‘Who were you phoning?’ demanded Mary, descending the stairs slowly.

  Rachel moved to help her mother. ‘Gloria, but, there was no answer. You don’t think it’s started, do you?’

  ‘Possibly, though for now it will not be permanent.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  Mary shook her head solemnly. ‘Perhaps I should have made you read Isabella’s book, then you’d understand everything. Gloria won’t depart for good until the wedding next month!’

  ‘What wedding? Mother, do stop speaking in riddles!’

  ‘Gloria’s wedding, of course!’ Mary smiled at her daughter’s confusion. ‘Allan came to see me at Ravenscreag Hall, shortly before he left on his current assignment. He’s going to propose to Gloria when he gets back, and then he’s bringing her up to Ravenscreag to marry her at the village church!’

  Rachel’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘He came to see you, and he told you this?’

  Mary nodded. ‘He wants it to be a surprise, so he asked me to keep silent. He was up there making arrangements at the church.’

  ‘So what exactly does Isabella’s book predict? I know you too well, Mother, you haven’t told Gloria everything, have you?’

  ‘No, I haven’t. She will be under the impression that she can come back to us from the past. She will live in 1537 as James Trevayne’s second wife, and she will bear him a daughter. In 1538, they will be inside their house as it burns around them.’

  ‘What!’ shrieked Rachel in anguish, clasping a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh no, please tell me it isn’t so?’

  ‘I cannot do that. The house will burn, but Gloria will not be inside. She has the ability to travel in time, and she will use it, and no doubt she will be pleased, for it means she can return to us.’

  A look of unbridled joy lodged itself on Rachel’s face, the relief she felt, intense. ‘Then all this worry has been for nothing! She’s going to go away for a bit, and then come back!’

  Again, Mary shook her head. ‘Had she read the book all the way through, she would have chosen not to return here though. In her story Isabella tells of the woman from the future being rescued from marriage to the man who would destroy her.’

  ‘Meaning Allan is somehow connected to that warlock you spoke of?’

  ‘Presumably,’ sighed Mary in a non-committal tone, as though there was yet more she was not telling. ‘Help me back to my room, Rachel, there’s something I brought with me that I must show you.’

  They ascended the stairs slowly, and once they were inside the spare room, Mary closed the door firmly behind her. She opened her suitcase and pulled out a small print. Sitting on the bed, she patted the space beside her, which her daughter immediately occupied. ‘This is a copy of an etching, done in early 1538 by a quite talented young artist who lived in the village of Ashfield, the village that is now known as Neville Hill.’ She turned the small print over, allowing Rachel to see. ‘It shows James Trevayne, his second wife, Ria and their baby daughter, Elizabeth, shortly before they died. The original was sadly lost many years ago, and although this copy is small, I think you can see a familiar face.’

  ‘It’s… Gloria!’ whispered Rachel, as she took the print from her mother and scrutinized it carefully. ‘My God, it really is her!’

  ‘In her book, Isabella tells of how the woman from future’s past came briefly into the life of James Trevayne several times before she became a permanent fixture in his life, torn from her own world on the eve of her wedding.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘And the story concludes that, like a phantom, the Witch escaped her funeral pyre and lived to tell yet more tales.’

  ‘Bizarre!’

  ‘There’s more, my dear, so much more that I have to tell you!’

  *

  The journey was again not without pain, but Gloria endured it, knowing that Samuel Wylams would be disoriented the instant it was over. She would most likely have but a single opportunity to get away, to snatch the book from his grasp and make her escape before he could react. He would then be trapped and with any luck, if his lifetime were linear, he would just shrivel up and die within twenty-four hours, for he was now in a time far beyond the one thousand years of his preternaturally extended life span.

  As they exploded into her living room, both still grasped the manuscript tightly, both battling to wrest it from the other’s grasp, neither willing to give it up without a violent struggle.

  Samuel bent slightly with the pain of their passage. Any other man would have dropped the book, but Samuel still possessed great strength and fortitude, imbued within him by the near millennia of magic he had perpetrated, and his total mental concentration focused solely on the manuscript and its secrets.

  His one eye, however, stole occasional glances around the strange room as he and Gloria circled one another, tugging at the book. His lip curled in an external display of hatred, while inside he was afraid. He might have thought he hid his fear, but Gloria sensed he was like a caged wild animal, frightened with no means of escape, and this made him ever more dangerous.

  ‘What place be this?’ Samuel snarled, fighting his fear with contempt.

  ‘My home,’ responded Gloria as coolly as she could, ‘and you are trespassing, so leave!’ It was still disconcerting to see Allan’s features staring back at her behind the grotesque d
istortion of his evil mask.

  ‘Thou art not of mine own time!’

  ‘Certainly not! I am from a civilised time, where people don’t go round killing each other for no good reason!’ A lie of course, though Samuel did not see it. In many ways, Gloria was anxious to be back in the Sixteenth Century. A simpler life suddenly appealed to her: no skyscrapers or other buildings that were an eyesore, no threat of nuclear annihilation, no germ warfare; but then again there was no indoor plumbing, no toothpaste, no sliced bread or electric toasters, no television or radio or cinema.

  Samuel’s voice interrupted her reverie. ‘Thou art the Witch I have seen in the flames, and thou doest invade my dreams. Thou shalt return me to mine own time, and then thou shalt die!’

  ‘I will not! I can’t take you back, I don’t know how!’

  ‘Thou doest lie!’ screamed Samuel vehemently, striking out at Gloria.

  The force of the blow knocked her backwards. She hit her head on the wall and sank to the floor, unconscious.

  At first, Samuel believed he had killed the meddling witch, and the thought did not displease him. He had killed before, and would undoubtedly kill again, with little thought for the consequences; such was the power to be completely lacking in morality. He kicked Gloria maliciously as she lay inert on the floor, whilst looking at the manuscript in his hands, a sadistic, self-satisfied leer on his face.

  He had won!

  He finally had in his possession the parchment on which Merlin had started to write the first part of the Alchemic secrets, upon which he himself had completed the same formula, and upon which Isabella, with her infinite wisdom, had seen fit to finish the triad. Now there was just the small matter of using the secrets contained therein to produce all that he needed, and he would be the most powerful man in the entire World. He would be immortal, unstoppable – invincible.

  Samuel opened the book, inspecting the front cover carefully, but could find no indication of anything hidden inside. He flicked through the pages, barely noticing when the handwritten pages became empty around halfway through, until he reached the end, and there, along the spine on the back cover, he saw the stitched up rip.