The Sorcerer's Tome

by Philip Sealey

  “And they say kids have no manners,” said Ollie, and they left.

  On the way home, Tom’s mind started to wander away from Jack and Ollie’s banter. He liked the run-up to Christmas better than Christmas Day itself. There was a magic in the air that seemed to lift his spirit. He could feel it surging through the cold air. He would not have been in the least bit surprised if Santa himself flew down and landed his sleigh right next to them to ask for directions to the nearest reindeer servicing depot.

  “Hello. Is there anyone home?” said Jack smacking Tom round the back of the head with his woolly hat.

  “Hey! Dipstick,” Tom exclaimed suddenly returning from his daydreaming.

  “Are you in or what?”

  “In what or what?” asked Tom.

  “Is the weather nice on your planet?” said Jack looking at his bemused friend in wonder. “You haven’t heard a word we’ve said, have you?”

  “Er. No. Sorry,” said Tom trying hard to recall any snippets of conversation.

  “I think you had one too many slushies,” said Ollie. “It’s frozen your brain.” He and Jack smiled at each other, Tom looked a little embarrassed, he was always disappearing into his own little world of daydreams. He liked it there, even if he did miss the odd conversation.

  “We were talking about meeting up on Thursday. I’m off to London tomorrow for a couple of days for the pre-Christmas shopping spree, and Ollie’s going to his Nan’s for Christmas, back on Boxing Day - you know - the ‘family thing.’ So we’re meeting up at Sam’s on Thursday at 12.”

  “Yep. Count me in,” Tom answered.

  The boys came to the edge of the common and stopped walking. Tom climbed on to the two-bar fence that skirted the common and sat facing the others.

  “Will Kelly be at Sam’s on Thursday then Tom?” Jack asked, nudging Ollie. They grinned.

  “What?” said Tom quickly. His insides turned a somersault when he heard the name.

  “You know Kelly, she’s the girl in Mrs Price’s class at school,” Jack said. “Remember? The one who gave you that Christmas card at the burger bar, that card you shoved inside your top hoping no one noticed. The girl you haven’t been able to take your eyes off all night.” Tom was just glad it was dark, and the others couldn’t see the deep shade of red he could feel his face turning.

  “Give us a look,” said Ollie making a grab for Tom’s jacket.

  “Gerroff. Whoa!” Tom shouted. He knocked the other boy’s hand away and, losing his balance, started to fall backwards. Just in time, Jack grabbed his parka and pulled him back.

  “Cheers Bud,” Tom said, pulling his coat back into shape, then scowling at Ollie, he said, “Git.” All three started laughing.

  “Well,” said Ollie. “At least we know what you want to find in your stocking when you wake up on Christmas morning.”

  “Shut up, you muppet. She is just a friend, that’s all.”

  “Yeah, OK,” Jack said smirking. “Right I’m going in now, I’m getting cold out here.”

  “Yep, see you Thursday. Hope the big guy brings you what you want,” Tom said, smiling. His friends laughed, and the boys said their goodbyes, two walking down the street towards their homes, only a few hundred yards away. Tom watched them go for a few seconds then swung his legs over the fence and started walking across the common. Smiling to himself he began to dream about Kelly, a log cabin with a big open fire and for some reason which he couldn’t quite work out, a large leather-bound book with a picture of a dragon on the cover. The book always seemed to make an appearance in his dreams. He tried to put it to the back of his mind, but it didn’t want to go, so it remained on a little table by the fire in front of which he and Kelly sat on a fluffy rug that looked like mum’s coat, playing snakes and ladders.

  The common was quite big. It took Tom almost fifteen minutes to follow the path to the other side where his house stood in a road of semi-detached houses very much like the ones in which Jack and Ollie lived. They only lived three doors away from each other and were probably in the warm raiding their respective fridges by now.

  During the summer months, it took Tom half the time to get across the common. He took the direct route across the grass, over the brook that dried up to little more than a trickle, up the bank on the other side and he could appear through a gap in the hedge almost opposite his own drive. But in the winter the grassy expanse turned to marshland. If you tried to squelch your way across, you’d risk losing a trainer.

  The path wound through the common with lampposts at regular intervals throwing their yellow light on to the tarmac and surrounding grass. It led to the centre where there stood a small copse and a bridge over the brook. On the far side of the bridge was a wooded area that Tom did not like very much. There were no lights here, and he always felt a sense of anxiety. He felt silly, but there was definitely something creepy about the place. The way the shadows moved made him think something was skulking around the bushes, and always the eerie feeling that somewhere someone was watching him. Tom would always break into a sprint at the top of the hill to try and outrun his imagination. Running over the bridge and on till he reached the next lamppost on the other side of the darkness where the feelings of fear left him almost as quickly as they came.

  Tom went along the path and into the copse; the slope down to the bridge was about twenty yards away. He was just getting ready to start his run when he heard a loud crackling sound. Suddenly the light just behind him exploded showering fragments of glass over the path. Tom jumped a clear foot into the air, spinning around as he did so. The area around him was now plunged into darkness. Scanning the gloom for a clue as to what caused the light to explode, he backed away to the reassuring glow from the next lamp, but as he did so another bang behind him shattered that light too, then the next. Tom’s heart began to race, he was standing in total darkness now, but still, the electrical crackling sound filled the air and with it came a sulphury smell. For a moment, Tom froze in fear before the panic finally set in, and he began to sprint towards the bridge and home to safety.

  Tom ran faster than ever down the slope towards the bridge, his heart pounding so loud he could hear it as adrenaline surged through his body. He reached the bridge with a loud thud as his foot landed on the wooden boards, four strides, and he would start upwards again.

  Or at least that’s what should have happened, but as his other foot struck the wood, he stopped. It wasn’t intentional, he didn’t bump into anything he just stopped, frozen like a statue with one foot on the bridge and the other one stretched out to take the next step. Tom could not move. It was as if someone had pressed his pause button. But although he was unable to move, he was fully aware of what was happening. His mind momentarily tried to make sense of an impossible situation before being distracted by what was happening around him. All around blue sparks flashed like miniature bolts of lightning streaking through the air, some striking the bridge charring the wood and leaving it smouldering red with wisps of smoke dancing in the still air. But, as the lightning became more frequent, the stillness was disturbed by a strong wind that came from nowhere and roared through the trees and bushes. Leaves and debris from the ground were borne by the wind into the air swirling all around. Although Tom could hear this going on around him and could vaguely see it in the light from the bursts of static electricity, he could feel none of it. The debris stirred up by the wind was all around him but came nowhere near him as if he were in the centre of a protective bubble. Then just before his face, a tiny point of brilliant white light appeared, quickly expanding into a sphere about fifteen feet in diameter, engulfing the boy in its brilliance.

  Tom could feel his heart beating hard with the fear and incomprehension of it all. He wanted to scream but couldn’t; he realised that he wasn’t even able to breathe, but his lungs were not fighting for air. In his panic, he thought he would explode. There was something else in the sphere of light. He was not alone. A dark figure was gliding rapidly towards him. As it rushed past,
Tom noticed it wore a hooded cloak. It seemed unaware of him and disappeared into the light. A second later, there was an enormous bang like a clap of thunder, and the light was gone. With a great gasp, Tom’s lungs filled with air and his legs started running again - only now there was no bridge beneath his feet. In fact, there was nothing beneath his feet at all. He hung in the air for a split second like a cartoon character who had run off the edge of a cliff; then he fell. His body hit something hard, which splintered and gave way. He dropped a little further. His body hit something else. It too was hard, but it did not give way. Tom lay motionless with broken planks on top of him, and there he stayed, unconscious for the rest of the night.

  Chapter 2

  Breakfast with the Professor

  “You there! What manner of creature are you?”

  The rather high pitched voice that shrilled consciousness back into Tom was accompanied by a painful prod just below the left shoulder blade. Tom groaned and rolled over slightly, opening his eyes. Through his blurred vision, he could make out a tall thin figure. It sprang back when Tom moved. He managed to raise himself up on to one elbow, it was a struggle because it seemed that every part of him hurt as soon as he moved.

  “I’ll ask you again. What are you?” demanded the prodder.

  “What do you mean, ‘What am I?’” said the boy massaging his aching ribs. “I’m Tom. Where am I?”

  “What is a ‘Tom?’ I don’t know that species,” said the man impatiently and prodded him again with what turned out to be a walking stick. He started back again when Tom flailed out with his arm to ward off the offending article.

  Tom’s eyes were beginning to clear now, and he could see his tormentor more clearly. He was a rather elderly man, tall, very thin with white hair that appeared to have had an argument with itself about which direction it wanted to go, so it went in every direction. He was wearing a maroon cravat, dark waistcoat with a long-tailed jacket over the top and pinstriped trousers. Tom noticed that the strange man’s clothes were tatty and full of repairs and patches.

  Tom hauled himself to his feet and swayed unsteadily for a moment. The man was clearly agitated, stepping from one foot to another like a small child in need of the toilet. He ventured a little closer, brandishing his walking stick in front of him like a sword. He looked with great interest at Tom, or at least at parts of Tom. His ears, the top of his head, his mouth, his feet and even his backside.

  “I see no pointy ears or horns. No fangs or hooves. No tail. Are you a Lycanthropoid?”

  “A what!” Tom exclaimed.

  “Lycanthropoid! Lycanthropoid!”

  Tom looked blank.

  “One who has been infected with Lycanthropy...” then with exasperation at Tom’s blank look, “A werewolf,” he cried. “No, you are fully dressed, and anyway the full moon was more than a week ago.”

  “I’m just a normal human kid.”

  “You’re... you’re human!” the man said, staring at him.

  “Of course I’m human,” said Tom rubbing the back of his neck.” What did you think I was; a duck?” He looked up and saw a shaft of daylight pouring through a hole in the roof, then looking around him found he was in a barn of some sort with a few bales of straw against one wall. There were bits of old rusty farm equipment around, an old fashioned plough, the kind you see at the summer county show, drawn by large horses with polished brass on their harnesses. In the centre of the barn was something about the size of a large car or van covered in a big brown tarpaulin.

  “Are you sure you ARE human, Hmm? Not a Polyprosopus?” said the man backing up again.

  “A ploppy what?”

  “Polyprosopus...Poly, Many - Prosupus, face... A shapeshifter,” the man shrilled.

  “You’re having a laugh,” Tom replied aghast.

  “I can assure you, young...er...whatever you are, I find nothing amusing about your presence here. You have quite ruined the roof of my larger workshop, just a few short weeks after having had it repaired following a somewhat volatile experiment with a lightning conductor, several yards of copper pipe and a vat of beetroot brandy.

  “If you are indeed human, I suppose you were dropped by a gryphon or some such, eh — no doubt taking you back to her nest to feed her cubs. Then I expect you decided to stay here till the curfew was lifted. Am I correct?”

  Tom started towards the door, limping rather badly. He stopped, bent to remove a three-inch splinter of wood from his trainer, then carried on without the limp. “I think you’ve had too much of that brandy you were on about,” he said. He stopped again and turned to look at the man. “Where are we?”

  “This is my cottage, on the hill off Incubus Road.”

  “Incubus Road?” Tom shrugged.

  “It’s on the outskirts of Malgoria, to the east.”

  Tom shrugged again and shook his head.

  “You have never heard of Malgoria? Where have you come from?”

  “Marsham,” Tom replied. “Berkshire.”

  “Berkshire!” the man exclaimed. “In England?”

  “Yes,” said Tom feeling increasingly uneasy.

  “Oh, my heavens. Oh you poor boy,” he man sat down heavily on a wooden crate, his expression immediately changing to one of sympathy. He looked at Tom for a few moments with sad blue eyes. “I am afraid you will not see your home again, my boy,” he said quietly.

  “What do you mean?” Tom cried. “I’m going home now.” He walked to the door and opened it.

  “No!” exclaimed the man. “Wait. You can’t go out before the curfew is lifted or you will be arrested.”

  Tom was already outside. He found himself in a small snow-covered farmyard. There was a little thatched cottage opposite and several smaller buildings, some stone and some, like the one he had just emerged from, were made entirely of wood. Chickens ran around the yard and in and out of a coop at the top end where a gated fence separated the yard from a small paddock. Here a stable stood, with doors leading both from the yard and the paddock. A somewhat elderly horse was gazing out to see what all the noise was, snorting his steamy breath at him.

  At the other end of the yard, a fence and gate separated the yard from a lane. On the other side of the road, a thick hedge stood with the odd tree here and there.

  “They’ll take you to the monastery if you’re found,” said the man.

  Tom turned around. “You’re crazy. There isn’t a monastery for miles, and that’s only a ruin.”

  “If you’ll just let me explain. There are things you do not understand.”

  “I understand that I’m going home,” Tom said, opening the gate.

  “Please,” the old man pleaded. “Listen to me. The curfew will be lifted in less than an hour. Now if you would just accompany me into my house, we’ll have a spot of breakfast and a nice cup of tea, I’ll try to explain where we are, and then, when it is safe to do so, you may, if you wish, leave with my blessing. I intend you no harm, nor do I wish any trouble to befall you... An hour...That’s all I ask, and I’ll answer your questions.”

  Tom looked at the old man and saw genuine concern on his face. Now they were out in the daylight he could see that the man seemed quite frail as he stood there wringing his hands. He shut the gate. “Alright. An hour, then I’m going home.”

  “Thank you,” said the man with relief. He took out a red and white handkerchief and dabbed his forehead. “This way, please.”

  The old man led Tom into the little cottage. Once he stepped through the stable style door, he found himself in an old fashioned farmhouse kitchen complete with a huge porcelain butler’s sink and butcher’s block worktop. In the centre of the wall facing the door, set into the large chimney breast was a big old wood-burning stove with a fire crackling away in its furnace, the door open warming the kitchen. Around the stone chimney breast, hung various pots and pans, assorted cooking utensils, some welding goggles and a gas mask. Tom thought this a little odd but said nothing. In the centre of the room was an old wooden table with c
utlery drawers at each end. The table-top was covered with notebooks, ink pots, quills, scraps of paper, a slide rule and a large test tube rack containing several glass tubes full of various coloured liquids.

  In front of the stove was a rocking chair with worn cushions on it. The man pulled one of the carvers from the table and placed it on the other side of the stove facing the rocker. He indicated to Tom to sit down.

  “Come and warm yourself,” he said. “Now, would you like tea and how about some nice warm bread and honey for breakfast, hmm?”

  Tom nodded and thanked the man, warily. He had not eaten since he was at Sam’s the previous evening, and now the smell the warm bread made him realise how hungry he was.

  “Who are you?” asked Tom

  “I am Albert J. Proles, professor of engineering at Cambridge University,” replied the old man as he busied himself pulling up a small stool to act as a table and laying out the teacups. He handed Tom a plate and knife. “Or at least I was.”

  “Cambridge, that’s miles away, we’re nowhere near it,” Tom exclaimed. “Have you retired?”

  “No, I never retired, but you are quite right in saying that Cambridge is a long way away. In fact, it is a lot further than you believe.”

  Professor Proles placed a pot of tea on the stool along with a dish of butter and a pot of honey. He offered Tom a plate of steaming freshly baked bread, then he came and sat down facing the young man and poured the tea.

  “I’m afraid it isn’t like the tea you are used to because unfortunately it either does not exist here or no one has discovered it yet. However, I have created this herb infusion which is as near as I can get to good old English tea.” He offered Tom the sugar bowl, which Tom declined and then proceeded to put four spoons in his own cup.

  Tom helped himself to the bread and honey and ate ravenously. The professor took a single slice and watched the teenager eat. After a while, Tom had finished his second slice and took a sip of the tea. He wrinkled his nose, and the old man smiled.