The Sorcerer's Tome

by Philip Sealey

  “No... Well a few cobwebs, but nothing else. My dad is a surveyor and mom goes shopping. That’s it.”

  “Hmm,” repeated Garren. “Well I suppose it is not beyond the realms of possibility that you were born with these abilities switched on like the immortals, but I doubt it is as simple as that. I think, as incredible as it seems that Colin is right and your coming has been foretold for centuries.”

  Tom was about to speak when Garren held up his hand. “Let’s see,” he said. He opened the little pouch, and from it he took a tangle of leather cords. He separated one and bundled the rest back into the bag, which he put to one side. He straightened out the leather loop; the ends were joined by a piece of silver shaped like a serpent. Its tail was coiled around the leather ends, and the rest of its body hung down about two inches with the mouth open and two tiny rubies for eyes.

  “Take the stone and place it in the palm of your hand,” Garren said. Tom did so. “Now take the cord and hold it so the serpent is almost touching it. That’s right. Now concentrate on the gem, make it the only thing in your mind. Nothing else matters except that little stone.” Tom glared at the stone. “Now repeat these words: Societatum Inire”.

  As Tom said the strange words, the crystal began to glow brightly as before. It sat in his hand for a second before jumping up to meet the silver serpent. As the two met the snake wrapped its body around the gem holding it tightly in its coils. The light burned for a moment more before fading.

  “Unbelievable,” Garren said, looking on in wonder.

  Tom inspected the crystal, testing it with his fingers to see if the serpent would let go. It held fast. “Did I make that happen?”

  “Apparently so,” Garren thought for a moment. “We need to decide what to do with you. You can’t stay here forever, and if you go wandering about the village, you will be arrested and locked up in Iragoth before the day is done. Colin said we need to get help from those we can trust. We need to speak to the Sage.”

  Chapter 4

  The Witch

  “My feet are freezing,” complained Tom as he and Garren walked down the road.

  “It’s for your own safety,” Garren replied. “You would have been captured before we were halfway there.”

  “I could have kept my socks and trainers on. No one goes around looking at people’s feet.”

  “Blue stockings with images of oddly shaped yellow faces on them, and red and white slippers are enough to capture anyone’s attention at several yards. Now remain quiet before your complaining calls similar attention. The two men who passed us on the brow of the hill were guardians.”

  “You said hello to them,” Tom said, looking over his shoulder to see if the men had turned to follow.

  “Yes, I know them. They were in my order when I was at the monastery,” Garren replied indifferently.

  “Why did they go bad?” Tom asked.

  “I don’t think they did,” said Garren. “I think they are enchanted. When Balfour came to Iragoth, I was on an errand in Tolph, a small village several leagues to the north. When I returned three months later, Balfour was in charge of the monastery. The brethren became his security force. Fortunately, I ran into some of them before I reached the monastery. It was after curfew, and they tried to arrest me,” Garren smiled at Tom. “They didn’t manage it.”

  They walked on in silence for a while. Tom had been made to wear a brown woollen robe over his clothes. Garren had insisted that he would stick out like a troll at a tea party if he wandered around the village in his own, rather odd-looking attire. So, with his jeans rolled up to the knees, the robe was donned over the top of his hoody, and to complete the ensemble, his socks and trainers had been replaced with a pair of sandals. But with snow packed hard underfoot, by the prolific passing of pedestrians, it made for painfully cold feet.

  Either side of the track were small, single-floor dwellings made of wood and rendered with clay and stones. Most had glass in the windows, though a few of the older, shabbier looking ones just had openings with a muslin screen to let in a little light and keep out even less draught. The cottages were all thatched with chimneys standing high above them, most of which were belching grey smoke into the overcast sky.

  There were a lot of people going about their business. This road seemed to be the main thoroughfare. There were small groups of people chatting to each other as they made their way, some were standing in doorways talking. Some were pulling carts laden and covered with tarpaulins, others empty having already delivered their loads or on their way to collect new ones. A few people were carrying bundles of sticks for kindling, and one or two were accompanied by animals, a pig, a goat, a... something that looked like a dog but had a bird’s head. But as Tom looked closer at the people themselves, he noticed that many of them were not people at all; or at least not human. From under the hoods of their cloaks, long pointed ears could be seen on some, or a distinct green pallor to the skin accompanied by piercing red eyes on others. Some were short, only about three feet with large heads and long beards. He was amazed at their strange appearance and the variety of species all going about their daily lives as if it were perfectly natural, which of course, to the locals, it was.

  “Stop staring,” Garren whispered.

  “Sorry,” Tom said, looking down at the road and remembering his aching feet.

  “Try to act as if you belong here,”

  “I’ll try, but we don’t exactly get such weird looking people in Marsham High Street; well, apart from a few Punks, oh and the odd Goth.”

  “Try to take it all in your stride, you’ll get used to it soon enough. We are almost there now.”

  Tom thought they must be getting to the centre of the village. The buildings were beginning to change. The squat little cottages were now becoming larger and grander looking. These buildings were made out of stone, and many had an upper floor. The thatch had been replaced by wooden tiles with several chimneys instead of just the one. Many of these larger buildings had shop frontages, displaying their goods to passers-by. Bells could be heard tinkling as doors were opened for shoppers to come and go. Though most of the shops were decorated with brightly coloured paper chains and wreaths of holly with red berries and painted pine cones, there was very little in the way of stock in the windows.

  “I’m sorry, but the last pheasant went yesterday,” said a voice from a butcher’s shop as they passed its opening door. A disgruntled customer harrumphed out as the shopkeeper called, “I can get you a brace of wood pigeon.”

  Garren sighed. “Almost all of the food is being sent to the monastery as tribute to Balfour. Before he forced his way in and deposed the elders, we used to be self-sustaining. We grew our food and raised our own cattle. Now they just take it from the village. They take so much, the storerooms must be brimming with food. Anyone who refuses to pay tribute is arrested or just disappears. It’s not going to be a very happy holiday this year.”

  “Do you have Christmas here, then?” asked Tom.

  “We have a winter festival of thanks for the passing year where families and friends meet to celebrate another year together and exchange gifts. I’ve never heard it called Krismus, though.”

  “We have a holiday called Christmas. We spend weeks getting ready for it, have parties and buy presents,” Tom replied. Then, suddenly remembering, “Only this year, I’m going to miss it.”

  “Let’s see what the Sage has to say about that, shall we. Here we are.”

  Tom found himself and his companion outside one of the little thatched cottages. For a moment, he looked at it before his senses sorted out the images and told his brain that it was not entirely as it should be. It had the same thickly thatched roof with the tall chimney gently sending clouds of smoke into the sky. It had the same little glazed windows set into the daubed walls and the same heavy wooden door. Then he realised that not only was the smoke rising from the chimney purple but where it met the heavily snow-laden clouds, it made a hole straight through them like in the centre o
f a smoke ring. Through it, a shaft of bright sunlight radiated down on the little cottage and its pretty front garden. The garden was full of flowering rose bushes, dahlias and hydrangeas. Beds of pansies and marigolds lay either side of the crazy paved path that snaked from the white garden gate to the front door, nestling between two hanging baskets overflowing with colourful blooms. What made the cottage look even more out of place was that it sat in the middle of the main street dwarfed by the taller commercial, snow-covered buildings on either side of it.

  “That’s Rita for you,” said Garren, seeing Tom’s utter confusion. “She never did like winter. Come on!” He opened the gate and stepped into the pleasant sunshine. Tom followed, his feet tingling in the warmth. They walked down the winding path leading to the front door where on a doormat in front of the door was an enormous tabby cat basking in the sun.

  “Good afternoon, Frank,” said Garren. The cat sat up and looked to see who had disturbed its snooze, flicking its tail in mild annoyance. “Would you be kind enough to tell your mistress we would like to see her?”

  Tom sniggered.

  With a final flick of its tail, the cat got up and disappeared through a cat flap in the door. Garren began to admire the garden.

  “Aren’t you going to knock then?” asked Tom.

  “No,” Garren replied. “Frank has gone to get her.”

  “The cat!” exclaimed Tom.

  “Yes, the cat,” replied Garren.

  The door opened a little to reveal half a face peering out and, nearer the floor, a whole feline face doing much the same thing.

  “Who is it?” came a frail voice.

  “It’s Garren, Rita. We urgently require your counsel.”

  The door shut, and the sound of a heavy chain could be heard being unhooked from the door frame. The door opened again all the way this time revealing the whole face and indeed, the rest of the person. She was a little less than five feet tall, more than amply proportioned with curly white hair that still had an overlooked curler in the side. She took up most of the doorway, where she stood bolt upright with arms folded across a pinny displaying a faded seaside scene with the words ‘It’s Great at Grand Earmouth’ above. Below her apron was a green tartan skirt that came to just below her knees, thick, wrinkled stockings that looked as though they may have been screwed on and red tartan zip-up booty slippers. And just for that finishing touch of class, a pink cardigan over the top of it all.

  “Oh, you do, do you?” she said.

  “Yes,” replied Garren. “I believe it to be of the gravest importance.”

  “What sweeties you brought me?” she barked, not budging a millimetre.

  “I’m sorry,” said Garren, a little taken aback. “We came straight here. I didn’t...”

  “What! No Jelly Puppies?”

  “Er, no.”

  “No Liquorice Fizbangs?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Not even a Hummingbug?”

  “’Fraid not.”

  “Pity, I like Hummingbugs,” she said. “Goodbye!” and slammed the door shut. As he heard the sound of the heavy chain being fastened, Tom had an idea.

  “Wait,” he called. “I think I might have something.”

  The door opened again, and Rita reappeared with a hopeful look on her face. Tom flung the duffel bag containing his jacket, socks and trainers on to the front step. He undid the cord that kept it fastened and rummaged around inside. Rita had her hands clasped in front of her, her head bobbing about like an expectant pigeon trying to see what treat was going to emerge from the brown leather bag.

  “I’ve had two or three, but you’re welcome to the rest,” Tom said, producing a packet of strong mints from the bag and handing them to the old lady. She immediately made a grab for them and inspected them carefully. When the old lady worked out how to get one out, she sniffed it before popping it into her mouth. For a moment she sucked on it loudly, eyes gazing skywards. Then after due consideration, her face lit up with a big toothless grin.

  “Come in, come in young man,” she said, elbowing Garren out of the way. “What a thoughtful young man, coming to see a poor crippled old lady.” She took hold of Tom’s left arm with a grip that almost made his eyes water and proceeded to drag him into the cottage. Garren slipped in behind them, narrowly avoiding getting the door slammed in his face.

  “Come along, my dear. You must have some nettle tea. I grows the nettles me-self, you know.” Tom looked at Garren, who surreptitiously shook his head.

  “No, thank you, Mrs...er.”

  “You can call me Aunty, dear.”

  “Er... no, thank you...Aunty, we have just had some.”

  “Oh, well what about a nice slice of Aunty’s homemade cake?” As he stole a glance at Garren, the old lady pushed Tom down into a padded chair by the fire. Garren shrugged.

  “Thank you,” he said uncertainly.

  The strange little lady bustled off into another room muttering to herself about ‘the lovely minty sweeties’ as she went.

  The room the visitors were in took up one half of the dwelling. It had windows facing the front, side and rear, all leaded with stained glass in the upper half. Inside, the small room was tidy but very full. There was just one armchair, which currently contained Tom. It was placed near to the fireplace which was on the only wall without a window. As Tom looked through the flames, he could see into the room behind where the wrinkled stockings and tartan slippers were shuffling about. Over the fire, a cauldron bubbled and it was from this that the purple smoke came and disappeared up the chimney.

  The living room was dominated by a large dining table with six carved legs, around which were four high backed dining chairs. Under one window, a sideboard stood with a large collection of various sized porcelain cats on a white lace doily. Either side of the chimney breast were shelves, floor to ceiling. On one side, the shelves were all neatly stacked with books, some of them looked ancient. On the other side were jars, some glass, some earthenware and wooden boxes, all carefully labelled, though Tom could not understand the writing. There were also several small tables supporting various items carefully placed on more white lace doilies. One had a marble bowl, about ten inches across and filled with water. Another taller one had a brass telescope. A third supported a small wooden chest and another a candelabra. On the table next to Tom’s chair sat a large old book with a lacey bookmark hanging from its pages. In the corner, a grandfather clock steadily kept time with its big brass pendulum swinging to and fro in sync with its deep tick-tock. On the wall above the fireplace hung a mirror in an ornate gilt frame, chipped in places.

  “She is the wise one who is going to help us?” Tom asked incredulously.

  “Don’t be fooled,” said Garren. “She is not as she appears. She is a most insightful and powerful witch, and she is also over three hundred years old.”

  “Witch!” Tom exclaimed but was cut off before he could say anymore.

  “It’s not very polite to discuss a lady’s age, young Garren,” Rita said, shuffling back into the room carrying a tray with a pink cake, three plates and a knife. She placed them on the table and cut a slice.

  “We need to talk to you about this young man, Rita,” said Garren.

  “All in good time,” she said, taking the cake to Tom. “Trouble with the young, always in a hurry. There’s all day tomorrow not touched yet, you...” handing Tom the plate she caught his eye and stopped. “Oh,” she said. Releasing the plate, she grasped the boy’s head in her strong hands and pulled it into the light. With her face only a few inches from his, she stared into his eyes for a moment before releasing him. “Well, I’ll go sit in my cauldron!” she exclaimed.

  “What’s the matter?” cried Tom alarmed.

  “You’re ’im, en’t you?”

  “Who?” shouted Tom.

  “Half a mo,” said the witch. “Best make sure. There’s a test.” She went to the sideboard, opened one of the drawers, and emerged after a quick rummage with what looked like two marbles
attached to a length of string.

  “Petrified Snotling’s eyes,” she said. “Repel each other in the presence of magic. That’s why Snotlings always avoid anything magical if they can help it; otherwise their eyeballs try to escape through their ears, and they can’t run in a straight line without doing ‘emselves a mischief. Look!” She went over to Garren and dangled them over his head. They hung there, motionless. “Let’s have some juice then,” she said.

  Garren turned his mind to the book on the little table. The jewel at the head of his staff lit up, and the book rose silently into the air. At the same time, the marbles tried to fly away from each other, pulling the string taut in the old lady’s hand. The staff's glow faded, the string holding the eyes went limp, and the book, missing the table, landed with a thud on the floor.

  “If you’ve lost my place, I’ll brain you,” said the witch and giving her hand a little wave made the book jump back on to the table, settling itself with a faint indignant grumble. “Now let’s have a try on you.” She went over to Tom, who watched tentatively as the disembodied eyes stared back at him. But before she got them into place over his head, the eyes crossed and started to spin on their strings, and finally, they sprang out of the old lady’s crooked fingers. As they strained on the string, they began to revolve in the air above the boy, getting faster and faster.

  “Oh ‘eck,” said the witch, crouching behind Tom’s chair. “Watch out!”

  The orbs were rotating so fast they were a blur as the hum of the air being forced out of their way grew to a high pitched whine. The force of the pirouetting peepers was too much for the string, and it broke sending the disembodied eyeballs flying through the air with the velocity of bullets. One hit the brass telescope right in the eyepiece, shattering it. The other shot through the front window and embedded itself in one of a brace of wood pigeons that the disgruntled shopper was carrying home after deciding that they were, after all, better than nothing.

  “Well that settles it then,” said the old lady, peering out from behind the chair. She returned to the table and resumed cutting the cake.