The Sorcerer's Tome

by Philip Sealey

  “I have known of your arrival for some time,” she said. “I have also known that it is my destiny to accompany you and assist you however I can. I have already prepared for the journey.”

  “I believe that is settled then?” Garren said, smiling. “Shall we go?”

  Chapter 8

  The Magic Lesson

  “OK. That’s it. Stop,” said Tom decisively.

  “What is it?” Garren asked.

  Tom left the road and, brushing the snow from a tree stump, sat down. “We’re outside the town now, aren’t we?”

  “Yes,” replied the cleric.

  “We haven’t seen anyone for over an hour, so I take it, this is not a very well used road.”

  “Not anymore,” Garren answered. “It’s the road to Tarn. Since Balfour’s occupation, it is seldom used. Once, people tried to escape by running to their kin in Tarn, but as his power grew, his influence reached the neighbouring towns and beyond.”

  “Right,” said Tom slinging his duffel down. He opened it and found his trainers. “I’m fed up with frozen feet.” Taking off one sandal at a time, he dried his feet on his cloak and put his socks and trainers on. He rolled down his jeans, took off his robe and packed that and the sandals into the pack. He put his parka back on and, so he didn’t stand out too much and because it was so cold, he put Garren’s spare cloak back on over the top. “Now that is better,” he said, grinning.

  “You look ridiculous,” Garren said, surveying the green coat with the fur-lined hood the young man had put up to guard against cold ears, the travelling cloak over the top and pale blue legs sticking out of the bottom with those odd white shoes with red markings.

  “It’s only your cloak that makes it look ridiculous, this is designer gear,” Tom said, enjoying being warm. “I’m ready now, let’s go.”

  They got back on to the road and continued on their way.

  Following their visit to Maya’s cottage, the companions decided that if six people, all with large packs and travelling cloaks stomped through the village and out the other side, it might start tongues wagging. The last thing they needed was to draw attention to themselves. They needed to keep the element of surprise for as long as they could, if possible till they escaped with the Tome and figured out how to open the portal back to Tom’s home. The decision was therefore made to split up and leave the town by three different routes. Valcris and Maya had continued up the hill from Maya’s house, while the others went back down parting company at a fork in the road. Dan and Lyca carried on into the village while Tom and Garren took the other fork which was marked with a rather odd sign.

  “That’s weird,” Tom said, looking at the sign. “Why has the street name been crossed out like that?” The sign had originally said, ‘Forest Road,’ but that had been crossed out with red paint that had dripped giving it a blood-like quality. Beneath, also with a strike through it, was, ‘Lycanthropy Row” and below this was written, ‘Werewolf Alley.’

  “It’s just the locals’ idea of fun. They won’t use its proper name, they call it ‘Lycanthropy Row,’ or mostly, ‘Werewolf Alley.’” Garren told him.

  “Are there Werewolves down there then?” Tom asked.

  “No,” Garren said. “They call it that because it turns into Wolf Street.” Which, after walking down Werewolf Alley is precisely what they did. They walked the length of Wolf Street and out on to the Tarn Road. They were to meet up in Wood Nymph Hollow, a small glade in the woods between the river and the town.

  After Tom’s change of outfit, they continued up the Tarn Road for a while, when Garren stopped suddenly and signalled Tom to keep quiet. Tom strained to hear what had alarmed Garren. Yes, there was something, and it was getting closer. A grinding noise like metal on stones, it was accompanied by a loud puffing sound. Tom could only liken it to an old fashioned steam roller.

  “Get off the road,” Garren whispered. They ran into the cover of the bushes and waited to see what monstrosity was making such an awful din.

  They did not have long to wait. From the direction of the town, they could see clouds of smoke and steam puffing into the air. A minute later a tall metal chimney appeared moving rapidly up the hill towards them. Eventually, the round cylindrical tank to which the stack was connected came into view, closely followed by the rest of the strangest looking vehicle Tom had ever seen. It had two smaller chimneys behind the main one, out of which thick black smoke billowed into the air. Two large metal wheels supported the front with one smaller metal wheel protruding from the rear of the contraption, connected to a tiller for steering. The vehicle was about the height and width of a London taxi and half as long again. In the open cab a man, wearing large goggles, a pair of homemade ear muffs and a long woolly scarf over his frock coat, was frantically trying to open the furnace, throw logs in and steer the contraption all at the same time. It left little time for him to watch where he was going, resulting in the shaky vehicle swerving from one side of the road to the other.

  “What in the world is that?” asked Garren, shocked.

  “It’s a steam engine,” Tom said. “Quite a primitive one, though.”

  As the machine drew level with them, they saw that the driver was none other than Albert, the man whose barn Tom had unceremoniously landed in a couple of nights ago. Tom pointed this out to Garren.

  The machine rattled past with a deafening noise coming from the wheels as they ground the stones into the frozen dirt beneath. The noise was made worse by the serrated metal wheels, spinning and sliding on the track. It made Albert’s attempts at steering the heavy machine even harder.

  When the machine was safely out of sight, Tom and his companion climbed back on to the road and continued on their way, listening as the vehicle's noise gradually faded. Garren was as surprised by this technology as Tom had been by magic. Tom found it quite satisfying that for once it was him explaining something to Garren.

  As they rounded a bend in the road, they came across the steam engine again, this time stationary, wisps of smoke curling out of the two smaller chimneys.

  “Hmm,” grumbled Garren. “I didn’t want to run into anyone on this road.”

  “Albert’s alright, isn’t he?” Tom asked. “After all, he did call you when I ran out on him yesterday morning.”

  “It’s not that I don’t trust him,” Garren said. “I just think the fewer people who know about us, the better.”

  “Is there another way round?” Tom asked.

  “No, the undergrowth is too thick. We would have to go right back to Wolf Street and take a different path. That would increase the chance of us being seen. Anyway, I can’t be sure there are no Sen-Trees that way.” Garren thought through his options. “We have no choice; come on.”

  They approached the vehicle and found Albert sat on the floor of the cab, completely exhausted. He had a notebook on his knee and was scribbling in it with a pencil. Sweat was running down his face.

  “Good day to you, Albert,” said Garren.

  “Who! What!” the startled inventor jumped. “Oh, Garren. What are you doing up here?”

  “Just out for a stroll. Showing Tom around.”

  “Oh. Yes of course,” Albert said with a sceptical look.

  “That is some vehicle,” Tom said, trying to change the subject. Garren looked quite relieved when Albert seized on this new topic.

  “Yes, isn’t it fine?” Albert said proudly. “It has taken me four years to make it, you know. Trying to find the right materials here has been such a problem. This is its maiden voyage. Put it through its paces, so to speak.”

  “It seems to work quite well,” Tom encouraged.

  “Yes, but it is so awfully tiring to run alone. It really needs two people you see. One to feed the furnace and the other one to actually drive the thing.” He picked up his notebook and beckoned to Tom. Tom went over to look at the sketches the old man had drawn, trying not to notice the smell of warm stale sweat coming from him.

  “I was thinking about rigging
up a sort of conveyor system to automatically drop the wood into the furnace. I can’t physically open the furnace, put in the fuel and steer at the same time. But if I invent a delivery mechanism, I could concentrate on getting the thing to go in a straight line. But the only stumbling block with the conveyor system is again opening the door.”

  Tom looked at the plan, then at the configuration of the cab. He said, “Or, you could fix a pedal to the door and open it with your foot and chuck a log in every now and again, leaving your other hand free for the rudder.”

  Albert looked at the furnace door, then at the tiller and back to Tom. “Brilliant,” he said and threw his notebook over his shoulder. “Absolutely brilliant.”

  “Pity you can’t make it quieter too,” said Garren.

  “Oh that’s easy,” Tom said. Both men looked at him with surprise. “Tyres,” said Tom.

  “Tireds?” Albert queried.

  “No Tyres,” Tom corrected. “We have them on all our vehicles at home. They are made of thick rubber and are inflated with air. They make the ride less bumpy, reduce the noise, and they have a tread cut into them, like my trainer here,” he lifted his foot to show his intrigued audience the ridges in the sole, “so they grip the road and stop you sliding all over the place.”

  “Marvellous,” Albert said, clapping his hands. “Are you an inventor, because you certainly should be?”

  “They are just things that I see every day, it’s nothing special,” Tom said modestly.

  “I will put your ideas into practice, immediately,” said Albert. He got up and opened the door to the furnace. “Pedal! Marvellous,” he chuntered as he threw some logs into the firebox. He opened a valve, and the engine began to puff steam into the air.

  “Well, enjoy your... er...stroll.” He looked from Garren with his heavy duffel to Tom with his backpack on the ground beside him and back again. “Yes...Well, cheerio,” he said and pulling a lever, the vehicle lurched forward and noisily chugged off, leaving Tom and Garren waving the old man out of sight.

  The watery sun had reached its full height as Tom, and his companion arrived at Wood Nymph Hollow. Both were quite weary. They had been walking for almost two hours, mostly either through deep snow or fighting their way through overgrown woodland paths. But at least they had taken the shortest route and were first to arrive.

  Garren raised his staff and muttered an incantation. The crystal at the tip glowed white, and a blast of fire shot from it like a flame thrower which the cleric fashioned into a huge flaming ball in the air. Tom could feel the warmth from where he stood on the very edge of the clearing. The heat melted a circle of snow, revealing the grassy floor of the glade. Garren lowered his staff, and the ball of fire burned itself out. He then began to build a fire with a bundle of sticks he had collected during the final stages of the march through the woods. He bade Tom find some larger logs from the edges of the clearing, and when they were placed in position on the pile of sticks, he ignited it with his staff.

  Finally, to make their camp a little more comfortable, he pointed his staff at a fallen tree trunk and with a look of intense concentration on his face, he muttered another strange phrase. At once the log rose into the air and followed the arc traced out by Garren’s staff, landing softly by the fire. Garren repeated this action with another fallen tree trunk, then proceeded to make himself comfortable on the nearest log to await the arrival of their companions, warming his hands in the glow of the fire.

  “That is so cool,” said Tom, with utter admiration.

  “Well come nearer to the fire and warm yourself then,” Garren replied, shuffling up the log.

  “No, I mean the way you just made the camp out of magic. That was brilliant.”

  “You could do that,” replied Garren. “With a bit of practice.”

  “Yeah, if only,” Tom said.

  “All this,” Garren gestured with his hand at the new camp, “moving things from one place to another and lighting fires is simple. The tricky bit comes when we get the Tome, then you will have to open a portal back to your world.”

  “Me!” Tom exclaimed. “How am I supposed to do that?”

  “I have no idea,” Garren replied. “But when the key and the Tome are reunited, something is bound to happen.” He laid his pack on the ground in front of him and took out a small pan which he filled with the reviving wine from a flask. “Ortis Habitium,” he said. Again the crystal in the staff leaning against the log beside him burst into life. The brilliant whiteness of its light made the snow look grey by comparison. The pan rose from Garren’s hands and floated through the air to the fire where it remained, hovering above the flames. “Come, let’s have some mead, and then we’ll have a go at some of the basics.”

  Tom sat beside the cleric as he rummaged through his duffel and produced a pair of wooden cups and some of the hard biscuits they had bought the day before. He handed some to Tom who watched intently as Garren held the cups out in front of him. As if it had a mind of its own, the pan sailed gracefully towards Garren and gently tipped the now steaming liquid into the cups, before settling itself on the ground close to the fire to keep warm. The clever cleric handed one of the cups to the boy.

  “Manipulation of magic requires a lot of effort at first, but once you get into the habit of using it regularly, it becomes, as do most things, second nature. It consists of three parts concentration and one part incantation. There are volumes of incantations which you would need to study to become proficient. Still, since you are only hoping to be with us for a short while, I will teach you some basic defensive spells that you will need if we are to be successful.” He paused and sipped his wine.

  Tom was listening avidly; he hadn’t touched his biscuits or drink yet and was shivering slightly, not because of the cold, the warmth radiating from the fire kept that at bay. It was his excitement at the thought of being taught to use such magic as he had just witnessed that caused his tremor.

  Garren saw his state of anticipation. “You need to be composed and calm to attain the required level of concentration,” he said. “Drink your mead; it will calm you and eat your biscuits for strength.”

  Tom did as Garren suggested and found the warming effect of the wine most relaxing. He unfastened the zip on his jacket a little and reached inside. He pulled out the gemstone pendant that had been safely tucked away underneath his hoody.

  At last, Garren said, “First let us try moving things. The incantation is ‘agitere’. Let’s try to move that little stick there. I want you to concentrate on making it rise up and gently land on the top of the fire. You must see in your mind what you want it to do.”

  Tom screwed up his face as he strained to concentrate on the little charred stick. In his mind, he saw it lift gently off the ground and fly gracefully on to the fire. He watched it with his mind’s eye twice more before uttering the incantation.

  As the words left his lips, his face was bathed in the bright yellow light from the crystal hanging around his neck as it lit up with magical power.

  The stick lying on the ground beside the fire shot straight up like an arrow. The two companions watched as it disappeared from sight into the cloudless sky. They cast each other a worried glance before looking back up to the heavens where a black speck appeared hurtling towards the earth. It shot downwards like a bolt of lightning from an angry god’s celestial abode and buried itself deep into the ground at the very heart of the campfire, sending a shower of ash and embers over the watching comrades.

  Garren cleared his throat. “Well, that’s a start,” he said. “Shall we try something a little less aggressive? How about an inconspicuousness charm? That might come in useful.”

  “What does it do?” asked Tom, still looking at the crater his stick had made in the fire.

  “It makes it almost impossible for you to be noticed by anyone. Providing you keep still and quiet and concentrate on not being noticed an enemy can stand right in front of you and not realise you are there. The words are ‘mortuum vestiment
o.’ Try it now.”

  Tom screwed his face up again with the effort of concentration, this time imagining himself fading into the background. When he was sure he was ready, he spoke the incantation. But, at that moment, the tiny body of a dormouse caught his eye, lying near the fire. The sight of the little dead creature triggered a pang of sympathy, and he found himself automatically wishing the little creature was still alive. The magic words tumbled from his mouth before he was aware that he was no longer concentrating on the task at hand.

  “I can still see you,” Garren said. “Try again and concentrate on not being seen.”

  Tom began to start over when something caught his attention. A movement near the fire. It was the dormouse, and it was very much alive and kicking.

  “Wow, look at that,” he said. “I was sure that little mouse was dead a minute ago.”

  “Where?” asked Garren.

  “There, by the fire,” Tom replied, pointing at the scurrying creature.

  Garren’s hand shot down and grabbed the dormouse by the tail. Lifting it up, he looked closely at it. “Oh,” he said. “It is dead.”

  “It can’t be. It’s moving,” Tom said, eyes wide, staring at the little creature dangling from Garren’s hand.

  “It has a hole in the stomach where something has taken a bite,” Garren said. “What were you thinking when you said the incantation?”

  “Er, I think I felt sorry for the mouse,” he said guiltily. “Did I bring it back?”

  “Apparently so,” said Garren, and cried out as the reanimated rodent wriggled around and sank its tiny, razor-sharp teeth into his finger and held on for dear...death. Garren let go of the animal’s tail, and it hung from his finger by its mouth. He bashed the little body hard against the trunk on which he sat three times before it relinquished its grip and fell to the ground. Garren slapped his foot on it to stop it escaping and looked at the extent of the damage to his bloody finger.