Tales of the Talking Picture

by Tom Slemen

  ‘Yes you can,’ his mature self replied in a stern reassuring voice. ‘Go and fight the witch and the Moggan-Tar!’

  A jumble of misty, fragmented memories from last night’s dream formed in Christopher Glazenby’s mind. Then they all merged and the boy recalled the rudimentary lessons Merlin had taught him the night before in Summerland. ‘Defence spells,’ Christopher whispered, lost in his recollections. He rushed out of the bedroom and returned to the back garden. In his mind’s eye, Christopher pictured the Diamond Shield symbol that would throw a protective neutralising field around his body, and the air around him crackled with energy.

  Araminta ran at Christopher and hit the invisible shield around her neighbour as if she had walked into a plate glass window. She bounced off the unseen field of force and fell backwards onto the grass, stunned, with her straight black locks obscuring her face. Christopher then thrust his right hand forward, pointing his index and little finger at the battling cat and dog. ‘Adabra platis!’ he incanted, and two shimmering laser-like beams of purple light radiated from the tips of his fingers and struck the cat, which threw back its head and screeched in pain.

  Araminta got to her feet, sprinted across the garden, and jumped clean over the six-foot-tall hedge, her black cloak trailing her through the air. The young witch’s shape-shifting feline accomplice ran after her and also cleared the tall hedge. Christopher would never have guessed in a million years that Cheryl, the little freckled girl the boys nicknamed Goldilocks, was actually a child witch. Christopher recalled what his future self had called the girl’s cat – the Moggan-Tar. Perhaps that was Cheryl’s supernatural guardian, or maybe some familiar. He had so much to learn.

  ‘Christopher!’ said a familiar voice behind the boy.

  He turned to see his mother standing in the kitchen doorway.

  ‘What are you doing out here? It’s only six o’clock.’

  Christopher was stuck for words, yet still so amazed at his newfound powers that he wore a silly grin. He looked back at the spot where Straker had been at the throat of the Moggan-Tar, but for now his sentinel dog had vanished.

  ‘Get in here at once!’ Christopher’s mother chided her son. He went into the house and up to his room, where he looked out of the window. There wasn’t a single adder about in the street below.

  An hour later, the boy was in the kitchen watching his mother prepare breakfast as he made tentative inquiries about Cheryl and her family.

  ‘Do you like Cheryl?’ Mrs Glazenby asked her son and smiled, imagining there was some romantic interest in the girl.

  ‘No, she’s a little witch actually,’ Christopher quipped; a little in-joke to himself.

  ‘Christopher, that’s an awful thing to say,’ Mrs Glazenby told her son. ‘She’s an orphan, did you know that?’

  ‘An orphan? Really?’ Christopher raised an eyebrow, quite intrigued.

  ‘Yes, Cheryl was adopted by Mr and Mrs Holyrood,’ said Mrs Glazenby, and she accidentally dropped a rasher of bacon she was trying to transfer from a frying pan to a plate with a fork. All the food was rationed because of the war, and the housewife sighed and bent down to pick up the strip of bacon. It’s a good job she did bend down at that point, because at that precise moment, the carving knife that Christopher had thrown at Cheryl earlier on in the garden, suddenly appeared out of thin air, and flew across the kitchen at quite a velocity. It whizzed through the space Mrs Glazenby’s head had occupied a moment ago, and then hit the kitchen door with such a force, its blade protruded five inches out the other side of the door.

  Mrs Glazenby straightened up and spun around. She gazed in horror and bafflement at the carving knife embedded in the door, and then looked around. To her son, she said, ‘Who threw that?’

  Christopher said nothing, but simply shrugged and returned a shocked and baffled expression. He knew his mother would never believe him, and that was a good thing, because if she knew the truth, her life would be in grave danger from the forces of darkness who would regard her as a threat.

  From that day onward Christopher would have to be constantly on guard against the ubiquitous power of evil. That night in his dreams, Christopher met Jode for the last time. The old man had decided to go in search of his beloved Aislynn, even thought it meant a one-way journey into a dimension from which no one had ever returned. Jode’s son Luminatis had wanted to join him in his quest but Merlin forbade it. Christopher pleaded with his old friend to stay in Summerland so he could visit him each night, but Trevalyon Jode said he had to go, for he loved Aislynn and had promised her that nothing would separate their souls. ‘Here, a farewell gift to you Christopher,’ Jode handed the child an old hardback schoolbook about mathematics. Christopher flipped through the book and saw it just contained dreary paragraphs and illustrations about right angles, algebraic equations, calculus and geometry. Christopher returned a hollow smile, and his eyes shot a bewildered look at the ‘deceased’ magician.

  ‘It’s the Hexanomicon – a book of spells I’ve compiled over the centuries – but it’s in disguise, because the knowledge this book contains would be very dangerous if it fell into the wrong hands. When you utter the word “Arcanium” this old book shall become the Hexanomicon. Recite the word “Opaqia” to turn it back again into a dull book.’

  ‘We’ll meet again Christopher,’ said Jode, fading away, and his face vanished into the kaleidoscopic jumble of shapes that Christopher always saw before he left Summerland. ‘It’s never over, we will meet again one day,’ Jode’s voice echoed in the boy’s mind as he awoke in tears.

  Christopher got out of bed and found the Hexanomicon on a pile of Hotspur comics stacked on a bookshelf. He picked up the book and held it to his chest, treasuring it for a moment. It was the only link between himself and Jode. He browsed it for a short while, and then recalled the mysterious word that would hopefully give him access to hundreds of years of accumulated Occult knowledge. ‘Arcanium,’ Christopher said, and he felt the book physically change in his hands. It became larger and heavier, and its dull washed out cover was replaced by a leather cover embossed with enigmatic symbols and gargoylesque faces. He opened the Hexanomicon and flipped through the pages that detailed incredible spells, including hexes for levitation, invisibility, the reanimation of the dead, and an armoury of spells for protection against witchcraft, the Evil Eye and psychic attacks.

  ‘The Torch has been passed to you now, you must do your best to protect this realm,’ said a voice that came from the wardrobe mirror. Christopher turned to see his future self standing there in the looking-glass as a reflection.

  ‘I shall do my best,’ young Majister told his reflection, and shafts of light from the rising sun burst through the windows of Christopher’s bedroom.

  Matthew and Christina awoke from the open-eyed dream in a confused daze. Christina’s faced looked identical to Myrk’s for a few moments, with a faint red spark in each of the girl’s eyes. Matthew recoiled at the sight of the transfiguration of Christina’s face. His girlfriend’s familiar features thankfully returned, but she said a strange thing which disturbed him a little.

  ‘You know, I would have liked to have met that witch Cheryl, bad as she was.’ Christina remarked.

  The door of the bedroom opened and Mrs Brindley came in. ‘It’s ten past ten, Matthew,’ she said, smiling at Christina. ‘Time for you to escort Christina home.’

  And then Matthew’s mother left the room.

  The story of the witch that Christina and Matthew had experienced had seemed to last for hours, and yet only ten minutes had elapsed in the ‘real’ world. This stretching of time and space was quite bewildering.

  Matthew walked his girlfriend home, and on the way he encountered Julian Cruxtable and his cronies outside Zorba’s Kebab House. ‘Goodnight lover boy,’ said Cruxtable, in a funny high-pitched voice, and his five fawning flunkies sniggered in unison.

  Christina suddenly stopped, turned around and lunged at a startled Cruxtable. In a heartbeat she seized h
is wrist, pulled his arm up at forty-five degrees and then executed a spectacular judo throw – swinging him right over her shoulder. Julian’s back smacked the bonnet of a car, knocking the wind out of his lungs and setting off the vehicle’s alarm.

  The lackeys stood there for a moment in mute amazement as the oscillating alarm brought the people of the street to their windows.

  ‘Who’s next?’ Christina challenged the cronies, but none accepted the challenge; they chose instead to flee into the night.

  Cruxtable seemed quite disoriented, and he sat up on the bonnet that had been dented by his body, then slid off the vehicle, landing on his backside. He got to his feet, slowly regained his breath, and then glanced at Christina with enraged eyes. Christina and Matthew walked on, and when the couple were some distance away, Cruxtable shouted, ‘You’ll pay for that you Gothic freak!’ His voice was just audible over the wailing car alarm.

  Without even turning around, Christina gave Cruxtable the middle-finger gesture, then grabbed an anxious-looking Matthew by the lapels of his jacket and tried to passionately kiss his dry lips.

  Cruxtable gritted his teeth at the sight, for he had been infatuated with the Goth for months but she just didn’t want to know. Unrequited love – the only love that lasts forever.

  A quarter of an hour later, Matthew kissed Christina at the gate of her semi-detached home.

  ‘Text me to let me know you got back okay,’ Christina told him, and Matthew nodded, before walking away with only the moon for company on his homeward journey. The neighbourhood was unusually quiet, and the moonlight gave a strange dull colour to everything, a sort of dead daylight. What have I got involved with? Matthew pondered, replaying that judo throw in his mind. Christina had a thermonuclear temper, but still he loved her. She was different than most of the mundane clone of girls he usually looked at. He hurried home, expecting to meet jealous Julian Cruxtable, but the bully and his gang were nowhere to be seen. By midnight, after Matthew had exchanged nine text messages with his combative girlfriend, and after he’d had a heart to heart talk with his mother about his love for Christina and his ambition to marry her, Matthew finally went to bed, but not before he had printed a picture of his sweetheart that she had emailed him.

  He looked at the Talking Picture, and being satisfied she wasn’t currently ‘alive’ Matthew kissed the photograph of Christina Masters, then put the printed photo under his pillow, hoping he’d dream of her, and as his head rested on that pillow, Rhiannon bade him goodnight. Matthew sat bolt upright in the bed and looked at the witch in her frame, which was now phosphorescently aglow. ‘Goodnight Rhiannon,’ he said, wondering if she had seen him kiss Christina’s photograph. She had.

  At the weekend, Mrs Brindley’s flu had thankfully lessened to become nothing more than a sniffling annoyance, and so her husband decided he would take her out to the cinema and then to a cosy mock-Tudor pub. Matthew and Christina – and Larry the dog - minded the house that evening, and until 9pm they sat on the sofa in front of the telly, hugging one another, but whenever Matthew started to kiss his girlfriend for more than five seconds, she’d push him away and tell him to calm down. ‘I’m not really the kissy-kissy type,’ Christina told Matthew, and he returned a sorrowful look with tears welling in his eyes. She smirked and patted his face in a roundabout sympathetic way. ‘Oh don’t start Matty, I love you, but I just don’t like kissing all the time, I mean, it’s kinda slobbery and well, we should just kiss when the moment is right. Okay?’

  Matthew sniffled and forced a smile, followed by a strangled chuckle. ‘Yeah,’ he managed.

  The Talking Picture upstairs in the bedroom had been rather quiet, and Christina, through her female intuition, sensed that Rhiannon Tanglewyst was depressed, possibly at being imprisoned in that oval picture frame for so long. ‘Please talk to me Rhiannon,’ Christina had said to the witch’s silent and motionless image, earlier in the evening. The eyes of Rhiannon shed a single tear which rolled down the picture and evaporated. In the end the Goth gave up and went downstairs to Matthew.

  Christina flipped through the cable TV channels and settled on a gory horror film about zombies. It was too graphic for Matthew, and he told Christina to turn the film off, but she wouldn’t give him the remote. She pushed him off the sofa and playfully bit at his hand. ‘I’m zombie girl! I shall eat you!’ she said, and laughed.

  Matthew pushed her away and she rolled across the floor onto the hearthside rug. She stopped laughing. ‘What is your problem you little geek?’ she asked. Her face looked grave.

  Matthew got up and silently left the room. He went upstairs to his bedroom and sat at the computer. Christina followed him into the room, and as the computer chimed to life, the Goth said, ‘Oh, are you going to talk to your virtual girlfriends instead?’

  Matthew said nothing, because his throat was all choked up, and he sat gazing at the monitor, waiting for the computer’s operating system to load.

  ‘You really need to loosen up mister, or you’re going to lose me,’ Christina warned him, and she sat on the bed and gazed at the Talking Picture. Rhiannon’s portrait was coming to life, looking more realistic by the second.

  ‘I don’t like horror films, especially ones about zombies,’ Matthew admitted in a choked voice, and sounded as if he was about to burst into tears.

  ‘For crying out loud Matty, horror films are just films, and they’re cool.’ Christina walked over to her boyfriend and stroked his head. She mindlessly inspected her black nail polish and then chuckled.

  ‘What’s funny?’ Matthew thought she might be laughing at him.

  ‘There’s this funny zombie film called Sea of Blood, and it’s mad. It’s about a zombie on this ship called the Mary Celeste, and he eats the captain’s thing – you know – that thing.’ Christina giggled and threw her arms around Matthew.

  ‘I was on that ship,’ Rhiannon suddenly announced, startling the teenaged couple. 'My picture hung in the captain's cabin,' Rhiannon added with a faint smile.

  The teens turned around to face the Talking Picture and Christina said, ‘No way.’

  'It was no zombie. It was much worse,’ Rhiannon enigmatically remarked, and her eyes looked intense and terror-stricken, as if she was remembering some unspeakable horror.

  ‘No, don’t tell me about it,’ gasped Matthew.

  ‘Yes, please tell us,’ said Christina to the troubled witch, and she held her little hand over Matthew’s mouth. ‘Tell us everything.’

  The whole room began to sway and creak, and the cries of gulls and a salty chill surrounded the sweethearts. The walls of the room fell away to reveal a forest of ship's masts and spars, silhouetted against the grim and grey sky…

  Ship of the Damned

  1872…

  The hermaphrodite sailing ship of 280 tons left Pier 44 in New York’s East River, towed along by the powerful little Sandy Hook pilot ship. The November headwinds from the Atlantic were unusually fierce for that time of the year, so the brigantine’s captain, Benjamin Spooner Briggs had no alternative but to drop anchor off Staten Island for forty-eight hours. The patient crew was composed of First Mate Albert “Alby” Richardson, a stocky little veteran of the American Civil War, and Second Mate Andrew Gilling, a resilient and stoical New Yorker of Danish extract. Then there was Edward William Head, the young down-to-earth cook and steward who hailed from Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Head had only recently married, and had dreams of moving to Los Angeles in the not-too-distant future. The remainder of the crew comprised of three German seamen. Arian Martens came from an obscure little fishing village called Suddorf, on the Island of Amrum, which lies in the North Sea off the northern coast of Germany. Martens was a rather shy individual who preferred his own company, but was respected by all who knew him for his discretion. If you told Martens a secret, it remained one. The Lorenzen brothers, Volkert and Boz, came from Föhr, a neighbouring island of Amrum. The brothers had the undeserved reputation for attracting trouble, when in fact they just seemed to have
the continual misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and through no fault of their own, would often become embroiled in the drunken mêlées that occasionally erupted in the waterfront drinking holes of the world’s ports. Boz Lorenzen had lost his two front teeth in a punch-up with a peg-legged tar in a Liverpool tavern, and Volkert sported a four-inch scar beneath his adam’s apple, the souvenir from an encounter with a knife-wielding prostitute who had tried to fatally slit his throat and make off with his wages as he slept at a Portsmouth inn. Prior to signing on as a crewman on the American ship, the Lorenzen brothers had lost all of their worldly possessions in a shipwreck off the coast of Spain. There seemed to be no end to their troubles.

  Captain Briggs, a 38-year-old from Wareham, Massachusetts, was a profoundly religious man, a zealous puritan who made it his duty to read a chapter of the Bible every day. He observed a strict abstinence from alcohol, and often played hymns on the huge mahogany harmonium installed in his cabin. The captain’s 30-year-old wife Sarah, and two-year-old daughter Sophia – the sunshine of his life – accompanied him on this voyage. The ship was to take a cargo of seventeen-hundred and one barrels of commercial alcohol to Genoa, to be used by the Italian wine-producer Mascerenhas & Co.

  And so the brig waited two days at Staten Island for the Atlantic storms to blow themselves out. Just one hour before the vessel was set to venture out to sea, at 4pm, First Mate Alby Richardson noticed a tall bespectacled man dressed in a long Ulster coat, waving his feodora at him from the rain-lashed quayside. The stranger carried a large trunk.

  ‘Who are you?’ Richardson shouted down at the man from the deck.

  ‘Professor Orme!’ the man replied in an English accent. ‘I wish to speak to the captain!’

  ‘I shall tell him,’ Richardson told the professor, and made his way to the captain’s cabin, where Briggs was seated in his brown leather-clad chair, reading the Holy Bible.