Anaïs walked along the balcony which skirted the ballroom. She followed the line of the parapet. The view changed as she rounded a corner. There was land. A minuscule strip of green ran along the horizon. A perfectly perpendicular line connected the island to the horizon—a road. Anaïs followed the line of the road towards her and dropped her eyes. Closer to her there was sand on either side of it. The expanse of sand was broken up by great pools of water. The road was actually some form of causeway. Far below her, a movement caught her attention. A small black dot moved slowly across a wide swathe of concrete at the base of the island. It was like a small beetle crawling across an enormous flat rock. The black dot stopped where the road joined the island. Anaïs squinted at it. Even though it was far away she could make out a familiar shape. It was the Morris Minor.
The librarian stepped up beside Anaïs. She looked over the edge of the parapet and spotted the car.
'Good,' she said. 'We can get out of here. Come on. Let's go.'
Immi walked across the balcony and through a stone archway. She began to descend a set of stairs. Her heels clacked on the stone. A gust of cold wind swept across the balcony and whipped Anaïs's jacket around her legs. She turned the collar up and pulled it snug around her neck.
Nan's voice sounded in her head. 'Yes, come on Anaïs, let's go.'
The caretaker went after the librarian. Anaïs hesitated.
Standing on the balcony she felt exposed yet somehow safe. She looked behind her at the solid stone walls rising up around her. She tilted her head back. They towered high above her and made her feel smaller than she actually was. Go? Why should I go? For a moment she considered staying where she was. She could even get back on the train. Why tempt fate by going somewhere else? She could hide. She didn't really need the promptuary. She could camp out in the fortress like a hermit for a while. Maybe in a few years she would grow some more—physically grow, so she could deal with whatever was expected of her. She knew she had responsibilities as a witch, but there were other witches. She wasn't the only one. Someone else could fill in for a while. She needed time to adjust to who she was. More than that, she needed to understand what she was.
'Anaïs, you can't stay here.'
Nan's soft voice took her by surprise. It also bothered her. Why couldn't she keep her head to herself? She closed her eyes and frowned. 'Why not?'
'Because I said so.'
'I'm afraid that's not enough of a reason for me.'
'Then do it for me, Anaïs. I'm still here for a reason. You have to help me.'
Anaïs had not considered that Nan was like other shades. Someone who needed her help. The caretaker had always been there to help her, not the other way around. She owed Nan big time, much more than any other shade she was ever likely to come across. Anaïs opened her eyes and looked around the balcony. She was surprised to see Nan standing in the archway at the far end. She had assumed the shade had gone ahead. The thought struck her that maybe Nan couldn't go anywhere without her. Maybe they were intrinsically linked. Maybe they were inseparable.
'Come on, Anaïs.' Nan flicked her head, indicating they should go. 'Let's keep moving and find a way to fix your handbook. Maybe once that's done we can take a break, have a proper rest for a while. Let's just do this and then we'll see.'
Anaïs twisted her lip. 'I suppose you're right.' She smiled at the shade and nodded slowly. 'Ok, I'll do it, but only because of you, Nan.'
The caretaker shook her head. 'I am not important, Anaïs. Although, it's reassuring to know you feel that way. You have responsibilities. Unfortunately, we all do. Sometimes we just have to do what we are supposed to do.'
Anaïs took a deep breath. 'Nan, I get what you're saying but I don't want to think about them—the responsibilities.' She walked across the balcony and stood in front of the shade. 'I'm still doing it for you and I can't be bothered discussing it. Let's just go.'
She took Nan's arm in her own. Together they wound their way down through the tight network of streets in the village. Oddly, it was entirely deserted. At the base of the island they walked out through a narrow doorway and onto the concrete area Anaïs had seen from above. Directly before her, the Morris Minor stood parked in the middle of the road leading from the island. Anaïs looked back at the town rising up behind her. She was slightly perplexed as to where the car had come from. There were no openings wide enough in the stone wall circling the base of the medieval structure. But then, there was so much which was unexplained. She decided not to dwell on it. The car was there. That was important. Without the promptuary to provide information, the Morris Minor was the only guide they had.
As she approached it, the car seemed to look up at her with its doe-eyed headlights and follow her movements. The librarian was leaning against the driver's door, her arms folded across her chest.
'Why does everything always take so long with you?' she said with irritation.
Anaïs shrugged. 'I'm in no hurry. Are you?'
The librarian considered her for a moment. 'I like to keep moving. I feel safer that way.'
Anaïs cocked her head. 'Why? Is there something you're afraid of?'
'Not exactly, but I prefer to keep one step ahead. Since I've met you, we've run into some pretty strange things. Prevention is the best defence.'
'Maybe it's safer not to move then, especially if we keep running into things.'
'No,' said the librarian shaking her head. 'We did that as well and then things started running into us. Don't you remember?'
'I remember,' said Anaïs, recalling the moment the Inquisitor's four-wheel-drive had collided with them in Cornwall. The librarian was correct. A medieval fortress was not going to offer any protection if someone really wanted to find her. She needed stronger magic. Only the promptuary could provide that. They would have to keep going until they found a solution to its problems.
The librarian lifted her head towards the fortress. 'Did you have fun up there?'
'What do you mean?'
'Your little ballroom experience.'
'As a matter of fact, yes we did. You should dance more often. It helps.'
The librarian raised an eyebrow. 'I'll try to remember that. What's the plan?'
'Get out of here?'
'Yes, I know that. What about a destination?'
'Don't look at me. The book's broken. At least I think it is. Maybe I should check.'
'Maybe you should,' said the librarian.
Anaïs felt around in her beret and pulled out the promptuary. The star on its cover winked dully at her. She opened it. Its pages were unchanged.
She dropped it back in her beret and shook her head. 'Nope, it's not working.' She looked at the Morris Minor. 'We haven't got much choice. I hope this little car knows what it's doing. It's the only magic we've got.'
The librarian fixed her with a grim stare. 'So do I, Anaïs, so do I.'
Different
A major problem with the world is many people think that different is wrong. They are wrong. Different is good.
If everything was a clone of everything else where would we be? It would certainly be a far less interesting place to live. It's all those discrepancies, oddities and variety which make life fun. Ok, I suppose, for some it's not fun. People will always yearn for something better than they already have. Better is not always going to provide peace of mind, though. It's like having the powers of a witch. It's a nice thing to possess, all that wonderful magic, but it doesn't come for free. Even witches need to work at what they have. Not that it will be completely taken away if it's not put to good use. However, as with all special skills, there is the danger they will waste away through neglect.
In the same way, a motor which hasn't been fired up for a long time needs time to warm up. Or a seed which has been reduced to a dried-out husk needs to soak in water. We have to provide nurture before there is a result. The risk is if we wait too long it will become more and more difficult to do anything with what we have been given. It will require a lot of
energy to get it up and running.
Exercise and experimentation are necessary to give a gift the chance to surface and reach full capacity. Waiting around for something to happen will not bring results. You have to work at it. Everyone needs to search for their particular form of different. Witches are there to help you find it, but, at the same time, they are also grappling with their own abnormalities.
Anaïs didn't want to be different. She had been forced to be that way. She had been born with it. Different had been thrust upon her. In an ideal world she probably would have tried to avoid her special complication. For a certain period of her short life she had been relatively successful at this. But ideal worlds do not exist. All along she had wanted to blend in, to be like everyone else, to be normal. She couldn't.
Is there such a thing as normal anyway? Even for non-witches?
No matter how different we are, we all have something worthwhile to do. This part of being different is especially important. It is the key. We all have a special skill. You do not have to be a witch to possess one. It helps, but magic is everywhere. We are the creators of it. If we don't do what we should be doing we break the system. It is our responsibility to do what we are good at. Even in death. And even if it makes us different.
Anaïs had doubts, but with good cause. She did not know exactly what it was she needed to do to make her gift work properly. Her special kind of different was not like everybody else's. What set her apart was her incredibly crucial role in the universe. Like other witches her task was to make sure those who had not found their own special skill, those who had not exercised it, were given the opportunity to do so. Her goal was to make different work. It was her gift, her special skill. Unfortunately, it had not come with an instruction manual. And the only thing she had, which came close to a manual, was in a state of disrepair.
She had to learn to use her skill just like the rest of us. Partly this involved accepting she was different. It was as important for her to come to terms with her disparity as it is for all of us. The things that set us apart and make us individuals add colour and interest to the world. This goes as much for different races and cultures as it does for more mundane things like deodorant.
We do not all wear the same scent. It is an individual thing. Nobody will criticise you for it. They may move out of your immediate vicinity if it is too strong. But they will not, they cannot, tell you to remove it. It is a personal choice.
Individuality is good. It should be accepted, encouraged and nurtured. It should not be rent asunder or reviled. We should embrace our differences. Through this we may find we share common ground. Then we will reap the benefits.
Maybe we are not really as different as we think. The next time you pigeonhole someone because of creed or religion, try to work out what deodorant they are wearing. If that fails, try to work out what toothpaste they use. Although we are individuals we all share common traits. Somewhere we share similarities.
Incidentally, the toothbrush was invented by the Chinese in 1498. The same year Vasco de Gama connected India with Europe by sailing around Africa. Columbus also went on his third voyage to America. In a short time, many differences converged and the world became a less mysterious place. Not to mention a planetary advancement in dental hygiene.
Everyone benefits from the things that set us apart. Witches should not be disparaged for what they do and nor should the differences which set us apart. Being different is special.
Back Into The Field
His training had been extensive but he had lacked enough real-world experience. That is what he had told them. He had felt like a fish out of water. He had floundered. It bothered him. They had sent him out without his mentor. It had made his job nigh impossible. Being sent out alone was a mistake, but times were difficult. Everybody had to deal with cost-cutting measures. At least that was their excuse. He cursed them for it. As far as he was concerned, sorry didn't cut it. He had not been fully prepared and they should have known that.
Getting sucked into a vortex and funnelled through a portal is no stroll in the park. It doesn't occur without leaving some lingering scarring. It didn't necessarily have to be physical. It had scared the hell out of him and undermined his confidence. And now they had told him just to get on with it.
Yeah right!
He stood in front of the bathroom mirror and examined his eyes. He ran a finger along the lines which ran under them. He noted how bloodshot they were and how they had aged tremendously. Yet the rest of his face was unharmed. He looked as young as ever. Perhaps too young for his age. But his eyes could betray him. He felt old because of them. He rubbed them and looked again. Nothing had changed. He cupped his hands and dipped them into the water in the basin. It was cold but invigorating. He threw the water up onto his face and fumbled blindly for a handtowel.
What he felt was not the fluffy linen he expected. The fur was much deeper. He swiftly retracted his hand and wiped his face with his sleeve. For a moment he didn't dare look. He took a deep breath. The smell of brimstone seared his nostrils. He opened his eyes and looked down. The dog was back.
He had secretly hoped to be rid of it. No such luck. The bitter taste of the ash cloud rising from its hind quarters caused him to choke. He opened the tap and stuck his lips under the flow. He swished water around his mouth and spat it out. He looked down at the animal. Its bright red eyes stared back up at him. He sighed. Fine. At least he knew where he stood. He knew what assistance he had. But it hadn't helped him before. Whatever had attacked them had been stronger than the pair of them. It had special powers. He should keep his distance.
Only where was it? The thing which had sent them through the vortex. This disturbed him. It could even be watching them right now. At the time he thought he had died. He imagined it would be the same. A bright, white light and then darkness. That is what everyone said it would be like. When it had happened, he believed that was it. It was over. He had perished. He had gone on to another world. The magic, or whatever it was, had sent him somewhere dark. When the light returned he was surprised to find he was still alive. That was a relief. He was even more perturbed when he realised where he was: a vast distance from where he needed to be.
He knew by the time he managed to get back to where he had been, it would be too late. Their scent would have been transported away with them. It would have gone cold. He had mulled it over. He decided to change tactic. Next time he would concentrate on following the girl. The council had agreed. She was special. He had not known it at first. He had been too busy following the old man. The shade had been his focus. He had not been after her. She was not the target. She had just been the bait that led him to the dead guy. It was not part of his protocol to confront the living anyway. He was sent out to bury the dead. And to bury them forever.
He began to question why he was doing it. Were they both working towards the same end, the girl and him? No, that wouldn't do. She had been protecting it. His job was to make sure no one saw the dead. Shades had to be put to rest. They should stay in the shadows. He had the tools to do it. It was his responsibility. The only problem was, she had been standing in the way.
It angered him that he had been so fixated on the old man. He cursed himself for not being more aware of his surroundings. Stupid! Had he kept his eyes open he would have spotted whatever it was that had sent him into the vortex. Who was the little girl anyway? It was clear that she was in disguise. Under the skin she was a lot older than she looked. It was a good camouflage. If she hadn't been so animated, if he hadn't been able to see her expressions, he might have taken her for a shade. She wasn't, though. She was something else altogether. She was definitely alive. How she masked herself was a mystery to him. It should not have been a surprise to him, though. He had seen enough strange things in his time. But this was different. She was different. He had never come across anyone protecting the dead.
How far should he go to get his job done? He had no directive to kill the living. He was meant to do the exact op
posite. He was there to preserve life by preventing the dead coming back. There were too many of them already. He couldn't detect them all. It was hard enough, without one of the living getting in the way.
Maybe he could leverage her knowledge. Apparently she could see them. If he shadowed her she would lead him to more of them. Then he could send the hound in. It could hold them. That's what it was for. Once it had captured them he could send them on to wherever it was they went. It was not his concern where that was. That was someone else's job. He was only one part of the machine, one link in the chain. It didn't concern him what the rest did. He focussed on his job. That was all he could do. Just make the quota; more if possible.
They hadn't been happy. Damn them, he thought, I know what I'm doing. How would they like to do my job? It's easy to criticise from behind a desk. He was the one out in the field. He was the one in the firing line. They could have provided more assistance. Then his job could be done more effectively. He could get more done. His aspirations were high but his main drive was doing good. They knew it as well as he did. It was not good to have a world with all those shades running around freely. They could not be let loose and allowed to terrorise the population.
A buzzer sounded and a light flashed on a telephone mounted on the wall next to the mirror. He pressed the speaker button.
'Yes?'
A male voice squelched. 'We need to speak to you again.'
The Inquisitor breathed deeply. 'Fine, I'll be there. Just give me a moment, please.'
The speaker clicked and there was silence.
They wanted to talk to him again. What was it this time? He knew what he had to do. Even if they were not going to provide more assistance, he required no further instructions.
The Promptuary Page 8