The Book of Lies

by James Moloney

  Marcel. The name tumbled free, the name no one was meant to hear. Just once he called it, but Marcel dared not imagine the consequences. For now, he just raced, his mind locked on to the same goal as Fergus: to be first through Mrs Timmins’ gate.

  Brave Gadfly kept up her punishing pace, but was there enough of the race left to catch Fergus? They thundered on, the villagers standing wide-eyed, some throwing themselves off the road to get out of the way. Marcel caught sight of Albert and Old Belch, but they barely had time for an angry shout. Beneath the steeple, he finally turned Gadfly for home, although by then Fergus had already crossed the bridge with only the length of the road to the finish line.

  Suddenly Gadfly changed course, galloping wildly between the houses until she sighted the open fields. Then she set off directly towards the side gate, where Hugh and Dominic and the rest of the boys had gathered to judge the winner.

  “The stream!” Marcel cried, as though Gadfly could understand him. “You’ll never get across the stream!”

  She ignored him, charging on towards the finish line, the stretch of swiftly flowing water in view now. It was thirty feet across, at least, with high banks on both sides. More worrying still, much more worrying, was the waterfall itself, only another hundred paces away. If Marcel found himself in that water, he would surely be swept over the falls before he could reach the safety of the bank.

  He gripped Gadfly’s mane harder than ever and pushed his chest down on to her neck. Here was the stream, only two strides ahead. If he’d had any energy left he would have screamed. Gadfly took one last stride to gather herself then leaped into the air, sailing upwards like a bird, her legs stretched out beneath her, that dappled brown and white and black body tracing a magnificent arc against the sky. As the stunned children watched from the distant gate, she crashed on to the steep bank on the other side, the hooves of her front legs biting into the grass of its rim. With a mighty grunt, she hauled her hind legs up and on to level ground and raced on towards the finish line.

  Fergus was still closer to the gate than they were, but with every stride the gap narrowed. It was impossible to guess the winner now. The last few strides would settle it.

  Then, with both riders only a pace or two from the gate, the race was suddenly over. Gadfly was the bravest of horses, but even she baulked at the sight that confronted them. She slammed her front legs into the dirt and sent Marcel hurtling forward, his arms locked around her neck until he fell painfully to the ground.

  He sat up quickly as icy terror gripped his heart. A fearsome beast was circling him, a snarling, spitting creature with claws like knives. It had all the stealth and pose of a cat – yet what cat was ever this size? Its head loomed high above Marcel’s. Its body was covered in glistening black fur and its cruel mouth was drawn back to reveal a row of savage teeth. A leather thong was laced around its neck, and dangling from it was a pouch large enough to hold a dozen gold coins. Could there be any doubt? This was the beast he had heard in the tower.

  The world had gone silent except for the growls of this beast. All other things around Marcel had become invisible. He wondered whether his heart was still beating.

  Fergus too had been thrown from his chestnut stallion, which bolted, whinnying loudly, back towards Fallside. He rose to his feet unsteadily, but when he saw the beast he froze in fear.

  “Termagant, bring them both inside the gate,” cried a deep voice nearby, laced with fury.

  The beast stopped its circling and came towards Marcel, who was still lying prone on the ground. A gasp of horror rose up from the boys huddled together beside the gate. One or two screamed.

  But before the beast closed in, a desperate wail broke the silence. “No, Lord Alwyn! You mustn’t hurt him!”

  It was Mrs Timmins. She had rushed from the house when she heard the sounds of the beast, followed by the girls, who had all been working indoors. She reached the gate and kept coming until she stood bravely above Marcel, shielding him from the beast with her stout body.

  “Stand aside, Mrs Timmins. I told this boy to stay inside your boundaries. Instead, he rides a wild horse through the streets of Fallside.

  “You disobeyed me,” Lord Alwyn said to Marcel, his voice low and threatening. “You showed yourself in the village. Worse still, your name was shouted out for all to hear.”

  “But, Lord Alwyn,” Mrs Timmins interrupted, “the people of Fallside are simple folk –”

  “Enough!” he cried fiercely. Turning back to the boys, his eyes blazed, and he focused on one of the pair in particular. “I blame you, Marcel. Didn’t I warn you to stay inside these walls? You can’t imagine the misery this day could bring upon you, and many others as well.”

  “Don’t hurt him!” came an anguished cry, though which of the little girls had dared speak no one could tell.

  The wizard ignored this pleading. He considered the boy before him, his face darkening. To Marcel, it seemed that not just the old man’s face but the whole world grew blacker. This is his magic working on me, he decided, and braced himself for what was to come.

  But his concentration was quickly shattered by Fergus’s voice. “What’s happening?” he asked, looking around him in alarm. “Everything’s getting darker.”

  Sure enough, it was not just Lord Alwyn who had fallen into shadow. All around them, the ground, the house, the orchard beyond it, everything was becoming dimmer and harder to see.

  Now even Lord Alwyn was looking around him for the cause, and moments later they all saw it: a black curtain sweeping quickly over the forest, blocking out the day’s bright sunshine. Night had never come like this, marked by a black line across the sky – and it was not even midday.

  “What is it?” Fergus cried, but his voice was quickly lost amid the screeching that rained down from that writhing black canopy.

  Then Marcel knew. “Bats!” he exclaimed. “Thousands, millions of them!” Already the leaders of this mighty horde had reached the village. Any minute now, it would break over the rim of the great cliff and sweep down into the valley below.

  But Marcel’s attention was torn away from this sight by words, the old wizard’s words, though none he could understand. He turned to find Lord Alwyn with his arms outstretched, calling up to the blackening heavens above them. As he chanted his strange verses and swept his arms across the sky with as much grace as his ageing limbs would allow, that great, raucous cloud stopped its progress. More words, more waving of those thin arms, and the tide gradually began to turn back.

  It took many minutes, but at last the darkness was repelled and the bats returned to wherever they had come from. Most of them, at least. Some came to earth instead, landing on the stone wall and on the roof of the house, a few hanging upside down from the eaves as though they had come especially to watch Marcel face his punishment.

  “What happened?” cried Mrs Timmins in terror. “Your Lordship, all those bats! Where did they come from? Why would they suddenly appear like that? And so many! They almost hid the sun.”

  The sorcerer didn’t answer her. He seemed deeply troubled by what had happened. “It should not be,” he muttered, but slowly he forced himself out of his daze. His wrinkled brows weighed heavily over his weary eyes as he turned them on Marcel.

  This made the boy more terrified than ever. He would gladly ride Gadfly over that treacherous stream a dozen times rather than stand here, waiting for Lord Alwyn to unleash his magic upon him.

  Suddenly the sorcerer stretched out a hand, not to call down punishment on Marcel but to steady himself. If Mrs Timmins hadn’t rushed to his side and taken hold of his arm, he might have fallen to the ground. When he recovered, he threw her hand off petulantly, but it was clear now that the effort of turning back the strange cloud of bats had drained him.

  He motioned feebly to Marcel, summoning what little strength he had left. “You disobeyed me,” he said gravely, his voice quavering. “If you cannot do as I command, I shall need other measures. Come here, take this.”

&
nbsp; Marcel held out his left hand and found a gold ring lying in the centre of his palm.

  “Put it on your finger,” Lord Alwyn commanded faintly.

  He slipped it loosely on to the smallest finger of his right hand.

  “Since you refuse to do as I say, that ring will remind you. If you dare cross these walls again, Termagant will come after you, to fetch back that ring and you with it.”

  A shudder ran through Marcel’s body at these words. He felt the ring, cold and unfamiliar against his skin. His thumb worried at it, trying to push it free, but though it turned easily around his finger, somehow he couldn’t get it past the knuckle.

  “Try all you like,” said the wizard. “It will not come off.”

  “Never? Not even with your magic?”

  Lord Alwyn smiled contemptuously. “Oh, yes, there is a way.” He looked at the mud-splattered mare, still panting from her desperate gallop. “I see you dare to ride wild horses, and no doubt these children here think you a brave young man. The true test is whether you find the courage to remove that ring.”

  The wizard gazed at Marcel searchingly until it made him uncomfortable. He pulled at the ring openly now, but Lord Alwyn seemed unconcerned. He turned away and spoke harshly to Fergus. “Don’t think I have forgotten your part in this escapade. You would do well to heed Mrs Timmins and become the kind of boy a farmer would gladly take into his home.” Then he addressed Mrs Timmins. “Send them both to bed hungry.”

  Turning back to Marcel, he lowered his voice. “You have escaped unpunished this time, but disobey me again and Termagant will bring you to me…in her jaws.”

  With that, he turned and made for the house, his faltering steps among the loose stones an odd contrast to his ominous words. In a few quick bounds, the beast he called Termagant was at his heels. The orphans watched as he disappeared around the end of the house, and only then did anyone move or dare to say a word.

  Even as Lord Alwyn delivered his dire warning, it was too late. The name had been heard. In Fallside, when the drinkers returned to their tankards of ale, the landlord soon noticed that one had been abandoned half-full. Where was the traveller who had paid for it? No one had seen him since they had all rushed outside to watch those mischievous orphans race by on horseback.

  And they wouldn’t see him again, for at that moment he was already urging his horse along the forest road. By nightfall he would be travelling across the plains below, and in the morning he would gallop on to the capital. He knew a man there who would pay a hefty price in gold to find a brown-haired boy named Marcel.

  Chapter 5

  The Book of Lies

  MARCEL’S BODY SHIVERED, HALF with exhaustion and half with fear. Beside him, Mrs Timmins looked ready to faint. “That beast would frighten the bravest knight. I don’t like having it live above us,” she declared, turning to the boy. “But listen to me, Marcel. Do as Lord Alwyn says. Stay within these walls and you’ll be safe. If you leave…” She hesitated, shocked by what she was about to say. “If you leave, you may well be killed.”

  “Yes, by Lord Alwyn,” he snapped, suddenly infuriated. “And you’re helping him.”

  “No!” she cried, hurt to the quick. “He won’t harm you, not while I draw breath.” Then she addressed both boys with all the sternness she could muster. “The pair of you need a good lesson. Fergus – Albert and Old Belch will be back with a new load of firewood shortly, and when it’s here you’ll spend the rest of the day with an axe in your hands. As for you, Marcel, you can get on to your hands and knees in the vegetable garden, and there’d better not be a single weed in sight by nightfall. But first you, Fergus, can go and find that stallion, and Marcel, you can put this poor mare back in her stall. Just look at the state she’s in!”

  Marcel led Gadfly back to the stables where he rubbed down her flanks with a cloth to wipe off the sweat, as he somehow knew he should do. At first his hands trembled after his encounter with Lord Alwyn’s beast, but there was something about Gadfly that helped him overcome his fear, and by the time he had finished grooming her his nerves had steadied. She had taken him so close to victory. He could still feel the wind in his face and the power of her galloping body beneath him. Even the mad leap across the stream, with their lives hanging in the balance, had become a triumph now that the real danger had passed. “For a moment I thought you could fly,” he told her.

  Even after the meal that evening the smaller children talked wide-eyed about the race. They gathered around the fireplace with the glow of the flames dancing on their cheeks.

  “Marcel’s horse flew like a bird,” said Watkin, describing the fantastic jump.

  But it was little Dot who turned their attention to the most frightening part of the story. “What about Lord Alwyn’s beast? Did you hear its name? Termagant,” she whispered, sending a fearful shiver through all who were listening.

  Marcel wasn’t part of the excited circle, but he had crept close to catch a little of the fire’s warmth. When he heard those awed whispers, his mouth went dry. He looked for Fergus, who had given him a wide berth since the race, and found him in a corner picking gingerly at his palms, which were blistered from woodchopping. Did those swaggering shoulders droop a little? Fergus was doing his best to hide it. Without realising, both boys stood up together, making everyone in the dining hall notice, when in fact each had hoped to slip away to bed unseen.

  Marcel fell into bed drained and desperate for sleep. It wouldn’t come at first. The race had been exhilarating and he was a victor of sorts, but in the things that mattered most he had fallen further behind. He fidgeted with the ring that Lord Alwyn had forced him to wear, a ring that tied him to the orphanage more powerfully than ever. When finally he drifted off, he slept fitfully, strange faces filling his dreams, though none showed themselves clearly. A voice began calling to him. “Marcel! Marcel!” He tried to ignore it but the voice continued, whispering so closely it seemed to echo inside his ear.

  Gradually he realised it wasn’t a dream at all. He woke with a start to find a hand on his shoulder, and though he couldn’t see anyone the voice was one he knew.

  “Bea!”

  “Shh,” she cautioned. She motioned to him to follow her.

  He slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb Hugh beside him, and went with her into the passageway. He could only guess what time it was, but the house was dark and surely Albert and Mrs Timmins would be fast asleep. The two of them crept soundlessly along the corridor, but on the stairs Marcel lost his footing and slipped heavily on to the step below.

  “Watch your feet!” Bea hissed.

  “How can I, when it’s pitch-black!” he protested, but he grasped the banister all the same. “Where are we going?” he whispered.

  “The kitchen,” Bea replied. They reached the bottom of the stairs and she pushed the kitchen door gently ajar. As soon as they entered, she lit the candle Mrs Timmins kept on the table and led him into the pantry, a snug little alcove separate from the room itself.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I have something for you,” she told him at last.

  “At this time of night!” He watched as she pushed aside some large earthenware jars. Even then he had to wait while she carefully drew back a folded tablecloth. But when finally he saw what lay revealed, he could barely breathe. “The Book of Lies!”

  He reached in and took it down from the shelf, carrying it carefully to the kitchen table, where he stroked the cracked and flaking red leather of its cover. “What was it doing there, in the pantry?”

  Bea sent him an exasperated glance. “I hid it there,” she said, in a tone that hinted he should have guessed that much for himself.

  Marcel didn’t notice. He was still trying to grasp the fact that the Book was right here in front of him. “But how did you get hold of it?”

  “I took it from the tower, of course.”

  “You can’t have! The door is sealed by magic.”

  “I told you, there’s another way up the
re.”

  Another way. What was she talking about? Then it came to him. “The hidden tunnel! You mean you…”

  “This morning, when you and Fergus were racing into the village, I sneaked away from my chores and saw Lord Alwyn watching you from the window.”

  “You guessed he would send Termagant down through that passage to get me, didn’t you?”

  Bea was excited now. She could barely manage to keep her voice down. “I hid myself near the bushes and saw where she came out. The opening, Marcel – I found it at last! Now I can go up there any time I like.”

  Marcel stared at her. “Any time you like! Are you mad?”

  “No, it’s all right. Tonight, I just had to wait until I heard that noise in the wall and then I knew Termagant had gone out hunting. It’s so narrow; no wonder Termagant makes such a noise when she squeezes through it. And even in daylight it’s impossible to see.”

  “But what about Lord Alwyn? I suppose he said, ‘Hello, come on in, Bea. Let me hold the candle for you.’”

  Bea made a face. “Even wizards sleep at night, you know – and besides, even if he had been awake, he wouldn’t have seen me,” she said confidently. She folded her arms to show she was growing tired of his lack of faith in her.

  Marcel made himself calm down. If he had sounded a little harsh, it was only because he was worried about her. Terrified, really. This was the second time she had taken a dreadful risk to help him. “I’m sorry I questioned you,” he said softly, and to show it he touched her gently on the arm. “You went up there just to get this book for me. I can’t believe it. Bea, that’s braver than anything I did today.”

  Bea blushed brightly, not easy for a girl who usually faded into the shadows. “Now we can work out whether your real life is written inside. Quickly, see what you can find,” she urged him. “Termagant won’t stay out all night, and I’ll have to return it before she comes back.”

  Marcel opened the cover and leaned forward, impatient to read the words inside. There were so many. Every page was covered from top to bottom and edge to edge with a solemn, flowing black script. The pages were yellowed and furred at the corners, some torn a little in places. Marcel read the first page, but by the second his eyes were growing tired. He began skimming the text quickly, hoping to pick out his name. But even this took an age. Four, five, six pages. He couldn’t take them in any faster. “This is hopeless,” he moaned. “It would take me a year to read every word in this book.”