We’ll be good together.
But he had a rival. He knew that
But he also knew what his rival was. And how to deal with him
Alain had been at the school long enough to know that the odd characters that showed up from time to time were by and large harmless. They were usually more scared of the school and pupils than anyone could be of them. Most of them came from lost bits of paper, notes or messages written by unsuspecting or sporadic Writers, people the Magistrate hadn’t identified and vetted
The lonely characters were wishes and dreams put down on paper. Sometimes something truly frightening roamed the school but the Master and the Cleaners were usually fast to mop up the bad ones. It was strange that they hadn’t this time. Alain was slightly unsure if all this was not really some sort of game on the part of the Master. No fictional creature come to life had ever lasted this long
This one – my prey, my rival – is a worthy match, Alain thought. He was looking forward to the chance of proving himself. Of finishing the contest. So, where are you?
Now he was coming up the path behind St Nicholas House and he saw the dried-up puddle where the Master had enlightened him. He afforded himself a smile. Best not tell that story to anyone who hasn’t been through something similar, he thought. They might think I’m crazy.
And then, in the undergrowth by the low stone wall, Alain spotted him: The boy from the fields, crouching down and staring back at Alain from between the spray of shiny, evergreen leaves
“That’s enough!” Alain shouted, and as he did so Romeo bolted from the cover and sprinted down the main path. Alain shot after him and they both ran at top speed, elbows pumping, knees high, around the Main Building. Romeo was going for the playing fields and tried to cut across the back lawn between the school swimming pool and the Assembly Hall but Alain got him halfway, near the fishpond, and rugby tackled him to the floor
Someone in the Assembly Hall saw the fight, shouted, and within a minute the entire school was pressed against the many windows watching the two boys roll about together on the back lawn. Green uniforms and teachers came streaming out of the glass atrium at the back of the Assembly Hall, but seeing who was involved they formed a line, a kind of barricade, watching and waiting
“Just stop fighting us and we’ll help you,” Alain tried, teeth gritted, choking as the other boy’s elbow dug into his windpipe. “We can take you back but you must let us help you!”
“Never!” Romeo managed to get his knee and then his foot under Alain’s chest and thrust him off with a fierce kick
As Alain flew backwards, Romeo set off, away from the crowds, up the small incline towards the white fencing surrounding the swimming pool. The pool was covered with a dirty blue tarpaulin for winter, and tied down, and Romeo skipped over the knots making for the other side. Alain, catching fast, vaulted the fence and elected against trying to run across the tarpaulin: he had no choice but to follow the other boy around the edge of the pool
On the far side, beyond the fence, was the sanctuary of woodland and an alternative route to the playing fields and Romeo might have made it if he hadn’t tripped. But he had and he had heavily
Alain was on him in a second and pinned him down, blood oozing from Romeo’s wounds. The Head of the Magistrate sat on the other boy’s back and screamed for help and the lines in front of the Assembly Hall broke and teachers and pupils began to flood across the back lawn, around the pond and across to the swimming pool
Seizing his moment, Romeo spun himself over, tossing Alain onto the tarpaulin, which ripped and gave. There was a splash and a gasp from the boy in the water – it was thick like soup – and, as he struggled for a grip, more and more of the blue tarpaulin gave and tore in Alain’s grasping hands
Romeo didn’t stay to watch but forced himself over the low fence, leaving red smudges on the peeling wood, and hobbled away into the greenery like a wounded bird
When the first teachers and pupils arrived they stopped at the edge of the pool and gasped in horror at the sight of Alain Verne floating just under the murky, dark water, eyes wide open in horror, very pale
By strange co-incidence, his grandmother died at that exact moment
7
“This way Mr Shakes-staff.”
“That’s Shakespeare, Master.”
“Shakespeare, that’s right. Watch your step now. Mrs Sharpe made this little bridge and there’s many a time I almost slipped off it. The key is balance. Get your bearings before you even step onto it, see?”
“Or perhaps just hop across, Master?”
“Ah, my hopping days are long gone, my young friend.” The old monk used Will’s shoulder as a guide as he walked the swaying planks. Through the slits lay a shallow, grassy gorge, which might have held a brook or a trickle of water in its deepest crevice. It smelled of human insides and was home to a thousand flies and maggots. When he was sure the Master was across, Will hopped the last of the way and almost toppled back into the filth, catching a sapling just in time to save himself
“Health is not always a virtue,” commented the monk, amused
They approached the ruins of the old monastery arm in arm, the Master shuffling along like a sleepwalker. Will could hardly walk straight himself, his feet bruised and calloused. Skull-eye windows peered out from the grey stone walls and Will now noticed the smoke puffing its way up into the sky from somewhere behind the high curtain wall, jagged and broken
“Is this where classes are conducted, Master?”
“In a manner of speaking.” The old man prodded the ground with his stick. There were boulders and some masonry scattered about and snaking trails had been cut through the debris, worn to bare earth by human footfalls. The widest of the trails reached a low doorway in the wall which, when ducked through, led to a mossy, dank, cell-like room that reeked to high heaven. “The local badgers sneak in here on the coldest nights,” the monk explained, quite out of breath. “And who can blame them?”
Will, intrigued, followed the hunched-over figure as they walked on the squishy, smelly, springy floor into what seemed like pitch darkness. Over the worst of the stench, which came and went, Will could detect the autumnal smell of wood burning in the open air and then a breeze on his fingers and against the tip of his nose
“If I could only locate the lock,” the old monk muttered to himself before a screeching of steel on steel sounded. “My apologies, young man, but that’s the gate open. Watch your breeches on the sharp ends and close it after you. Up we go.”
Will did as he was told and noticed a leaky light above them. The ground was now quite solid and so cold he could feel it though the thin, patched up soles of his boots
They were at the bottom of a staircase which wound tightly upwards. The monk went first, slowly, sandals slapping, and Will followed him, marvelling at the marble aspect of the monk’s battered, bare feet. The old man’s toes were almost purple and the nails so misshapen and yellow they were like claws. Whatever was he doing almost barefoot in this weather anyway?
“Come along come along, squeeze past me,” the Master wheezed at the top, pressing himself against the brick wall as Will went on to emerge in the corner of an open courtyard. Only, it wasn’t a courtyard, it was obviously the chapel of the old church. There were graves on the floor and tombs in the remaining walls. Sackcloth, straining and sagging, was hanging half-heartedly across the space but open sky shone down on the altar and remains of the chancel. “Now where the devil is everyone?” asked the monk
As if in reply three figures emerged from the shadows on the other side of the space, a woman and two men, and the monk nodded happily
“There you are, there you are! My dears, this is Mr Shackspere. The one I was telling you about.”
“Shakespeare,” corrected Will
The tallest of the young men – both were no older than twenty – stepped forwards and smiled warmly. He was tall, athletic, well-dressed and very well-mannered. “Good morning to you, Mr Shakespeare. Very
nice to have you here with us.”
“Very nice to be here,” Will replied, thinking, Are these the pupils or the masters? He turned to the other man – smaller, darker, arms-folded and scowling from over his ruffled collar – and nodded. The only woman was standing slightly behind this angry figure, perhaps smiling. She was dark-skinned, surely African, Will thought, and quite marvellously, windingly beautiful. He felt his gaze stick to her and his eyes refused to blink
The lady was so stunning to behold Will had to make a conscious effort to remove his cap, bowing low and feeling a terrible shame when he looked at the mess of material he wore on his head dangling from his dirty hand like a filleted ferret. He knew how important first impressions were: what must she have thought of him?
“Good day to you, sir,” the lady whispered, in a voice so low it was hard for Will to catch anything of her personality in her voice
Will straightened in time to see the angry man-in-black step forward to address the monk. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Master, but you said it would be only the three of us here.”
“It was only you,” nodded the monk, hands in his sleeves, “and now it is again. Only you. Four.”
“The library is almost finished, my Master,” said the first boy, the tall, elegant one, who put out his hand towards a door in the shadows. “Perhaps you would like to see it?”
The Master nodded. “Yes, I think we all would.”
As they walked across the open space together there were handshakes. The tall, amiable boy was Ayland; the shorter, fiery one Uric. The lady was Bethsabe and smelled, to Will, who walked in her wake, as exotic as she looked. The monk, whom they all called Master, Will noted, led them into the dingy buildings again but this time there were fires lit at intervals and torches on the walls and apart from one awful corridor, no vile smells to make Will retch
They crossed another small courtyard, the sky like a glaring, white roof, and descended another set of stairs into darkness. At the foot of these stairs the Master opened a wooden door, which creaked impressively, and they all stepped into a great chamber, curved like a cellar, lit by myriad candles and two candelabras, filled along every wall and in stacks like pillars, by books. Hundreds and hundreds of books
“Ah! Wonderful!” cried the Master, clasping his hands together. “This has made me so happy! God Bless You All!”
“Which means we can begin our real work now, does it?” tried Uric, who spoke every utterance with a look of pain
“But you have been working!” The Master was walking with Bethsabe in and out of the pillars of words and leather. “What else have you been doing, Uric, my child? What do you call all this?”
Will couldn’t help but wander in wonder along the arrays, reading the names on the spines, stopping, sometimes, to ponder a title he found interesting. Oh what I could do with all this knowledge, he thought. And he was ashamed that the first thing he could think of doing was stealing a book or two and making a run for it
Will’s weakness was history and here he was in a room made out of history books. Why, with just one of these tomes he could write fifteen plays! He was an alchemist when it came to words – hadn’t they all said that back at home? Hadn’t he always said that? Give me the raw materials and I will give you gold!
“Mr Shaxper! Oh, Mr Shaxper! Do join us! I have something to say.”
“Shakespeare,” said Will as he came to rejoin the group
The Master was holding a large book in his hands. It looked like a ledger, the type Will had seen many times in his father’s office
“This is The Book of the School,” the Master told them all. His eyes were completely blue; a weird, crystal blue which was opaque yet milky. “Now that you have prepared Its home, The Book has come to live among you. Only one of you may ever write in it.”
“Who?” asked Uric
“You,” replied the Master, to Uric. Will felt a sting of jealousy before the Master added, “Or perhaps you, or you,” and he went on around them all
Uric was nodding, trying to smile, but he smiled like a shark. “How will we know, Master? When we should write in The Book?”
But the Master was already moving away from them. He had left The Book on top of a narrow stack. All of them felt it wasn’t proper to say anything until the old man was out of their presence. They watched him until he left
“He’s always so desperate to conjure up an air of mystery,” Uric complained, turning and lancing an invisible opponent with a thrust of his sword
“He’s deaf as a post,” Bethsabe replied, smiling, and Will was stunned by the effect. It was like a sunlight on glass. “He simply didn’t hear what you said.”
“Well, hello again, Will,” Ayland said, shaking Will’s hand again and raising an eyebrow. “You’ve come here just as we did, without too much of an idea of the whys and wherefores of what this is all about. But despite some of us being rather impatient, we do seem to be getting somewhere. Slowly. Things do begin to make sense if you go with, rather than against, the flow.”
“May we take any of these books?” Will asked. “To read, I mean? While we’re here?”
“Yes, yes.”
“That’s your pay,” grunted Uric, who was crouching down and reading book spines near the foot of a pile
“Would you like to see your room?” Ayland asked Will
“Ah!” Bethsabe wagged a finger at Ayland. “What a clever chap you are! You said the spare quarters would be for another of us!”
“What I want to know,” called out Uric, his voice echoing off the curved brickwork above them, “is when are the damned pupils going to arrive?”
“Oh, Uric,” replied Ayland, motioning for Will to follow him. “Can’t you see that they already have?”
Wednesday
1
“This is it,” Kizzie whispered, sliding the large, rectangular, ledger-like book off the shelf. She put on a fake, portentous voice. “The Book! Da-da-daaah!”
“Are you actually allowed to touch it?” Zak was more amused than afraid
“Why not?”
They were in the Eleusinian Room during the lull between the end of lessons and the start of afternoon activities. Meek, lime-yellow light bled in from the stained-glass window in the high turret tower below which four storeys of caged books were visible through the steel scaffolding. All the access ladders were locked up and fastened in place
Zak and Kizzie, standing together on a leather-seated chair, stared at The Book. The limp school flag hung off the panelled wall in front of them like an unwatered plant above a mantelpiece dotted with matches, candles and other paraphernalia used in the Magistrate ceremonies which took place here. Both of them knew that despite everything else in the room, The Book was the big prize. The Book was the school’s number one treasure
“How come you can even get in here without permission?” Despite his bravado, Zak’s eyes flickered to the main door. “Isn’t this, like, top secret?”
“I’m a library volunteer and a House Consul,” Kizzie explained breezily. “They trust me.” She kissed his cheek. “When I’m promoted, this place’ll be like my second home.”
“You’re not supposed to touch this though, surely?”
“Well, really, nobody can do anything with this book unless they’re a Writer and right now Sam – the Head Boy – is the only one. He obviously decided it’s OK.” Kizzie shrugged. “If it’s survived five hundred years or whatever it is, I’m sure it can survive today. Anyway, they use it for ceremonies and stuff, you’ve seen it on School Day—”
“No. Don’t think so.”
“Course you have. It doesn’t matter anyway, it’s not like it’s going to explode or anything if you touch it. I’ve had a look loads of times, loads of us have. It’s just a book. It’s only got power if you believe in it, you know, like the Wizard of Oz. It’s just paper and leather and rules and stuff. Who cares about all that, anyway – I just think it’s cool, reading some of the stuff inside. Some of it’s so old!
”
“The bit I don’t get is what you were telling me before.” Zak stroked his chin. Kizzie had opened The Book and they were reading a paragraph of copperplate, cursive writing on the first page; some kind of dedication. “If you’re a Writer, what does that mean?”
“It means – supposedly – that anything you write in this book comes to pass.”
“What?”
“Seriously. That’s what they believe.”
“But it’s all rubbish, right?” Zak shook his head. “Honestly. People believe the craziest stuff.”
“I know,” said Kizzie. “Nutters.” But as she caught Zak’s eye, a thought crossed her mind that she never wanted to think again. She blocked it out immediately. “Superstitious crap.”
“That’s just it though, isn’t it?” Zak stepped down off the chair. He had to walk on tiptoes to avoid his cowboy boots clip-clopping too noisily on the parquet floor. “It’s like the people who say they can sense when someone is going to message them. They look at their phone and – hey! – there’s a message, or a message arrives at the same time. But they forget the ten million times they look at their phone and there’s no message. It’s just people looking for meaning in a meaningless world!”
“Why do you wear cowboy boots?” Kizzie had set The Book back in its place and joined Zak on the floor
“I always wanted to be a cowboy. An outlaw.”
“Really?”
Zak nodded. “Yep. It’s been my ambition for as long as I can remember. You know how other people want to be pilots or policemen or lawyers? I want to be a cowboy.”
Kizzie thought about this and said, “I’ve always wanted to be a rainbow.”
Cold Fire Page 8
