The Mammoth Book of Sorceror's Tales

by Mike Ashley

  They could also use the polished window-glass as a mirror, and they stood side by side applying red to their lips and blue to their eyelids. They wore similar braids, Margherita’s a rich, dark brown colour that approached blackness; Francesca’s, red. Margherita’s eyes were a blue that could also be mistaken for black; Francesca’s, brown.

  When they had finished applying the forbidden cosmetics they inspected each other’s handiwork, approved, and entered the store.

  In an hour they emerged carrying packages and wearing hats. Margherita’s was striped green and yellow, with a yellow feather rising from it. She wore it tilted to one side. Francesca’s was a bright red beret.

  They left Mercato Monumentale and set out looking for a place to get some food. As they wended their way they passed street vendors and artisans who had set up shop on the sidewalk. They stopped to study the wares of a craftsman who made miniatures in silver. Francesca bought a tiny silver pin in the form of a book for her friend Margherita. Margherita bought a tiny silver pin in the form of a piccolo for her friend Francesca. They attached the ornaments to each other’s blouses and exchanged a fond hug. Then they resumed their search for a meal.

  They considered one place that smelled delicious but was filled with rough-looking men. Another seemed to appeal mainly to ancient women in their thirties and forties.

  Finally they found a restaurant called Honshu Kekko Ryori. They had a delicious meal, unlike anything they had ever eaten at home. Each dish was arranged like a bouquet. There were tender meats with delicate flavours, mushrooms of varieties new to the girls, vegetables and noodles in steaming broth. Most memorable was a bright green condiment that made both girls cry until they laughed. The meal was served by a beautiful woman of Honshu wearing a lovely silk kimono. Margherita and Francesca couldn’t get over how lovely the woman was, or how delicious the food had been. They managed to eat with chopsticks, while sitting on straw mats without their shoes. It was like being in a different world. They agreed that someday they would visit Honshu and see how people lived there.

  But after lunch they decided it was time to do what they had come to Villaggio Sogno to do. Margherita’s father was going to have a birthday soon and the girls were here to buy him a gift. He was a big man who seldom spoke. When he was not at work he loved to read. Margherita had consulted her mother about the best gift for her father, and they decided together that a book would be the best present. Margherita thought that a beautiful new book would be the best choice, but her mother surprised her by saying that an old book would make Father happiest.

  “It’s the thought that counts,” Mother said. “He’ll be happy to be remembered and will love anything you get him. But I happen to know that he loves best, books by an old writer named Jacopo Mursino. He wrote an epic poem in sixteen volumes, detailing the history of the universe from its creation to its end. Without your father’s knowledge,” Mother continued, “I have consulted the town scholar about Signore Mursino’s poem. He says that only fifteen volumes are known to exist. The missing book is referred to in several others. Even its name is known. It is called Lavori di Hipocrita. By report, it tells the story of the Last Great Era, before the universe ends in volume sixteen. No copy of volume fifteen is known to survive in any library, anywhere, or in any scholar’s collection.”

  Mother frowned in concentration.

  Margherita knew her father’s two great loves. One was to spend time in the bosom of his family. They walked the woodland near home taking note of every bird, animal, and flower that they encountered. They had formed a family orchestra. Father played a fiddle, Mother a miniature hip-harp, Margherita’s brother Ottavio a brass horn, and Margherita herself a silver flute. The flute was the oldest and most precious possession in the family. It had been crafted by Mother’s mother’s father’s uncle-in-law, the greatest silversmith in their town. Even after these years – generations – Alceo the Silversmith was remembered and spoken of with awe. Metalworkers to this day considered it the highest compliment to be called, “Another Alceo.” The flute was said to have supernatural powers, but the only power that Margherita had evoked from it was the power of beautiful music.

  The family orchestra performed in the evenings for their own pleasure, and on holidays in the town square for the entertainment of the community.

  Father’s second great love was his books. When he was not with his family, he was locked in his study with his books. When he was with his family he would tolerate any prank. He was a broad-shouldered man, heavy-bearded and muscled. He could lift Mother, Ottavio, and Margherita off the ground at once. As a young man, family legend had it, he and another had been rivals for the affection of the town’s greatest beauty.

  Father and his rival, a lad named Farruccio Farruli, had agreed to wrestle for the right to court the beauty, and a space had been selected for their match on the bank of the River Fumio. After an hour of struggle the two young men were both covered with a mixture of blood, mud, and grass, and were down to their last resources of strength. At this moment Father had charged at his rival, hoisted him bodily into the air, and thrown him so far into the river that a boat had been sent to bring him back to shore, for fear that he would drown if left to his own resources.

  When Father turned back to face the beauty, she said, “You have beaten your rival. Now you may try to win my love. A good start would be to wash yourself off and put on a decent outfit.”

  Father pressed his suit successfully.

  Margherita’s earliest memories included lying on the carpet near the hearth on a winter’s night, and Father lifting her as if she weighed no more than his fiddle, carrying her to her cradle and kissing her goodnight. He always murmured something before he kissed her but she could never understand what he said.

  Even now, almost a woman (or so she told herself), she would sometimes lower her head and close her eyes near the fire, and Father would lift her and carry her to her bed, and murmur something before he kissed her. She had yet to understand his words. He never realized that she only pretended to fall asleep.

  Father’s second favorite author, after the poet-historian Jacopo Mursino, was the story-writer Carla Zennatello. If Mursino’s greatest (and sole surviving) work was his sixteen-volume history of the universe, the creations of Carla Zennatello were far more brief. Each “book” consisted of a single riddle, written in Zennatello’s personal calligraphy, preceded and followed by pages of beautiful, colourful illustrations showing noble men, lovely women, playful children, muscular horses, swift roes, dogs, cats, and birds. Each book was bound in the tough leaves of a plant that grew deep in the woods, tanned to a strength and stamina greater than that of leather, for Carla Zennatello would neither kill any sentient being nor use the product of such a killing.

  Each such book could fit into the hand of an infant. Carla Zennatello would invent a riddle and create one of his little books each time a child was born in the community, and give it to the new mother to be held in trust until the child was old enough to be entrusted with such a treasure.

  Carla Zennatello never revealed the answer to any of her riddles. She told the parents of each child who received one of her books that when that child had solved her special riddle, she would know her destiny.

  Now Carla Zennatello had been dead for two hundred years, almost as long as Jacopo Mursino had been dead. A few of her riddle-books were known to exist, but none of the solutions of her riddles were remembered.

  Margherita and Francesca knew there was a store in Villaggio Sogno that sold new books, but they hoped to find one where they might find an old book to please Margherita’s father. They walked until they heard a boy’s voice crying the news. They followed their ears until they saw him, a boy somewhat younger than themselves, dressed in worn but clean trousers and blouse. He held a stack of printed sheets at his side and with the hand not so occupied he waved a single copy.

  Francesca craned her neck to get a proper look at the printed sheet. Its title was Il Popolo di Sog
no. There was a picture of a vainglorious looking man on it. He was waving to an admiring throng.

  Margherita asked the boy if he knew where they might buy an old book.

  The boy looked at the two girls, puzzled. “Who would want an old book?” he asked. “Better to buy a new one. Best of all, buy a copy of Il Popolo and get a portrait of our glorious leader for no extra money. Learn of yesterday’s kicking match, learn of bodies found in alleys, learn of armies marching and of politicians arguing.”

  He took up his cry again.

  A passer-by bought a news sheet.

  Francesca tugged at the boy’s elbow and Margherita said, “We want to buy an old book. Does anyone sell them in Villaggio Sogno?”

  The boy said, angrily, “Go see Signore Malipiero.”

  “How do we find him?”

  “He’ll be in his shop.”

  “Where is that? You are not being at all helpful!”

  “And you are not helping my business!” He stopped to sell another news sheet.

  “Where is Signore Malipiero’s shop?”

  Angrily the boy turned to face the two girls. He pointed a finger and told them to proceed to the town square, to turn at the tavern displaying a sign that read Il Ubriacone and a giant painted mug of birra, to continue until they came to a dressmaker’s establishment, they could not miss the dressmaker’s establishment unless they were even more stupid than they seemed, to turn again (and he pointed to show them which way to turn) and they would surely see the establishment of Signore Malipiero or they could come back and he would refund their fee.

  “If I am not here, merely ask for me. Guglielmo Pipistrello. Now goodbye.”

  He held out his hand.

  Francesca put a coin in it.

  Signorino Pipistrello turned away and resumed shouting the news.

  Margherita and Francesca followed his directions faithfully. They stopped in the town square. A statue stood there. Its title was embossed on a copper plate, green with age: Chaos Giving Birth to Order. To Margherita the statue looked like a great fish or dolphin vomiting up a globe of the world. The name of the sculptor also appeared on the copper plate, and the year of the statue’s creation, long ages ago. Couples strolled in the sunlight and children ran among them playing ball or eating sweets. The Great Tower stood above the square, a clock on its face and iron doors waiting to open at the end of the day.

  The tavern was where Guglielmo Pipistrello had said it would be.

  The dressmaker’s establishment was where he had said it would be, also.

  The two girls halted in the street before a shop with a wooden trough filled with old books in front of it, and glass windows so obscured with cobwebs and dust that they could not see through them. The trough of books bore a hand-written sign that gave the price of the books as a small coin for one, two small coins for three, and a large coin for an armload.

  Above the door of the shop was a sign, not merely painted but carved into wood: Ettore Malipiero, Purveyor of the Rare and Precious.

  Margherita and Francesca stared at each other.

  “The boy said we could get an old book from Signore Malipiero.”

  “And he said that we would find Signore Malipiero’s shop near the dressmaker.”

  “And there is a trough of cheap books outside the shop.”

  Margherita bent over the trough of books. She picked one up, that seemed to be promising. She had learned to read at an early age, learning to read music and learning to read words at the same time. Her earliest books had mixed pictures and music and stories. Her mother had been her teacher. Her brother, Ottavio, could already read when Margherita was learning. It was competition with Ottavio that spurred her to develop both her skill with books and her talent with her silver flute until she surpassed Ottavio’s performances with his horn.

  The book looked, felt, and smelled old. Its cover was battered and the title could not be read. Margherita opened it to the title page and read, Three Voyages in Distant Lands, by Sylvio di Filippo. She had never heard of the author, but then, she realized, she had never heard of many authors. She knew of Jacopo Mursino and of Carla Zennatello because Father spoke of them. He had read all but one volume of Mursino’s great poetic history of the universe and longed above all things to read the missing volume. In this, he had said many times over family meals, he was but one of many. He said that he wished he had been able to obtain two of Zennatello’s works. They had become known as blessing books, and there was competition for the few known to survive. If he had been able to obtain two of them he would have made birth-gifts of them to his own two children, Ottavio and Margherita, but had instead laid a precious fiddle in Ottavio’s cradle and the silver flute made by Margherita’s ancestor Alceo in her crib, so that the children should grow up with the instruments as their earliest possessions and familiar companions.

  Next to Three Voyages in Distant Lands Margherita found a copy of a book she already knew, Claudia Belluzzo’s Tunes and Rhymes for Little Ones. She had loved that book, with its colourful pictures of tiny animals, birds, tortoises, and bears. Each picture was accompanied by a little poem and a simple musical lesson. Margherita had played those melodies on a miniature child’s flute – this was before she was old enough to play Alceo’s silver flute – and the creatures in the book had danced to her tune. Or so it seemed to her. And Mother gave her testimony that it was indeed so.

  A shriek interrupted Margherita’s concentration on the trough of books. It was Francesca who had shrieked. She was clutching a book to her chest. “Minuscolo Minuscolo! I used to love this book! I slept with it beneath my pillow! I read my copy until it fell to pieces. Now I see another copy.”

  The two girls prepared to enter the store. Behind them was a narrow cobblestone street. It was unlike the broad thoroughfare where Signore Azzurro had left them, nor was there the colour and bustle of the town square with its statue and great tower. Instead the street was dark. The buildings were old and their upper storeys seemed to lean toward each other, covering the cobblestones and blotting out the bright sky and warm sunlight of the day.

  Something sleek in shape scurried past on one side of the street. It was a dark shade, maybe green but more probably gray-black. It appeared to be covered with a scaly or leathery skin. An armadillo in Villaggio Sogno? A snake? But it had legs, Margherita thought. Surely it moved too rapidly to be a terrapin. A small crocodile, such as the Gypsies said lived in the swamps alongside the River Nile in their homeland?

  Whatever it was, it dived into a dark, narrow opening between two buildings.

  An old woman, her bonnet hiding her face and long sleeves concealing her hands, scuttled by on the other side of the street, then disappeared into another street. A cart rolled past, pulled by an ox as tall as a man and as wide as a shed. The driver wore a broad-brimmed hat. His shoulders were as massive as two hogs.

  Carrying the three books with them, Margherita and Francesca entered the store. As they set foot upon the doorstep they were confronted by a man so tall that he had to stoop to leave the shop. He was as thin as a stick and his height was added to by a pointed cap of purple felt. He growled at the girls and elbowed them aside, shoving between them and scurrying away from the shop.

  Inside the establishment the girls confronted a boy who could not be more than fifteen years of age. His hair was the colour of ground barley, his eyes the shade of the River Fiume. His ears stuck out from the sides of his head like the wings of a raven. His bones protruded through the shoulders and elbows of his dust-coloured shirt. The sleeves of the shirt were too short for his arms and his wrists stuck out like two knobs.

  “Signorine,” the boy addressed the girls, “what can I do for you? You wish to purchase books?” He ogled the volumes that Margherita and Francesca had brought from the trough. “Let me see your choices, please.” The boy stepped behind a wooden counter, darkened by years and rubbed smooth by countless hands and books.

  The girls laid their choices on the counter.
r />   The boy turned them over, nodding his approval.

  Francesca gave another shriek. Really, Margherita decided, she would have to talk with her friend about that. It was humiliating to be with someone who reacted to each little surprise as if a winged angel had suddenly appeared in the sky, surrounded by a nimbus of flame.

  “What was that?” Francesca gasped.

  Margherita turned in time to see a dark form disappear behind a curtain covering a doorway in the back of the store. “It is just – it was—”

  “It was—” Francesca waved her hands at the level of her face.

  The boy behind the counter leaned across the wood, craning his neck. “That’s just Nero.”

  “Who?”

  “Nero. The store dog. Signore Mallpiero’s dog. That’s all. He lives in the store.”

  “No.” Francesca shook her head. “That was no dog. It had skin like a lizard.”

  “No.” Margherita shook her head. “It had feathers. It was shaped like a dog but it was covered with feathers. Maybe it was a – what do you call it – a gryphon.”

  “No such thing as a gryphon,” Francesca said. “I’ve heard of gryphons, read about them and seen pictures. They are imaginary beasts.”

  “Oh, really.” Margherita was annoyed. “I suppose it was a big India-bird, then.”

  “Not with skin like that.”

  “Feathers.”

  The boy with the too-short shirtsleeves came out from behind the counter. He stood facing the curtained doorway. “Come on, Nero. Nero, come to Peppino.”

  The curtain shook, then a nose appeared, or was it a beak, followed by a four-legged creature. It was a gryphon, Margherita thought, with clawed feet and feathers like a bird. She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again. It was an ordinary dog with short dark fur and a squarish face that it shoved into the skinny boy’s hand.