by D D Everest
‘That’s an imagining glass. It magnifies your imagination,’ Bramble explained. ‘They are very rare indeed. An imagining glass helps you get a different perspective on whatever you look at – very useful for solving problems.
‘Now come along,’ she said, practically dragging Archie away from the table. ‘There’s something else I want to show you.’
They crossed the main gallery and climbed a marble staircase. Bramble strode on until they reached a large and very ornate set of double doors with a golden quill set into the wood in fine marquetry.
Bramble pushed open the doors. ‘The Scriptorium,’ she declared.
The air smelt musty, as if the room had not been opened for a long time. As Archie stepped over the threshold, torches in brackets on the wall suddenly ignited in a blaze of light.
In the centre of the room were rows of high desks, each shrouded in a white dustsheet. Archie sensed that he was trespassing on the stillness of the Scriptorium.
‘No one has used it in centuries, of course,’ said Bramble. ‘But everything is ready.’
‘Ready for what?’ Archie asked.
‘For the magic writers. The Flame Keepers believe that one day they will return to rewrite all the magic. When Barzak set fire to the Great Library of Alexandria and corrupted the magical books, there was nothing our ancestors could do except try to preserve them until they can be rewritten and restored to their former glory.’
‘But what’s stopping the museum rewriting the magic books now?’ Archie asked.
Bramble laughed. ‘There haven’t been any great magic writers for hundreds of years. Some people are still born with magical gifts – there are some at the museum like Gideon Hawke in Lost Books – but they aren’t a patch on the old ones. They certainly aren’t good enough to rewrite the magic themselves. All they can do is identify magic books and understand spells.
‘When the magic writers return there’ll be another golden age. Until that day, the Scriptorium gathers dust.’
Archie gazed around the room. Against one wall he noticed a large book with a brown leather cover. He felt himself drawn to it.
‘That’s The Book of Yore,’ said Bramble. ‘It contains the history of magic. But it’s best not to disturb the past.
‘This is what I wanted to show you,’ she said, pointing to the far end of the Scriptorium where a huge glass dome stood surrounded by a wooden frame. ‘Come up here so you can see better.’
She led Archie up a short flight of stairs to a raised wooden platform that offered a better view. They were standing now above the dome looking down on it.
Bramble’s eyes sparkled in the torchlight. ‘Behold, the Books of Destiny!’ she whispered.
As Archie gazed down through the glass, he could see there were two marble plinths. On each plinth a book was displayed at an angle of forty-five degrees. One of the books was closed, but the other, which was as big as a small table, was open.
‘The Books of Destiny are different to the other magic books,’ explained Bramble. ‘They foretell the future. The closed book is The Book of Prophecy. It contains predictions about the future.’
‘What’s the other book?’ asked Archie, indicating the open book. From where they stood he could see it had a sombre black cover. Suspended on the inside of its spine so that it was clearly visible was a strange silver hourglass. But strangest of all, a blue quill floated in the air just above its open leaves. He watched in wonder as the quill danced in the air scribbling entries.
‘That is The Book of Reckoning,’ whispered Bramble. ‘It keeps the tally between life and death. Each and every one of us will pass through its pages.’
Archie could see that the blue quill was moving in a smooth and controlled way, as new names appeared on one side of the ledger.
‘The Book of Reckoning contains the entry of every birth and death in the history of the world,’ Bramble continued. ‘The magic quill is from a Bennu bird and it is constantly updating itself.’
Archie gazed at the huge book in awe. ‘That’s amazing!’ he breathed.
‘Yes,’ nodded Bramble, ‘that is remarkable enough, but The Book of Reckoning also has another purpose. It foretells the time when all of the magic books will release their magic. According to legend, that day will either mark the beginning of a new golden age of magic or the start of another dark age!
‘See the hourglass in its spine?’ Bramble said, pointing at the silver phial Archie had noticed earlier. ‘It keeps a tally of the time that is left until the final reckoning.’
Bramble saw the concerned look on Archie’s face. ‘Don’t worry,’ she chuckled, ‘the hourglass hasn’t moved for more than a thousand years.’
‘And what does that mean exactly?’ asked Archie.
‘It means that we can all sleep easy in our beds,’ said Bramble. ‘Now, come on, or you’ll be late for Old Zeb. See you this afternoon.’
They turned to go, and as they did neither of them saw the single grain of sand that fell from the upper chamber of the hourglass.
14
Strange Voices
It was already nine o’clock when Archie stepped back through the shaft of light into the front of Quill’s. An old woman looked up from her table, surprised to see a young boy suddenly appear from the shadows at the back of the café. But then she resumed eating her cake and didn’t think any more of it.
Archie crossed the courtyard to the Aisle of White. He pushed on the door and the bell clanged behind him. Marjorie Gudge was asleep at the shop counter.
‘Mrs Gudge?’ he said. ‘Are you all right?’ He put his hand on her shoulder and gave her a gentle shake.
‘Wossat?’ she snorted. ‘Geoffrey, is that you? Where’ve you been all this time?’
‘No, it isn’t Mr Screech,’ said Archie. ‘It’s me, Archie Greene. I brought a book here yesterday. Remember?’
Marjorie sat up and rubbed her eyes. ‘Archie Greene?’ she said. ‘Oh yes, you’re the new apprentice, aren’t you? Better get you down to the workshop.’
Archie looked around curiously at the bookshelves. ‘Are all these books magic?’ he asked.
‘Oh no,’ said Marjorie. ‘The magic ones aren’t for sale. They go on the bookcase behind the curtain until they are ready to go down to the workshop.’
She bustled through the curtain and Archie followed.
‘So what happens to them?’ he asked.
Marjorie smiled. ‘There’s a procedure that has to be followed,’ she said. ‘Mr Screech is very particular about it. When a book first arrives, it is inspected for damage – can’t have them leaking their magic all over the place. And then it has to be catalogued and classified before it can go to the museum. Unless it is a very special book – then it might be locked in the crypt for safekeeping.’
‘The book I brought in yesterday,’ Archie said, thoughtfully, ‘is it special?’
‘I don’t think so dear,’ said Marjorie. ‘The only Special Instruction Mr Screech was expecting was the almanac.’
‘But the man from Folly & Catchpole said my book had a Special Instruction, too,’ said Archie.
‘Really?’ said Marjorie. ‘Well, he must have been mistaken.’
‘But it was written on a scroll in a strange language. He translated it.’
‘Well, I’m afraid he must have mistranslated it,’ said Marjorie. ‘I’m not surprised. Some of those old magical languages are very confusing.’
Archie felt a pang of disappointment. ‘Oh,’ he said. Horace Catchpole must have got it wrong. It wasn’t a Special Instruction after all. Archie shrugged. ‘Can I have it back then?’
Marjorie smiled. ‘Absolutely not! It’s a tradition – every new apprentice brings a book. It’s called a snook. It’s a way of making sure that the apprentice is worthy. Now, let’s get you down to the workshop.’
The shop doorbell interrupted her. ‘Wait here while I serve this customer. And don’t touch anything.’
But Archie was no longer listening t
o her. He could hear a rustling noise from the bookcase where the magical books were kept. At first it sounded like the pages of a newspaper being turned, but as he listened Archie could hear a voice.
‘It’s not safe here!’ it rustled. ‘Something is stealing my magic.’
Archie froze. He peered at the bookcase to see where the sound was coming from and as he did he heard an answering voice. The second voice sounded like tissue paper crinkling.
‘My magic is fading, too!’ it sighed, sadly. ‘Something is taking it all. I will not last much longer.’
Archie turned his head. The second voice was coming from the top shelf of the bookcase. He stepped closer and put his ear to a little book with a red cover.
‘Who are you?’ he asked.
Silence. Archie waited a few seconds. ‘I know you are there,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘I heard you whispering!’
The tissue-paper voice spoke again. ‘You can hear us?’ it asked, a note of surprise in its crinkly voice.
‘Yes, of course,’ Archie said, less certain.
‘He can hear us!’ exclaimed the first voice – the one that rustled like a newspaper.
There was an excited murmuring of papery voices. ‘He can hear us!’ they twittered among themselves. ‘He can hear us!’
‘Yes,’ said Archie. ‘And it’s not the first time either. It was your voices I heard yesterday when I came into the bookshop. Why wouldn’t I hear you?’
The first voice answered. It was coming from a chunky green book on the shelf below the little red book. ‘Most humans can’t hear us,’ it explained. ‘In fact you are the first one in years!’
Archie could hear lots of other papery voices murmuring now. The bookcase seemed to be alive with them. They sounded like little birds twittering in a hedgerow.
‘What about the other apprentices?’ Archie demanded.
‘No,’ said a new voice that was deeper than the first two and sounded stiff, like parchment. ‘They can’t hear us. Only you can hear us. You have the gift!’
‘What gift?’ Archie asked, suspiciously.
‘You are a book whisperer!’ exclaimed tissue-paper voice. ‘Some people can hear magic books talk to each other and can talk to them. It’s very rare, though. There hasn’t been a book whisperer for a long, long time. And because you are the only one who can hear us, you might be the only one who can help us!’
‘Hold on a minute,’ said Archie, who couldn’t quite believe his ears. ‘How do I know this isn’t some sort of trick?’
‘A trick?’ The little red book crinkled, dismayed. ‘Dark scribes did not make me. I am a book of blessings. My magic is wrought from kind words. I am full of wise sayings, and I have one for you, Archie Greene. Listen carefully.
‘“Release the magic that lies within
Believe in its power above all things.”’
‘Thank you,’ said Archie. ‘But what does it mean?’
‘That is for you to discover,’ said the little red book. ‘It is my blessing to you. My magic is almost gone. Something has taken it all.’
‘What is this thing that is stealing your magic?’
There was much murmuring and whispering between the books. It seemed to Archie that there was some sort of disagreement going on. Eventually, newspaper voice spoke up.
‘It is dark magic that is feeding on our magic!’
Archie felt a sense of dread. He remembered that Bramble had warned him about the Greaders coming to Oxford, and how it was a sign that dark magic was present.
The rustling voices grew louder. Archie could tell they were arguing.
‘Shhhhh – we have said too much!’ warned parchment voice, which was coming from a big blue book. ‘Do not speak of it! It will hear us and punish us!’
The rustling stopped. The voices fell silent. Archie stared at the blue book. Its title was written on its spine. Magical Leadership: The Pragmatic Approach.
Just then Marjorie’s head appeared through the curtain.
‘Come along, dear! Do get a move on. We mustn’t keep Old Zeb waiting.’
She ushered him along the dingy corridor. All the while he was thinking about what the magic books had told him. He wondered if his book could talk, and whether it was safe from whatever was frightening the others.
Marjorie stopped at the top of the stairs and handed him a lantern. ‘Third door on the right,’ she said. ‘No other.’
15
Bookbinding for Beginners
Down in the mending workshop, Old Zeb was perched on a wooden stool at the workbench, his cheeks flushed red. His lips puckered and creased as he whistled a jaunty tune. When he saw Archie, he smiled.
‘You’re late. Never mind, you’re here now. Try to be on time tomorrow. We’ve got a lot to do.’
Archie looked around him. The workshop was larger than he remembered, and the smell of old parchment was even stronger. He noticed a vice on the side of the bench and a large book press beside it.
‘First things first,’ Old Zeb said, holding up a finger to get his attention. ‘You’ll be needing your own tool kit. I’ll get you started and then you’ll have to acquire the other bits as you go along. Have a word with one of the apprentices in Natural Magic – they might be able to help.’
He winked and reached under the bench. ‘One pair of gloves – for the handling of dangerous books,’ he said, producing what looked like a pair of scaly green oven mitts. Archie wondered what they were made from. It looked like alligator skin, only much thicker. Could it be dragon skin?
‘One magical needle, very hard to come by – this one is made from a werewolf’s claw,’ said the old bookbinder, holding up a large, black, hooked object.
‘One reel of thread – finest yeti hair.
‘One binder’s knife – forged in the Flame of Pharos. And finally,’ he said, placing a brown pouch-like bag on the bench, ‘your very own magic tool bag. It’s resistant to magic so it will stop all but the very strongest spells leaking out – ideal for carrying damaged books and unknown magical objects.’
The old man smiled at Archie. ‘Oh, almost forgot, you might need this.’ He put a small brass key-shaped object on the bench.
‘What is it?’ asked Archie, hoping it might also be magical.
‘It’s a key to the shop – so you can let yourself in if you need to.’
Archie smiled and put the key in his pocket.
‘Now then,’ the old bookbinder continued, ‘this morning we’ll cover the basics.’
He hopped off his stool and took down a large book. He laid it on the bench. Archie saw that it was entitled A Beginner’s Guide to Magic.
‘Is this a … magic book?’ Archie asked, his eyes wide in awe.
‘Good heavens, no,’ said the old man. ‘It’s just a magic reference book.’
He opened the book to a page divided into three sections. ‘First,’ he said, ‘what do you know about the different types of magic?’
Archie’s face fell. ‘Er, not a lot,’ he said. ‘I only found out there was magic yesterday.’
‘You didn’t know about magic!’ exclaimed Old Zeb. He shook his head, sadly. ‘What do they teach children in schools these days?
‘Well, never mind, you’ll soon catch up,’ he added more brightly. ‘All you need to know for now is that there are three types of magic.’
He tapped the page with his finger. ‘The first is natural magic. That’s the purest kind and comes from magical plants and creatures – unicorns, dragons, etc., etc. – and the elemental forces of nature – the sun, the stars, and so on. The symbol for natural magic is a lightning bolt in a tree,’ he added, tapping the page.
‘Mortal magic is the second kind of magic and is man-made magic. It includes the magical instruments and other devices used by magicians to channel magical power. It is usually represented by a crystal ball,’ he said pointing at the symbol on the open page.
‘And, finally,’ he said, gesturing to a smiling skull, ‘there is supernatural m
agic, which uses the power of supernatural beings. That includes the use of good and bad spirits, genies, demons and anything else that’s not of this world.’
The old bookbinder paused. ‘Supernatural magic is usually regarded as the darkest of the three. But any one of them can be dangerous.’
Archie stared at the three symbols. He had seen them somewhere before, but where? With a start, he remembered. They had appeared in the window of the clasp on his book. The clasp had another symbol, too, of a matchstick figure with a crescent crown. He wondered what that symbol meant.
Old Zeb moved on quickly. ‘Each of the three branches of magic has its own department in the museum. Dr Motley Brown is the current head of Natural Magic.’ He pointed at a photograph of a short man in a tweed suit. ‘Vincent von Herring is head of Mortal Magic,’ he added, indicating another photograph of a tall man wearing a pink bow tie. ‘And that,’ he said, pointing to a third photograph of a slender woman with long, silver hair, ‘is Feodora Graves, head of Supernatural Magic.
‘Every apprentice learns the three basic skills for protecting magic books – book finding, bookbinding and book minding. And every apprentice spends time working in all three branches of magic. Any questions so far?’
‘Does everyone start in bookbinding?’ Archie asked.
‘No,’ said Old Zeb. ‘The Flame decides the order in which you learn. Every apprentice has his or her own path to follow. Not many start with binding, though,’ he added, looking thoughtful. ‘It’s the hardest of the three skills, you see. Only the most gifted of the apprentices start with it. Wolfus Bone – he works in Lost Books now – Arthur Ripley, who used to work there, and your father, too. I taught all three of ’em. The only one I didn’t teach is Gideon Hawke.’
So it was true, his father had learned bookbinding from Old Zeb. Archie felt a surge of pride that he was following a family tradition.
