Mordew

by Alex Pheby

  ‘I cannot fix you, though, it seems. My skills are inadequate to the task. So – and I did this only after a great deal of thought – I approached the Master and broached this matter with Him, and, as I should have expected, He provided a solution. So great and wise is He that problems that seem intractable to me are of but a moment’s consideration to Him, almost as if the right thing to do is His reflex, as if one need only stimulate an impulse in Him and the answer to all things is produced.’ Bellows was holding the gift lightly with his fingertips only. He turned it as he spoke, first one way, then the other.

  The gift was covered in brown paper and wrapped with a bowed red ribbon, but, if Nathan had to guess, he would have said it was a book.

  ‘The Master gave this to me to give to you, under certain conditions. I will not pass it over until these conditions have been agreed, and should you then go on to break any of the promises you must enter into, the consequences will be grave. Yet we need not speak of consequences of breaches of promise in this place. Who would wish to betray the trust placed in him by the Master? No-one. Rather, we would all take the fulfilment of those promises as the governing motivation of our lives, so generous are the gifts the Master bestows upon us.’

  Bellows almost handed the package over, but withdrew it again, and when it came closer, Nathan could see it more clearly – it was certainly a book, and the spine of it, the ridges of the binding, crinkled the brown paper. Where the ribbon took a corner, it indented a little to show the distance between the hard cover and the pages.

  ‘The conditions are three. Firstly, you must only open it when you are alone. Secondly, you must only open it in that period between sleeps. Thirdly, you must never enquire after the title.’

  ‘Enquire after the title?’ Nathan said. ‘Between sleeps? I don’t understand.’

  ‘Indeed. You will come to understand. But do you agree to these conditions?’

  ‘I don’t know what you want me to agree to.’

  Bellows stiffened, as if he were hearing something which he disliked – chalk on a blackboard, or the screeching of cats. ‘You understand the words, do you not?’ Bellows said. ‘“Alone” is when no-one else is there. The period between sleeps is that period between the first waking of the night – when a dream one has had ends in a shock and one sits up startled, or when a sound wakes one – and the returning to sleep. Habit and necessity perforce condition us to return to sleep instantly, but the primordial man recognised the value of this liminal time, when the strictures of the day are passed and forgotten and sleep stands in both directions between us and the rational world. He passed an hour or so in this place, dreaming waking dreams and considering the truths of the world and the walls that one erects to protect oneself from them. Open the gift only at this time. And never enquire of its title.’

  ‘Why?’ Nathan asked, and his hand strayed to the chain about his neck.

  ‘Need you know? Surely it is enough to be informed that this is a condition, and to understand that the condition is not onerous. Are you so self-important that you imagine you must, or could, understand the necessity for things to be as they are? Surely you know that you are not?’

  Nathan looked at the gift. Even through the paper he saw it – it possessed the same aura that the books in the locked cabinet in the library possessed: a glistening that distorted the air around it, not quite light, as if an invisible lens passed between it and the eye every time the attention was directed towards it.

  It was a magic book.

  ‘I agree.’

  Scarcely were the words out of Nathan’s mouth before the gift was in his hands, as if Bellows was suddenly very eager to pass it over.

  ‘There will be no lessons today.’

  It was very heavy, as if it were made of a slab of clay, and giving like clay is too, only a little, but not like stone.

  ‘Remember your promises.’

  When Nathan looked up to reassure Bellows, he was gone.

  LIII

  That day’s play was done with many glances at the parcel, and it seemed almost impossible to put the thing to one side, or for Nathan to concentrate on anything else.

  In the playroom, or in the garden, his eye was constantly drawn to it, and it was as much as he could do not to keep fiddling with it, not to rip the edges where the paper met, or prise them up to see whether anything was visible in the gap created between the layers. It was only when Nathan went too far and tore where the paper and the ribbon met that he found the strength to put it one side.

  He turned his attention to the progression of the sun across the sky as it inched with an excruciating lack of urgency across the backdrop of his games: behind the branches as he climbed the tree, above the target as he practised his arrow shots, glinting against the polish on the greaves of the suit of armour. If he didn’t pay attention to the sun it passed a little quicker, but never as quickly as Nathan felt it should have done given the effort required to turn his mind away from it. Then, as if very suddenly, it was dark, and Bellows called him in for the evening meal.

  It is hard to eat soup both quickly and politely, and if it were not for Bellows’s keen eye to his manners Nathan would have given up the latter for the former entirely and the tablecloth would have looked even more like the scene of a crime than it eventually did. He was at least able to wash himself and prepare for bed as quickly as he liked, but once the candle was snuffed out the mounting pressure of the presence of the gift at the end of his bed kept sleep away entirely.

  He lay with his cheek against the cool linen of the pillowcase, stayed as still as a corpse and screwed his eyes shut, but behind his eyelids his mind was fully alert, as if the book’s existing in the room was something that his instincts knew he must attend to, despite him wanting to ignore it. His every act of ignoring it spurred him on to further wakefulness.

  After a little while he sat up, reached for the gift and put it on his pillow. He lay his head beside it and put one hand on top of it, as if holding it in place, and closed his eyes.

  In the hall there was the creak of footsteps as Caretaker went slowly about his duties. Outside the wind played against the glass in the window frame, stretching the wood and rattling the sash. Bedsprings pressed against his chest and stomach.

  Somewhere there was song: a slow, high, lilting song. He couldn’t make out the words, but it was very pleasant, very sweet: cheerful, playful, like a lullaby. It called to him, it seemed, to come and join in the fun, somewhere close at hand. Nathan felt he would very much like to, but the sheets and blankets were heavy on him, the pillow soft, and it was dark. He was tired, but still the song continued, and he listened to that instead, so pleasant, so soft, right beside him on the pillow.

  LIV

  He awoke in the dark with a click, and there was the gift, on his chest, sitting by his locket, staring like a cat will if you let it into the bedroom. Nathan’s eyes, accustomed to the darkness behind his eyelids, found the light of the room enough to see by. Besides, the gift gave off its own kind of light.

  Nathan was a little tentative, now the time had come.

  He slid up until his shoulders were against the wall and his chin was on his neck, and slipped his arms out from beneath the covers. This must be the right moment – he was alone, between sleeps, and there was no-one to ask about the title.

  It was dark, there was no sound from anywhere. His hands seemed to move by themselves to the bow, and they undid it. Even so, the paper remained.

  He sat up straighter, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and now the thing was in his lap he didn’t know what the fuss was about. He opened the paper.

  Inside there was a book, as he had expected. It was nothing too extraordinary – bound in soft calfskin, with a pattern in ivory and precious stones inlaid on the cover and the spine. The pattern was of a river, stopped so that a reservoir had built up, and with a stream below the dam wall that ran off across the front, over the spine and onto the back cover, where it became the roots of a white bi
rch tree. The calfskin was very fine, but the inlays were smoother, and Nathan let his fingers run across the reservoir, along the stream and up into the branches of the tree.

  When he eventually opened the book, its pages were empty. Nathan checked every one, slipping his finger between the pages and smoothing them back with the palm of his hand before moving to the next. There were no words to puzzle over, no pictures to look at.

  If the Master imagined it would help him to read, then Nathan couldn’t see how. Yet there was still that sense of magic, and now the book was open it was even stronger. Nathan brought the book up to his face, so that if there was anything written in very fine print, he would be able to see it. He could see nothing…

  …but there was a smell, something that reminded him of the past. The feeling caught in his throat, like tears. He couldn’t bring the feeling to mind, he couldn’t understand it, or name it, but it was something from long ago, from a time when he had been happy. Inexplicably, he began to cry. Not a single tear, but great sobs as if they came from the core of him. He didn’t realise it, but he let the book fall onto his lap, and he sobbed and sobbed at the strange smell, whatever it was.

  When he looked down his tears had wet the page in front of him, darkening the paper. He wiped his eyes and was about to wipe the page with the sleeve of his pyjamas when a teardrop stain moved. It shifted to the left edge of the page and others went with it and where they met, they formed the image of something. Nathan didn’t recognise it yet, but it was a horse chestnut seed. Nathan touched the picture, expecting it to be wet, but it wasn’t, and underneath the image a word appeared, drawn in plain, clear script. Nathan still didn’t understand. He traced the letters with his fingertip.

  ‘Conker,’ the book said.

  Nathan jumped. He hadn’t realised the room was so silent until the voice sounded.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a conker,’ the book answered. Its voice was strong, but rustled like leaves, as if its throat was dry. ‘You won’t remember it, but your mother gave you one when you were a baby. A newborn. A big, brown conker. You’d grip it and suckle it. She had to take it away as you grew – once you could fit it in your mouth.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘How what? How is this knowledge retrieved? You can tell a lot from tears. There’s magic in the tears of a young boy, as you’ve heard. Or do you mean how is it that you hear this voice? Ask the Master.’

  Nathan closed the book. He held it in front of him, and not knowing quite what to think or do, kept it there.

  When he opened it again the picture had gone, the words had gone, and there was silence.

  ‘Are you there?’

  He waited, but there was no reply.

  ‘Speak to me.’

  ‘That’s better,’ it said, immediately, ‘You asked “are you there?” I am not a “you”, I am a book and must be treated as a book. Do you call books “you”? Books are “its”. The Master determines this to be so, and so it must be. What would you like to hear about?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, the Master wishes you to read. Would you like to know how to read?’

  Nathan yawned, involuntarily but deeply.

  ‘Or would you like to return to sleep? With a lullaby, like the last time?’

  ‘That was you?’

  ‘There is no “you”, but yes. If you shut the pages the sounds will quieten, but they’ll never silence completely. Not unless the Master shows you how.’

  ‘I see…’

  ‘You do not, but never mind; you’re still young. The Master wishes you to be reminded of the conditions. Only open this book when you are alone, and only in the middle of the night. Most importantly, never ask its title. If you ask, you will be told, and if you are told there will be consequences. Do you understand?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘What is it to be then? Reading instruction? Sleep? Perhaps a story?’

  Nathan wanted to reply, but now his eyes were shutting, and the world dimmed and blurred around the edges.

  ‘Perhaps all three?’

  Nathan’s head dropped as if it were momentarily too heavy for his neck, and jerked up again as he caught it. The book took this as a nod, exactly the kind of mistake a book will make, having no body of its own, and no memory of tiredness.

  ‘Then hear the story of Solomon Peel, in verse and in brief,’ the book began, and as it spoke slowly, almost singing, the letters that made the words appeared on the page very large, so that they almost filled a line.

  ‘I know it,’ Nathan murmured.

  Good, the book wrote in silence, it will help you to sleep to see a story you know. ‘Solomon Peel, he knew how to feel,’ the book said. ‘When a girl kissed his face, he was all over the place. When he got given a punch, he went right off his lunch. Young Solomon Peel, he knew how to feel.’

  When Nathan’s eyes were open, which was about half the time, the words the book spoke wrote themselves even larger on the page, and beneath them a sketch of Solomon Peel – a scruffy boy in shorts with a peaked cap holding in his hair – did the things the book said he did.

  ‘He got taken to the Master – what a disaster! He had tears on his cheeks, like his eyes had sprung leaks. The Master took him inside, there was nowhere to hide. He pulled out a knife… Nathan?’

  Nathan was one blink away from sleep, his lids so heavy there was nothing to see of his eyes.

  ‘Can you answer a question?’ the book said.

  Nathan didn’t reply, his mouth was open and his breathing heavy.

  ‘Are you a good boy?’

  The book was silent for a while.

  ‘You see, Nathan, you must be good and do as you are told.’

  Nathan slept and, in his sleep, he nodded, and in his dreams he wanted to reassure the book that he was good, but he didn’t want to lie. So he shut the book, and put it under his big, huge, cloud-like pillow.

  LV

  When he woke, the book was still there, its cover stained by his fingertips and the mark of his palm where the heat of it had misted the inlay and dampened the calfskin. He remembered everything – the lullaby, the words, the story. If it had all been a dream it was a vivid one. It was more vivid than life itself, more colourful, without the drab closeness of the things around him. It was clearly outlined, as if everything had been gone over with a pen, as if the real world was a pencil sketch over which the inking was yet to be applied. He almost opened the book, to see if the words were there – to hear if it would speak to him – but the rules were clear, and he took the ribbon that had wrapped the book and tied it around, making the bow at the front.

  Rather than put it back under the pillow, he lifted the mattress and placed it between that and the base.

  After breakfast, Bellows took him straight through to the library without any play.

  He was dressed differently from usual, even more smartly, if that was possible, the creases of his trousers and jacket even more crisp, the fabric even darker and less marked with fluff, his hat more evenly blacked and precisely blocked. Even the great blade of his nose seemed sharper.

  He said nothing but addressed the blackboard, a fresh stick of white chalk held out in front of him, gripped between forefinger and thumb and moving not an inch. When he eventually applied it to the board, he did it with conviction, as if he expected things of great import to be revealed from its movement from left to right. The whiteness it left behind trailed and looped and, without any effort, the sounds of those loops came to Nathan’s lips. He did not let the sounds die there but felt somehow as if he ought to speak them out. It felt right to. ‘Sic parvis magna.’

  The chalk stopped. Bellows whirled around to face Nathan, his excitement clear from the disposition of his limbs. ‘Meaning?’

  Nathan wondered and it seemed as if, from a long way off, the book was thinking with him, helping him. It did not provide him with answers, but sorted through those things which he might have seen and done in his life without notici
ng, showing him pictures of things long forgotten, or which had passed by at the edges of his attention, things other people had said, marks drawn on discarded paper, scraps borne on the wind. ‘That it is a good start?’

  ‘Excellent.’ Bellows took another piece of chalk and passed it to Nathan. ‘Write: repetitio est pater studiorum.’

  And Nathan did – the chalk flaked and between letters he worried it would stop, but his hand guided him, if he let it, and the movements came to him from nowhere – or from his watching of Bellows those last few weeks, or from the proper sense of things as they were, or from those things he had seen in books. ‘What does it mean?’ Nathan asked when the phrase was in front of him.

  Bellows seemed to smile. ‘I believe, dear boy, that you will shortly find out. I must leave now on important business, but when I return, we will begin work in earnest. Play now, and soon we will set you on the path the Master has divined for you, and you shall see every moment of effort rewarded a thousandfold.’

  LVI

  In the playroom it was again as if he was coming to somewhere new. The things he had played with before – the bow, the marble run, the other silly things – were like something a child might like, and when his eye fell on them he felt the eyes of someone on his back, someone who might mock him for his interest in toys, gently only, and with affection, but mockery nonetheless.

  He tried to shrug off the feeling, and even walked forward to where the porcelain menagerie stood and reached out for it, remembering its cool smoothness beneath his fingers and the satisfaction of its interlocking shapes, but it was as if there was someone there who would be bored by something so simple, someone with more sophisticated tastes, someone whom Nathan would like to impress. His eyes instead were drawn to more esoteric objects – things which had confused him before, or which had exceeded his abilities in some way.