The Book of Lies. James Moloney

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      The sadness in his words seemed to convince her. “I believe you, and thank heavens for it.” She took his hand and squeezed. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “It’s not my doing that this has happened. But there’s something I have to do now. Someone you have to meet. Stay here.” She swallowed hard and set off towards the stairs.

      Some moments later Marcel heard a distant knocking and knew it was the woman’s hand on that forbidding door set so impregnably into the wall opposite the stairs above. Her knock was answered by a savage growl, muffled by the door but loud enough to fill the entire house and send a blood-chilling terror through everyone who heard it.

      Albert appeared at the door of the kitchen with a large chunk of bread and a wedge of cheese for Marcel. He couldn’t swallow a bite. “That… noise,” he managed to say. “What kind of beast…?”

      “Don’t be afraid. No harm comes to the children in this house.” Albert seemed to fight off his natural shyness and placed his hand gently on the boy’s shoulder. That touch alone eased the boy’s fear. “I’ll stay here with you until my mother comes back, if you like.”

      Marcel looked up gratefully and nodded. He was glad to have a companion in the anxious minutes ahead. They stretched on unbearably, until at last he heard the creak of wooden boards on the staircase. He traced the slow approach of footsteps before Mrs Timmins appeared in the doorway. When she moved aside nervously, a second figure came into view.

      Just as Bea had described him, this stooped old man was hidden in the many folds of a black robe edged with the deepest green. Around the hem, two odd shapes had been embroidered in gold thread, the same combination repeated many times. The folds made it difficult to see what they were, until the wizard moved slightly and Marcel realised that one of the outlines was certainly a dragon with vicious talons open and grasping. What was the second shape beneath each dragon? Were they bats, with wings outstretched, golden bats flying on the night sky of that black robe? Before he could decide the man came closer, and now Marcel saw what Bea had not been able to describe. His face was deeply lined with age, long and sorrowful as though it had never known laughter in all the years it had lived through. Bea had given him a name, too. Despite his terror, Marcel recalled it easily. Lord Alwyn.

      Frail though the old man appeared, Marcel wasn’t fooled. This man had worked a cruel magic upon him that had swept away every memory he had. If it hadn’t been for Bea, even his name would be gone.

      “You are the child who calls himself Marcel?” said the wizard in a deep and weary tone.

      Marcel looked for Mrs Timmins, hoping she would answer for him. But, to his dismay, he found that both she and Albert had gone, and he had been left alone with the wizard. He wasn’t sure his voice would work, so he offered a weak nod instead.

      “Come. I want to speak with you.” Lord Alwyn seated himself at the kitchen table, motioning for Marcel to sit close by where he could watch every muscle in the boy’s face. On the table beside him he placed an ancient book almost two feet long and as thick as a grown man’s arm. Its dusty red cover was cracked along thin jagged lines where the leather had dried, giving the book a rough and weathered surface. Marcel eyed it with rising dread. This book had already been used against him once.

      “You fear the book? That might be a good thing, since –” The wizard stopped suddenly and turned his body stiffly to the left, peering hard into the gloom where light from the windows didn’t reach. “You there,” he called at last. “Come over here.”

      Bea’s tiny figure appeared from nowhere and came to stand beside Marcel. She was shaking through every inch of her body. “Excuse me, sir. I was caught in here by mistake.”

      As she spoke, the book opened of its own accord and riffled from page to page, until on one of its last leaves it found a space not covered by words. Marcel watched in amazement as new words began to appear, the very words Bea had just spoken.

       I was caught in here by mistake.

      The wizard stared harshly at her for some time. “Your lie has been recorded in my book. In fact, those who don’t know any better call it the Book of Lies. Now, tell me the truth. You hoped to hear what I said to this boy, isn’t that so?”

      Bea hesitated, but she had no alternative now. “Yes, sir.”

      This time the book closed quietly and lay motionless on the table. Watching it, Marcel thought he saw the faintest glow rise from the cover, until his attention was drawn again to the old man.

      Lord Alwyn’s lips had curled into a brief smile. “What is your name?”

      She told him.

      “Well now, Bea,” he said, “you are braver than your friends but you will have no gossip for them. Go,” he commanded, “and tell the others in the dining room to stay away.”

      He turned to Marcel. “Tell me about yourself,” he said, with less threat in his voice.

      “I can’t remember anything, sir.” As Marcel spoke, Lord Alwyn stared at the book, which remained still and silent on the table, though this time there was no doubt that it glowed a rich reddish-gold to match the sunlight outside in the courtyard.

      “I believe you,” he said at last. “But tell me: how did you come by your name?”

      “I don’t know. The name simply came to me, as though it had always been there, in my –” He stopped talking and turned in horror towards the book. It had opened again, hurrying to that same page, where it began to write everything he had just said.

      “Now I don’t believe you. Someone told you.”

      “No, sir!” Marcel insisted. “It’s true. I would never forget my real name.”

      There was no quill, no pot of ink, but the book recorded his words again. Lord Alwyn eyed him impassively as the book worked its telling magic. What could he do? The book knew he was lying, yet to tell the truth would betray Bea. He stayed silent and closed his eyes, waiting for a harsher magic to strike at him. The next few moments seemed like hours.

      Then he dared open his eyes and found the old man staring at him thoughtfully. “You need not be afraid of me,” he said, though that voice remained as hard as steel. “Not as long as you do what I say.”

      He turned slightly and called out to Mrs Timmins and Albert, who came scuttling through the doorway. “Listen to me, all three of you,” he said. “What I intended has somehow been foiled. All of the other children have heard his name now, and to alter the minds of so many would be too much for me. There is nothing else for it. You, Marcel, are to live here in this foundling home until I say otherwise. When people come looking for children to adopt they will not choose you. They will not even see you. No one must know there is a child here by that name. Do you understand?”

      He paused, considering whether words were enough to ensure obedience. Then his face became even harder. “If you take one step beyond the boundaries of this orphanage,” he told him ominously, “I will know and I will send my companion in the tower to fetch you.”

      He thrust his arm upwards, and at that moment a terrible growling erupted above them, building relentlessly until it exploded in a furious roar that turned their blood to ice.

      The old sorcerer did not wait for their promises. He rose from his chair and shuffled to the stairs, leaving Marcel to ponder what was so special СКАЧАТЬ