The Book of Lies. James Moloney

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      A fine chestnut horse poked its head out of the second stall, hoping they had brought it a treat. “He cut himself badly jumping a fence,” Old Belch explained. “All better now though, so he’ll be heading home soon.”

      As they stopped at each stall, Marcel soon realised that all of the horses suffered from an ailment of one sort or another. One trod gingerly on its foreleg; there was a plough horse recovering from ulcers where the heavy yoke had rubbed against its shoulders; and in the stall beside it another withered beast stared at him, sad-eyed and listless.

      Old Belch answered Marcel’s question before he could even ask it. “People send me their horses, to heal them.”

      “What’s wrong with this one?” Marcel asked, looking into the next stall, at a horse with rather spindly legs and a long neck hidden beneath a matted mane. This mane was black, but as for the rest of the horse, name a colour and it was there: earth-brown, grey and plenty of dirty white with flecks of a lighter brown on its rump and face. “This one’s an ugly thing,” he commented bluntly.

      Immediately the horse snorted and threw back its head as though it protested at these words. Old Belch went into the stall and spoke to it in whispers that Marcel couldn’t hear, but they had an immediate effect and the horse settled down. “There’s nothing wrong with her,” he said in a voice that seemed far too soft and friendly for a man whose hair looked like a grizzled nest of snakes. “She’s just a bit wild, that’s all, too wild for her master – he didn’t want her any more. So now she’s mine.”

      Marcel took another look at the mare. She was no beauty, that was certain, but she was alert and eager to be free of the stall that confined her, no matter how well Old Belch cared for her. Wasn’t that just how he felt about Mrs Timmins and her orphanage?

      The last stall was the one Marcel had cleaned out. Old Belch was impressed with what he saw. “You worked hard. A proper young Hercules – but I suppose you wouldn’t know what I’m talking about, would you?”

      “Hercules,” Marcel repeated. “Yes, I know who he was: a great hero who cleaned out the dirtiest stables in the world.”

      Old Belch’s eyebrows shot up. “So he did. Now, where would a simple boy from the high country hear that story?”

      Marcel shrugged his shoulders. “Someone must have told me.” This puzzled him. He couldn’t remember a name or a face or a single day of his life before yesterday, yet he knew the tale of Hercules. There was more he remembered too, and the excitement of such memories made him eager to repeat them. “Didn’t Hercules have a horse, a special horse with wings?”

      “Ah, now you’re thinking of Pegasus. It wasn’t Hercules but another great hero, Bellerophon, the only man who could tame such a wild beast.” Old Belch’s face glowed proudly as he glanced over at the speckled mare. “The poor fellow came to a bad end, though. Pegasus was stung by a gadfly and bucked him off while they were high in the clouds.”

      Marcel had followed Old Belch’s eye back to the ugly mare. “Does she have a name?” he asked.

      “Name! Not that I know of. I’ll ask her, if you like, to see what she wants to be called.”

      Marcel laughed, thinking this was just a joke, but his smile slipped a little when Old Belch entered the stall again and put his lips to the horse’s ear. What was more, when he was finished the horse did the same, pushing her long snout close to the man’s own ear.

      “She was listening to my story about Pegasus but she doesn’t want the name of a horse that was tamed. She would rather be the gadfly.”

      “Should we call her Gadfly, then?” suggested Marcel.

      “Why not!”

      The horse reared her head away and turned a stern eye on both of them. Could she really understand them? Marcel was beginning to wonder, but Old Belch was unconcerned. “I prefer these animals to the well-bred beasts I looked after in the Army,” he confided.

      “You were in the Army?”

      “Not as a soldier, no. Fighting’s not for me. I cared for the horses. In fact,” he said, standing a little straighter and pulling back his shoulders, “I was once in charge of the royal horses. Had my own room in the palace, no less.” He looked down in mild embarrassment at his huge stomach, which he patted gently. “Of course, that was in my younger days. But it’s true. You can ask Lord Alwyn if you don’t believe me.”

      “Lord Alwyn! You know him?”

      “A little, but then everyone round the palace knew Lord Alwyn. It’s a great surprise to see him here, in Fallside, I must admit. Most brilliant sorcerer of his age, they say. He’s served our kings and queens for as long as I can remember. Master of the Royal Books, he was. Still is, I suppose, since I haven’t heard tell of a new one.”

      Books!

      “Belch,” Marcel interrupted anxiously, “Lord Alwyn came down to… er… meet me yesterday. Just me. He brought a special book with him. It knew whether I was telling the truth.”

      “Ah, the Book of Lies, it sounds like. He created it long ago, to help judge matters in the royal court.”

      “But how can it tell who is lying and who is telling the truth?”

      “Well, only Lord Alwyn himself could tell you that for sure. It seems he managed to bind up all things, past, present and future, into that book. It knows it all. More than that…” Old Belch’s face became mischievous, like that of a little boy who knows a secret, and bending forward as much as his belly would let him, he said softly, “I heard talk at the palace. It’s said that book can look deeply into a man’s mind and discover what he’s thinking. Who could keep a lie hidden from such a thing, eh?”

      “So powerful,” Marcel whispered in awe.

      “Yes, and unpredictable too, even in Lord Alwyn’s hands.” He dropped his voice even lower. “There’s a story about the first time the Book was used. It was in the time of Queen Madeleine, as good a queen as any kingdom could ask for, and a wise woman, too. All the great lords and ladies were there, with the Queen on her throne and the Book on a table before them all. No one even saw the little sparrow.”

      “Sparrow! What’s that got to do with –”

      A loud burp interrupted Marcel, giving Old Belch a chance to go on. “The tiny thing had flown in through a window above them. It landed on the Book’s cover and started to chirp away, loud as you please. Then, as the whole court looked on, that sparrow became a mighty eagle.”

      “That’s impossible!”

      “Not at all. It was the Book, don’t you see? Even animals lie to themselves and pretend they are mightier than they are. I know that better than anyone. The Book of Lies discovered that little bird’s deepest secret and showed it to the world. In its heart, it wanted to be a mighty eagle, but as soon as it flew away from the Book it changed back into a harmless sparrow. Since that day, Lord Alwyn has kept his book well clear of animals. It’s no surprise he’s brought it here with him.”

      “But what’s he doing here? Why did he leave the palace?”

      “If you ask me, he’s come here to die.”

      “Die!”

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