The Bell Between Worlds. Ian Johnstone

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СКАЧАТЬ went through Sylas. All of a sudden, Mr Zhi sounded worried. Very worried.

      “Here miracles rise from the earth and awe is in the air; here wonder flows over and, like a mountain spring, never runs dry…”

      SYLAS STOOD STILL, AS he had been told, and listened.

      At first he heard nothing but Mr Zhi’s footsteps, but then came the sound of voices. Low voices, speaking quickly in urgent tones. He could not hear what was being said, but one of the speakers was Mr Zhi. The other voice was deep and masculine, speaking in murmurings that resonated through the shop but were impossible to make out. There was a quick exchange between the two men, and then suddenly the strange voice boomed loud and clear.

      “No! It must be now! Today!”

      Then, for a long time, the voices were a mumble.

      Finally, after Sylas felt like he had been standing there for hours, Mr Zhi came back into the room.

      “My apologies!” he said as he strode back towards Sylas. His face bore the same calm, amiable expression as before, but Sylas noticed that he was walking even more quickly. “That was my new assistant – I had quite forgotten that we had arranged to meet, so much was I enjoying your visit!”

      “That’s fine,” said Sylas. “Is everything... all right?”

      “Oh, quite all right, though I am sorry to say that we will not have as much time as I had hoped.” The shopkeeper blew out his cheeks and fingered his little beard, eyeing the pile of Things where he had deposited the mirrors. “In fact... yes... yes, sadly I think we must leave the mirrors for another time...”

      He turned on his heel and marched back towards the rear of the shop. “Come on, young man! The second Thing must wait, but the third Thing is by far the most exciting of all!”

      Sylas shook his head in bewilderment and set out after him – this shop was getting stranger and stranger.

      When they reached the back of the shop, there was no sign of the assistant, though Sylas noticed that the back door was slightly ajar. Meanwhile the shopkeeper had dropped to his knees behind the counter. All that could be seen of him was the very top of his odd little hat, which bobbed and danced as he scrabbled around on the low shelves.

      “This third Thing is marvellous in its own right,” mumbled Mr Zhi as he threw unwanted Things over his shoulder, “but it will also help you to understand...” He grunted as he paused to look at something. “...To understand the others. This is it!”

      He murmured with satisfaction and stood up, dusting the creased lapels of his jacket. He gave Sylas an excited wink and then lifted something above the broken surface of the counter.

      It was another parcel, but different from all the others. It was an oblong about the size of a novel, covered with some kind of leather, which was folded over neatly on all sides and fastened with twine, tied in a bow at the top. The old man had placed his gloved hand on top of it, as though part of him didn’t want his most special of Things to be seen. He turned it over and ran a finger over the wrinkled leather.

      The candles crackled and spat, the dancing flames making the shadows shift. Mr Zhi held the parcel for another moment with both hands, running his thumbs over the leather wrapping. Then he squeezed it fondly as if bidding it farewell and pushed it across the counter.

      “Take a look at this.”

      Sylas’s eyes ran over the neat folds of worn leather and the carefully tied twine that bound it. As he took hold of it, he felt the same stirrings of excitement that he had experienced when he had first entered the shop. It was surprisingly warm to the touch, the leather soft and yielding against his skin.

      With a glance at Mr Zhi, he took hold of one end of the twine and pulled. The knot untied itself instantly and both the twine and the soft leather wrapping fell away as though they were made of silk.

      Sylas’s eyes widened. “Wow...” he whispered.

      Between his palms lay the most exquisite book he had ever seen. The cover was made of mottled brown leather that had seen better days, its once smooth finish now dented and grazed by its many years of use. But into this drab leather had been laid the most beautiful decorations of gold, silver and dark red stones. Sylas turned it so that it caught the candlelight and saw that they formed a pattern: a row of gems, seven on each edge, placed on the outside of a stitched, golden zigzag that ran along the four sides, the thread sewn so tightly that the stitches could hardly be seen. Within this border a superbly adorned symbol had been laid into the leather: a large snaking S made of gold at the top and silver at the bottom. The back cover was beautiful too, with the same zigzagging border around its four edges, this time in silver.

      He looked back at Mr Zhi and saw that the old man was also transfixed by the book. It took a moment for their eyes to meet.

      “It’s beautiful,” said Sylas in a whisper. “Is it old?”

      “Very old.”

      “And what does the S mean?”

      “Most people who know about this book call it the Samarok, and it is thought that the S comes from that name. Aren’t you going to open it?”

      “Yes – yes, of course.”

      Sylas allowed the book to fall open. The pages turned in a flurry of paper until they settled on what must have been the weakest part of the binding, towards the end of the book. The first thing to strike him was the wonderful woody, rich aroma of old books – much more intense than he had smelt before – like dry oak leaves on a forest floor. Then he saw the words, written in black lettering that marched a little irregularly across the page, the lines undulating slightly as they went. It was not a printed book, but one written by hand.

      He looked up at Mr Zhi, who was placing some spectacles on his nose.

      “Someone wrote this by hand?”

      “Not one person, Sylas, many,” replied the shopkeeper, clearly enjoying Sylas’s amazement. He leaned over and peered through his spectacles at the open book. “Have a look.”

      Sylas turned the page with great care and saw that the next was written in strange looping tails and graceful lines. The page opposite was written in another crowded, huddling scrawl. He flicked through towards the front of the book and, sure enough, almost every page was written in a new hand, with smudges here and crossings-out there, giving the appearance of some sort of collected journal. But when he reached a point around halfway through, the style changed and it was written in one measured, unremarkable hand in almost perfectly straight lines. There were still errors, and parts of pages were faded and illegible, but it looked far more like a normal book.

      “There are two parts to the book,” explained Mr Zhi. “The first part is a copy of an ancient text that has now been lost. These few pages are all that remain of many volumes, which were written to provide answers to some of the questions we have spoken about. The second part is a collection of writings by many people, each of whom followed a path not unlike the one that lies ahead of you.”

      Sylas frowned and looked up. “What path?”

      Mr СКАЧАТЬ