Bedtime Story (43 page)

Reports of the strange happenings at Raven’s Moor seem to confirm earlier accounts of similar activities occurring in Mr. Took’s London home prior to his moving in to the manor, including satanic ritual, animal sacrifice and cannibalism. Mr. Took maintains, however, that he is simply a spiritual teacher, drawing elements of his teachings from the “great spiritual traditions from around the world.”

I shook my head as I finished the article, marvelling at the tone of the piece, which boldly ignored the line between reportage and outright libel. A newspaper would never be able to get away with that today.

I wrote Alton Petty’s name in my notebook—if I had enough time at the Hunter Barlow, I would look him up, but I suspected it would be a dead end. One of too many.

The next article from the following week was a brief mention that Pilbream had been removed from Dr. Carnaby’s care and placed in a private hospital, costs to be paid by the Took family.

I had a sense that things were all starting to come together, but time was running out. It was already mid-afternoon; the library closed at five.

The next article detailed a police raid on Raven’s Moor. It was dated two weeks after the last one, almost three weeks after the incident.

One of the officers on the scene had told the reporter, “That’s a terrible place, that house. It’s dark and cold and it smells of something terrible.” When asked what evidence was removed, the officer listed “Knives and swords, crystal balls and bowls that look like they’ve got dried blood in them. Robes and hoods. Skulls. Animal skulls, and one that looks
like it might be human. And books. More books than I’ve ever seen in my life.”

The next pages of the scrapbook contained more rumours and speculation peppered with the occasional bit of actual news: Lazarus and Cora being questioned by the police. Took petitioning for the return of his books. A letter from Took to the newspaper accusing them of “slanted and libelous reportage” and claiming that they were “profiteering from a tragedy.”

The coverage trickled in for almost eighteen months, until early January 1948, when police announced that they were closing their investigation owing to a lack of evidence.

Between the lines, however, a different story started to emerge. The officer giving the statement “took over the case from Constable John Barth, who is currently on extended leave.” Similarly, “Dr. Carnaby, the first doctor to examine Mr. Pilbream, died suddenly last November.”

It didn’t take much imagination, or paranoia, to suspect that a man like Took might silence his accusers.

The article finished with a call to arms: “While this case may not be active, it is important to remember that the suspect, Lazarus Took, has not been cleared of suspicion. He is best treated with caution and care. This community should not forget, and should not forgive.”

“Jesus,” I muttered. Why not just start taking names for a lynch mob right there?

And sure enough, the last four pages of the scrapbook chronicled an ongoing campaign of harassment directed at the Tooks and at Raven’s Moor: letters to the editor urging ordinary citizens to stand up when the law couldn’t. Broken windows and fires on the property. An egg thrown at Cora Took when she dared show her face in the village. And, finally, a triumphant notice:

That was the last article in the scrapbook, but I already knew what happened next: the trip to America, the sale of the papers to this very library, the settling in Oregon, Took dying in 1950.

And the book.

I set the scrapbook on the desk and picked up
To the Four Directions
. Almost a full day in the library, and I still had ten boxes to go.

There was a gentle knocking at the door, the lock clicked open, and Ernest appeared, peering into the room without actually entering.

“Mr. Knox,” he said obsequiously. “I’m very sorry for disturbing.”

“That’s all right,” I said. “You’re not really interrupting anything.”

“Sir, if you’ll forgive me, I noticed that you didn’t leave for lunch, and I was wondering if you might be interested in a cup of tea. It is about that time.”

At the end of the fourth day’s ride, close to sundown, it was the magus who called “Hai,” pulling his horse up short. David steadied his own mount, and they waited: Captain Bream was well ahead and had to turn his horse before cantering back to them.

“What?” he barked.

“I think we’re close,” the magus said, reaching for the map.

Wheeling his horse away, the captain trotted a short distance along the path, whistling loudly for his men. That morning, after consulting the map, the captain had decided to keep the men together, feeling they were finally out of Berok-held territory.

“He’s not the nicest guy sometimes, is he?” said David.

The magus turned quickly to face him, his face shocked and drawn.

Jesus, David!

David sagged in his saddle.

But after a moment, the magus’s expression melted into a smile. “No, he really isn’t.”

“You do have a most careless mouth, Dafyd,” he said, his tone warm but cautionary. “You should be careful that your tongue doesn’t get you into trouble.”

David allowed himself a small smile. “I’ve heard that before,” he said.

“Have a seat, Mr. Knox,” Ernest said, gesturing to one of the chairs as he stepped toward the stove. A kettle was starting to whistle. The library’s kitchen was almost as homey as Sarah and Nora’s.

When he put a plate of cookies on the table in front of me, I had to suppress a grin. “Thank you for this.”

“You’re most welcome, sir. I thought that perhaps you could use a little refreshment. You’ve been locked away for quite some time.”

My stomach groaned. “I guess I lost track of the time.”

“That happens, sir. Can I make you a sandwich?”

I shook my head in spite of my sudden hunger. “No, that’s all right. This will be more than enough.”

He let the tea steep briefly, then poured two cups. I waited for him to take a cookie off the plate before I took one myself.

“Are you finding everything you’re looking for?” he asked.

I shook my head. “It’s a bit overwhelming,” I said.

“There is a great deal of material to go through.”

“I think I’m going to have to come back tomorrow.”

“That’s fine, sir. You can leave the room as it is, if that would help you get a faster start in the morning.”

“Thanks.” I finished my cookie, and found myself desperately wishing for another.

“So tell me,” I said. “How did you end up working at the library?”

“It’s the family business,” he said. “My grandfather was Robert Barlow.”

“Ah.” I took another cookie from the platter, acutely conscious of his eyes on me. “Funny—you’re the second grandchild I’ve met since I started this project.” He looked puzzled. “I’ve been corresponding with Lazarus Took’s granddaughter as well.”

“I didn’t realize he had a granddaughter.” He thought for a moment. “But then, that’s hardly the sort of information one would find in a collection of papers we purchased more than fifty years ago.”

I nodded. “Ernest, if you don’t mind my asking, do you share your grandfather’s interest in all of this”—I waved my hand loosely in the air—“magic?”

He smiled. “That’s why I’m here.”

I looked down at the table, reluctant to make eye contact as I asked, “So, are you a believer?”

“I suppose that depends on what you mean.”

I started to clarify, but he continued.

“Do I believe in all the chanting and the ritual and the trying to contact the Old Gods, that sort of thing? No, not really. But do I believe in magic itself? Yes.” He sipped gingerly from his tea. “There are so many things that can’t be explained rationally, so many mysteries that are impervious to scientific examination. Even in the heart of the sciences themselves one invariably reaches a point where rational analysis ceases to work and faith takes over.”

“That sounds more like religion than magic.”

“Why do you think there’s a difference between the two? Magic is just another faith, another way of living with the mysteries in the world, rather than trying to explain them away.”

I nodded slowly, trying to accommodate the faith that he was describing with what I knew of Lazarus Took’s actions.

“What about spells and rituals and things like that?”

“Aleister Crowley and such, you mean?”

I nodded again.

“I think that words and rituals can have a powerful effect on the human soul, an effect that science can’t explain. But then, you must know that, Mr. Knox, being a writer? You must have written something that made people laugh or made them cry. Or made them fall in love with you.”

I thought of Jacqui.

“Well, that’s what’s at the heart of magic—the power of words over the human soul.”

—

Sitting on the subway on my way back to the hotel, wedged against the window, I wished that I had brought something with me to read, something to isolate myself from the crowding and the noise.

In desperation, I pulled
To the Four Directions
out of my bag.

I could see why Jacqui thought I was crazy: it was so innocuous. So banal. Just a book.

By now I had read it from cover to cover. The story was pitched perfectly for an eleven-year-old, complete with the hero completing his quest, returning to the Queen triumphant, saving the life of the King and vanquishing the threatening hordes. The closing scene, with the newly healed King riding out at the head of his army, had given me goose bumps such that I was willing to ignore how clichéd it was. A perfect happy ending—a little too pat for my liking now, as an adult, but the sort of thing that David would have loved.

Too bad David wasn’t living the events of the book I was reading. If Nora was right, his story would be different. Trapped between the endpapers, his life was, literally, in my hands.

How would his story end?

And what would happen to him when the cover closed on the printed text?

Trying to distract myself from the noise, and the smell of the man next to me who seemed to have fallen asleep, I started flipping through the book absent-mindedly, the way I had done so often in the past weeks.

The book opened to the early scene where everything started to come together, just before the Queen revealed the King’s failing health.

I sat up so quickly in my seat that I almost woke the slumbering man, who grumbled and shifted.

“Son of a bitch,” I muttered.

Pilbream.

Took had named one of the characters in the book, the faithful guard, after his own faithful servant. It was obvious once I saw it, but that’s not how my mind usually works. In my mind, books and the real world occupied separate places—