The Book of Lies (2 page)

Now the man dragged the table with the book lying on it to the bedside. He straightened his back painfully as he sat himself on the stool, and after a moment’s reflection he began to speak.

Before she died, my mother told of her last wish. She had chosen a name for her newborn baby, the name of a favourite uncle she had known as a child.

As he spoke, the book opened of its own accord and the pages began to fan first one way then the other. When this frantic shuffling ended and the open pages lay still, a second voice joined in, an identical voice, repeating his words at the very moment he uttered them.

Where had this second voice come from? There was no one else in the room, the little girl was sure of it, though this didn’t stop her from glancing around fearfully. Her eyes turned back in time to see the dark figure pass his hand over the book. The second voice continued freely now, even though the old man himself had stopped speaking.

And so it was that after my mother was laid to rest in the graveyard, my father announced that his new son was to be called Robert.

On the bed, the sleeping boy stirred once more. His face grimaced into an agonised frown as he rolled his head back and forth. “It’s not me, it’s not my life!” he wailed. But then that wrinkled hand was extended again and he lay still.

Not his life! What did he mean?

The girl heard the desperation in his cry and sensed his pain. She had never seen the boy before, knew nothing of him except for his name, but if he was suffering, how could she not help him? If only she could get closer…

Without thinking, she nudged the wardrobe door just enough for it to creak. The man stood up instantly and took a step in her direction. This man was a sorcerer. Just the thought of the enchantments he might work upon her chilled her bones to the marrow.

What could she do? In the shadow of the wardrobe’s door she could stay undetected, but not if he pushed the door aside and let the candlelight pick her out. He came a step closer. One more and he would be able to swing the door out of the way. The girl drew back, but that was all she could do. He would surely find her.

But before he could take that final step, the old man faltered, and for a moment it seemed he would fall. He
staggered sideways, groping desperately for the edge of the table to support himself. Finally, he turned his back to the wardrobe and hunched over, exhausted and fighting for breath. By the time he had recovered, a full minute later, he seemed to have forgotten the creaking wardrobe door. Behind that door the little girl finally dared breathe again.

The wizard turned back to the boy. “I will leave you while my magic takes hold,” he muttered, then shambled out into the passageway and shut the door behind him while the voice of that strange book continued its story.

Slowly, cautiously, the girl emerged from beside the wardrobe and stood watching the magic at work. Now she could see that the words the sorcerer had spoken were written in a black, spidery hand on the pages of the book itself. The story droned on while the boy listened through his sleep. He was frowning again. A low groan broke from his lips as the name Robert was repeated.

No, this wasn’t right. He wasn’t Robert at all. She had heard his real name just now: Marcel. She knew she must stop this magic somehow…

The book, perhaps that was the key. She leaned over the stool, and with a quick flick of her hand she slammed it shut. The voice continued, though muffled now so that the words could not be heard. That should do it, she thought with a smile of satisfaction.

But the smile was soon wiped from her face when the book opened again by itself, at exactly the same page, and the story
continued. She tried again, this time sitting on the front cover. It worked for a moment, then she gave a little shriek as the book bucked her off and left her sprawled painfully on the floor beside the table.

If she couldn’t stop the telling, then she would have to stop the boy from hearing. She grabbed the candle and began to search for something that could block up his ears. But apart from a few threadbare blankets in the wardrobe, she found nothing, while behind her the storytelling continued, every word searing itself into the boy’s mind. Candlewax dripped on to her hand, hot and runny. She picked it off, moulding its softness between her fingers before she flicked it aside. Then her fingers stopped suddenly. She realised she had found just the thing.

Working quickly, she melted a pool of wax into her palm, and while it was still warm she worked it into two lumps and pushed them into the boy’s ears. There, it was done. His face became less troubled and his slow, gentle breathing told her he was drifting into a calmer sleep. She sighed with relief and withdrew into the shadows beside the wardrobe once more in case anyone returned.

After the first telling the book began again, and after the second came a third, but just as this was starting there were more footsteps in the hall outside and the door opened to admit the woman and her son. They stood listening without a word until the story reached its tragic conclusion.

When I was twelve years old, my father cut his leg with a scythe and the wound began to fester. After struggling desperately for over a week, he died, and because there was no one to care for me I was taken to a home for orphans in Fallside.

Finally the voice ceased and the book closed without the touch of a hand.

“Your new name is Robert, it seems. It’s as good a name as any.” The woman touched the palm of her hand to the boy’s face. “He’s warmer now,” she said to her son, tucking in the blankets where the boy’s twisting and turning had torn them free.

Watching from nearby the little girl held her breath and hoped they would not see the wax in his ears. But there was no need to worry, she soon discovered. “Come on, Lord Alwyn will be waiting for his book,” the son said quickly, and taking the candle with them, they left the room.

Even when the house grew quiet, the little girl hesitated. She was still terrified of being discovered. At last, when her fears had calmed a little, she returned to the boy’s side and removed the wax from his ears. Even this intrusion did not wake him, and she guessed that the old man’s magic was still at work. Then she returned to her own room and climbed into bed. The night had many hours still before dawn, but she didn’t sleep a wink.

D
AYLIGHT FRINGED THE CURTAIN
of the tiny room, then when the sun had climbed high enough, arrows of sunshine broke around the edges, finding targets on the table, the chair and the gaping wardrobe. At last, one golden beam touched the boy’s face, and he awoke.

Staring down at him was a pair of kindly green eyes. There was a mouth that quivered uncertainly between a smile and a frown, a bulbous nose to match the round and reddened cheeks, and above those eyes, wisps of greying hair that refused to stay in place under her cap.

“Who are you?” he asked weakly.

“I’m Mrs Timmins,” she said softly. “You’ve been brought here to live with me and the other children. Counting you, that will make thirteen altogether.”

“To live… other children?” he murmured, closing his eyes again. Sleep began to welcome him back into its drowsy folds but he fought his way free, opening his eyes a second time. “Where am I?”

“You are in a home for orphans and foundlings. From this window, you can see the village of Fallside,” she told him, sweeping aside the curtain with a plump hand. “Such as it is,” she added without enthusiasm as she glanced briefly at the village. Then she tried to reassure him. “Don’t worry. You’re quite safe here.” She helped him sit up, wedging pillows behind him.

“Orphans and foundlings,” he repeated under his breath. He pushed aside the blankets and tried to stand up.

“My, you’re almost as tall as I am,” exclaimed the woman. “You won’t be with us for long, that’s for certain. Any farmer in the district would be pleased to have a fine lad like you working his fields.”

This made no sense to the boy at all. Work in a farmer’s field? He couldn’t remember ever doing any such thing. In fact, he couldn’t remember much at all.
Whose hands are these?
he thought, looking down at his body. They must be his feet, because he was standing on them.

A small mirror hung from a hook on the wardrobe. He went closer but he was only certain that this was really his face
when a pair of wide blue eyes blinked back at him. What else could he see? There was brown hair, almost black really, and pale skin, as though he had been kept out of the sun for some time. He worried for a moment that he was a ghost, but then wouldn’t this woman have been afraid of him? What had she called herself? Mrs Timmins, wasn’t it? There she was, watching him with friendly amusement. No, he wasn’t a ghost.

He took another look in the mirror. That mouth drooped a bit. Perhaps it came from feeling so dazed. Now that he’d seen it he decided that, as faces went, it could have been worse, and the thought brought a smile to his lips.

“Can you tell me your name, then?” Mrs Timmins asked.

“Name…” the boy murmured. He opened his mouth quickly but no words came out, causing him to frown in confusion. “Name…” he said again. Why was it so hard for him to say it? Wait… he did know, after all. “I think my name is… Robert.”

“Ah, you do remember,” Mrs Timmins said brightly. “Welcome to my orphanage. There’s always room for one more in this house.”

She left him alone to dress in the clothes she had brought for him. “Robert,” he said to himself when he was finished. He knew he had been born with that name and he sensed somehow that his mother was dead. Was it… yes, when he was a baby. If he was an orphan then his father must be dead too. Shouldn’t he feel sadness? With a shock, he realised that all he
could feel was emptiness and the few things he could remember rattled around inside his head like peas in a kettledrum.

He was still grappling with these thoughts when Mrs Timmins returned. “It’s time you met the others,” she announced briskly. “Come with me.” She led the way out of the tiny room, along the passage to a flight of stairs. There she paused. “We have few rules in this house, Robert, but one is that you be as quiet as you can just here, outside the entry to the tower,” she said, nodding towards an imposing oak door set into the wall opposite the staircase. He glanced at it, but for now he didn’t give it a second thought.

“Come on, the girls are rather keen to see you – though they’re
meant
to be working in the kitchen.” They started down the stairs, but after three steps the boy stopped, startled by the gang of five girls that had gathered at the bottom.

“It’s a boy,” said a voice rather dismissively.

“Quiet, Dot,” hissed one of her companions, but Dot wouldn’t be silenced.

“I wanted it to be another girl,” and with this announcement she led the posse of girls away, disappointed.

One of them seemed to linger for a moment. Was she smiling at him? It was difficult to tell, because the girl herself seemed no more than a shadow.

“Am I the only boy, Mrs Timmins?”

“No, no, the boys are outside, doing their chores.” She
looked pointedly towards the girl. Then she led him down the remaining stairs and through a large kitchen. “Come on, Robert,” she called when he lagged behind.

Robert? Yes, of course, that’s me, he thought. He stepped into the sudden brightness of a cloudless day. The sunshine felt good on his skin and he turned his face towards it, hoping that the sun, at least, would recognise him.

A tall boy, almost a man, came striding towards them. “This is my son, Albert,” said Mrs Timmins. “He’s in charge of all the outside work that’s usually left to our boys.” Albert was rather proud of his role, judging by the grin that filled his face, a face already crowded with an unsightly rash of pimples. “He’ll give you jobs to do as well, but not today, since you’ve only just joined us.” She glanced at Albert to be sure he had understood.

“No, not today,” he agreed readily enough. “Come on, I’ll gather all the boys to meet you.” He walked to the well in the middle of the courtyard and shouted, “Boys, boys, come here!” Before long, half a dozen boys had joined them in the courtyard.

“This is Robert, everyone,” called Mrs Timmins. “I hope you’ll make him feel at home.” She picked out two of the older boys. “Hugh and Dominic, I’ll leave him in your hands, so you can show him around.”

After an awkward moment or two, a boy stepped forward. One of his legs was shorter than the other, making him limp
noticeably as he moved. “I’m Dominic,” he said, offering his bony hand like a man. The boy shook it warily, but the hand was warm and the gesture friendly.

He relaxed a little as a second orphan introduced himself. “My name’s Hugh.” He put his hand to his mouth to stifle a sickly cough. Hugh didn’t have a limp but he didn’t have much else either. His arms and neck were skinny, the bones visible beneath the skin. His face was painfully narrow too.

“Do you want to join them, Fergus?” Mrs Timmins added, bringing a sterner tone to her voice. “It’s not so long ago that
you
were the new boy.”

This Fergus was a head taller than the rest and broad-shouldered. He nodded politely to Mrs Timmins but then turned to the younger boys around him, rolling his eyes in mockery. They sniggered uncertainly. “What’s your name again?” he asked bluntly.