The Cornerstone (22 page)

‘That’s not how it works, Lucas,’ Jacob argued, aghast at Morodai’s greed. ‘The relationship should be symbiotic. We shouldn’t use our worlds, but work with them… nurture them’.

‘Rubbish!’ Morodai spat. ‘My world needed no nurturing.’

‘Yes, and look at it now… a planet of witless slaves with no freedom to express themselves. Your Library is pathetic… full of books borrowed or stolen from the rest of us. You’ve sucked the planet dry, you bloody fool!’

Morodai raised his fist to strike, but managed to bring himself under control. ‘You think what you like, Lord Carvallen. But the fact remains, either you turn your world over to me and re-write your Cornerstone, or I will kill every single one of you. Starting with your wife.’

- 10 -

The Cornerstone - as has been established - is more than just a book.

It can cross dimensions, defend itself against attack, and demonstrates a level of sentience that something made of pulped tree fibre really shouldn’t possess… magical or not.

It likes Max, which indicates that while it’s sentient, it might not be all that bright.

The Cornerstone has four brothers. All older, less intelligent and far less willing to be active participants in proceedings.

The golden Morodai Cornerstone has virtually no personality and the little it has is bitter and twisted. It’s used - much like the people of Morodai’s world - as a tool of labour, and nothing else. A mistreated tool at that, forced to ferry millions of luckless inhabitants across to the Chapter Lands. These people are put to work in the mines and factories - and in any other job the Morodai upper class finds too abhorrent for their own citizens to undertake.

All that misery rubs off...

Wellhome and Falion also have Cornerstones that lack much in the way of character, but are far happier with their lot in life. They’re workhorses to be sure, but ones treated well and with respect.      

Actually, the Falion Cornerstone is loved by its people and is the best looking of the five: a padded purple and cream number, covered in white filigree and bearing a close resemblance to a meringue with a ream of paper shoved into it.

It’s given pride of place in the Library and citizens bow when they walk past.

Draveli’s Cornerstone is a grotty blue hardback, covered in stains and worn heavily at the spine. It’s as small minded, bigoted and uncaring as the people who travel through it.

The world it links to is a black, industrial nightmare, caused by generations of neglect and bad management. The book itself had developed a greasy, oily feel, having leeched dirt and muck from the minds of people it’s been forced to transport.

The Carvallen Cornerstone connects with Earth - a place where billions of minds vie with each other for attention, and billions of voices struggle to make themselves heard over the din coming from everyone else.

A world where the magic of books may be forgotten, but the magic of technology very much holds sway.

A world where science and spiritualism are equals, and where feats of bravery and kindness are matched by acts of cruelty and vindictiveness every day.

…it was a wonder the thing hadn’t gone stark raving bonkers.

Rather, the Carvallen Cornerstone had adopted a world-weary and cynical approach:

If it had a mouth, it would tut in contempt. If it had eyes, it would roll them in disgust.

It had formulated this personality more or less on its own, having only ever been used sparingly to transport human beings - its power wasted due to how cautious the Carvallens were about visiting the planet.

Getting right down to it, The Cornerstone’s personality was more or less that of a London cabbie who can’t get a fare.

It was also extremely stubborn, so there was
no way
it was taking anyone across the river at this time of night, guv… metaphorically speaking.

- 11 -

The Wordsmiths were pulling their hair out.

No matter what they did, The Cornerstone remained resolutely closed.

Chapter Lord Draveli had left them with specific instructions to get the gateway open and find the Carvallen girl, but so far they’d had about as much joy as a vampire with gingivitis. 

They stood in the Main Hub around The Cornerstone, where it sat on the pedestal usually reserved for the Codex - which had been chucked carelessly in one corner. They’d all taken turns to word shape at the book, trying to get the cover open, but had failed spectacularly so far.

All knew the punishment for failure would be having their minds sucked dry by the smoke-eyed monstrosities, so there was an understandable level of panic in the air. You could almost smell it.

So could the Dwellers, who lurked nearby, and it was having much the same effect on them as a Krispy Kreme shop would have on a group of terminally obese Americans.

One of the pensive Wordsmiths was a ratty looking fellow called Fergil.

He was an alumnus of the Draveli academy, so wasn’t particularly talented, but did a nice line in invasive and cunningly constructed small-scale Wordcraft. This had earned him a lot of money in his homeland - carrying out petty acts of vengeance on unsuspecting targets for clients who paid very well.

It was all very dishonourable, but it was this seedy, below-the-belt magic that would eventually breach The Cornerstone’s defence mechanisms.

While the other four Wordsmiths bombarded the book from all sides with flashy Wordcraft, Fergil stood back and waited, chewing his fingernail and watching intently for a sign of weakness.

He knew the book had a mind of its own and could be pushed into a mistake.

It was just a matter of time.

Garrowain could see this from the vantage point he’d set up above in the Library mists. He’d long ago become accustomed to the strange fog. Anything that might be lurking near the ceiling shrouded from sight knew better than to take a pop at him. Having watched events in the Library for decades, they knew what a clever little sod he was and weren’t about to risk an embarrassing episode for the sake of a quick snack.

Garrowain thought about taking on all five Wordsmiths and their Dweller allies. If they got The Cornerstone open, it would spell trouble for Merelie and everyone else on the other side.

He couldn’t handle that many on his own though, he conceded. Better to watch developments and wait for the chance to do something constructive when the proper time came.

It was frustrating, but Garrowain was by nature a cautious man.

This was probably why he’d lived for many years - and could even give indescribable monsters in the mist pause to attack.

Part Five

- 1 -

Max thought about offering Merelie a ‘backie’ on his BMX, but this could be open to misinterpretation and the girl looked troubled enough as it was.

Instead they walked to Charlie Pearce's house - a gothic looking monstrosity on one of the hills to the north of Farefield.

Charlie had lived there all his life, inheriting the place when both parents died in the mid-sixties.

Max’s mum had been raised there by Charlie and his wife Angela, who the old man had worshipped until her death eight years ago.

Charlie had always loved books, but since Angie’s death this love had escalated to the point of good natured obsession. His life now consisted of tracking down as many novels as he could, putting them in his ever expanding collection that now threatened to overwhelm the entire house.

His books kept him company, along with Nugget, the enormous but entirely friendly black Labrador that Amanda had bought for Charlie after Angela’s death.

As Max led Merelie to the house, he pointed out some local landmarks in an effort to act as a tour guide. There wasn’t much in Farefield, but if you do cross dimensions it’s nice to have somebody explain a bit about the place you’ve ended up.

Merelie hadn’t done this when he’d been dumped in her neck of the woods, making the whole trip more confusing. Max was determined she wouldn’t feel the same way.

‘That’s the vets where we had Screwball put down,’ he told her. ‘She was our cat and was a bit mental, if I’m honest. She got electrocuted trying to eat a plug and never really recovered.’

‘Aah.’

‘There’s the scout hut where Figgy snogged Cheryl Limkins. He tried to feel her boob as well, but she wasn’t having none of it.’

‘Mmmm.’

‘That’s the local Budgens. It’s dead expensive in there, but it’s the only shop that stocks Fangoria. And it’s got a wicked pick n’ mix.’

‘Hmmm.’

Max gave the downcast Merelie an annoyed look. ‘Are you listening to anything I’m saying? I know this place isn’t as lovely as your Chapter House, but I thought you might be interested.’

‘I’m sorry Max. I’m just worried. I have no idea what’s happened to my parents… they could be dead for all I know.’

If there’s one thing women know how to do it’s make you feel like a total prat.

‘Sorry… I’ll shut up,’ he said, kicking a defenceless daisy by the side of the pavement. He looked at his watch. ‘We’d better speed up a bit. Grandad usually goes out early afternoon.’

Five minutes later they walked up a weed infested driveway to the house.

Charlie wasn’t much of a gardener, so the weed theme continued all around the large plot of land the property stood in. The grass was three months past needing a cut and a couple of sad looking apple trees shed their leaves at a rapid rate, adding to the mess. Some of the detritus had been haphazardly piled onto the compost heap that leaned against the red brick garden wall.

From the rear garden, loud and excited barking could be heard.

Charlie’s rusty Austin Montego sat outside a detached garage, which was itself only one or two years at most from complete collapse.

The Montego’s back seat was piled high with books.

This brought the first smile to Merelie’s face in some time.

‘He really does like books. That’s nice,’ she said.

‘Yep. Looks like he’s got a new load in for this week. I’ll have to help him in with them later.’

Max was relieved his mother’s Ford Focus wasn’t parked in the driveway. She must have taken Monica home already. This malarkey was going to be hard enough to get past Grandad without his mother and sister chiming in.

They stepped into the broad front porch, which contained a large, grey stone gargoyle that for some reason was blowing a permanent raspberry - its stony tongue stuck out between its lips.

Max rang the doorbell. It should have chimed sonorously to keep with the gothic look of the house, but instead played The Girl from Ipanema, ruining the ambience completely.

Merelie gave the gargoyle a look.

‘Grandad’s a bit eccentric sometimes,’ Max offered by way of explanation. ‘It can be a bit weird, but Christmas is always a giggle when he’s around.’

‘Christmas?’ she asked.

Max thought about explaining, but the girl was probably out of her depth enough without being told an entire planet actively encouraged a fat man to break into their house once a year to leave them presents… and this was linked in some way that he’d never really understood to the birth of  the little baby Jesus.

‘Um… never mind,’ he said. ‘Maybe another time.’

The front door opened revealing Charlie Pearce, a classic grey-haired Grandad to his toes.

Wearing black NHS glasses, a burgundy tank top over a blue shirt and brown slacks, the look was topped off by grey slippers with elastic bits on the side.

 ‘Maxwell!’ Charlie exclaimed with delight.

Max’s full name is not Maxwell. Nobody else in the world calls him Maxwell and if they did they’d get a punch on the nose. Charlie can get away with it, because Grandad’s always can.

‘Wotcha, Grandad.’ Max replied with equal pleasure.

If Amanda Bloom’s reaction to seeing her son with a girl was melodramatic, Charlie’s was positively Shakespearean.

He bowed floridly at the waist, one arm raised to the side.

‘My lady!’ he cried. ‘What have I done to deserve the pleasure of such beautiful company on this fine day?’

Merelie giggled. ‘Hello sir.’

‘And hello to you,’ he said, giving Max a light thump on the arm and waggling his eyebrows in suggestive fashion. ‘Maxwell! Introduce me to your new lady.’

 ‘This is my friend, Merelie.’ Max replied. ‘Merelie, this is my Grandad Charlie. Please try not to take him seriously.’

Merelie curtsied and Max’s heart stopped for a second.

‘I’m honoured to meet you, sir,’ she said, looking up at him with those glorious blue eyes.

‘My word… ‘ was all Charlie could offer in response.

The moment was broken by the arrival of Nugget.

He would have been on scene earlier, but had been distracted by next door’s cat Biff, a ginger tom with the personality of Reggie Kray and a penchant for terrorising anything with a heartbeat. Nugget had come off worse in two previous encounters, and was still smarting over the big scratch Biff had left on his snout last summer.

Today, the cat had sat in the branches of one of the apple trees, watching Nugget bark himself into insensibility, before sloping off to torment the Jack Russell at number three. 

As Nugget had watched Biff leave, he’d heard the voices coming from the front of the house. The ginger tom was completely forgotten and Nugget had dashed round to see what all the fuss was about.

He saw Max, bounded up and started pawing at him, managing to hit his crotch at least twice. This was par for the course with Nugget and Max winced for about the thousandth time as dog paws made contact with much softer human parts.

‘Nuggie! Down!’ Charlie shouted and Nugget just about confined his excitement to excited finger licking and running between legs. Merelie even gave him a pat, wrinkling her nose as Nugget’s doggie aroma rose to meet her.

‘He reminds me of Ryder, one of father’s mastiffs,’ she said, while Nugget sniffed The Cornerstone in her hand, ‘only chubbier.’

Nugget gave her a reproachful look.

Charlie noticed The Cornerstone and his eyes lit up.

‘That’s looks like an interesting tome, Miss Merelie,’ he said with obvious curiosity.