The Perils of Untying Love – Episode 2
If there’s one place in the castle that makes me feel uncomfortable, it’s the library. There’s something about it – the oppressive atmosphere, or the most-silent-of-silences I’ve ever known – that grates my nerves.
It’s not like I haven’t visited other libraries. I know how relaxing and calm they are supposed to be. Some of the worlds the castle has relocated to have had libraries. Whenever I could, I’ve visited them. I love books, so why wouldn’t I?
But the castle’s library has an atmosphere unlike any other.
I haven’t discussed this with anyone, but I reckon Trewla, Grimmon, Cook, and perhaps some of the Denizens who drop in from time to time, feel the same. You see, although the library is packed to the rafters with books, it is always empty of people. Not a soul to be seen on the handful of occasions I’ve plucked up the courage to go there.
I have a theory that the library’s unwelcoming atmosphere is the fault of one of my thieving ancestors. Not just any ancestor, mind you, but Lord Geoffrey – the one who, six hundred years ago, cast the spell that still today curses the castle.
Ah, I hear you ask. What does that have to do with the library?
Well, libraries are full of books, and the castle’s unusual behaviour started with one. Specifically, a book of spells which Geoffrey stole from a wizard who had stayed in the castle overnight while on his way to Tintagel.
After dinner, while the wizard dozed in a chair in front of the fire, Geoffrey took the opportunity to sneak into the guest room and take the wizard’s spell book. Back in his study, desperate to try his hand at magic, he leafed through his ill-gotten prize to choose a spell he liked the look of. A word or two from each page caught his eye, and not being the most literate of readers, he mumbled them out loud.
Forty pages in, he’d said enough out loud to inadvertently cast a spell.
One that had never been cast before because it hadn’t existed until Geoffrey accidentally created it.
And what a spell it turned out to be.
It cursed the entire castle to an endless existence of world hopping. Every fortnight, more or less, the castle – and everyone in it – moves to another world.
With that in mind, I’m sure you can empathise with my reluctance to go to the library. Entering it the day before to get a book of poems had been bad enough, but having accepted Trewla’s challenge, I would be passing through its door once again before I’d had time to recover.
That thought made me pause. Did I really need help from that romantic poetry manual?
Having seen for myself what a load of twaddle poetry is, I was fairly sure I could cobble some words together about meadows, forget-me-nots, fluffy clouds, and what-have-you.
But what if she didn’t like what I wrote? Without that manual I wasn’t sure I could produce a poem that would sweep Trewla off her feet.
That’s why, the next morning, I found myself creeping into the library like a mouse passing under the nose of a cat.
Maybe it was the shelves groaning under the weight of books, or the books themselves crammed cheek by jowl together, that felt so intimidating. It’s like they were watching me. Frowning.
I reminded myself not to be silly and hurried over to the shelf where I’d found the book of poetry the day before. There was no mistaking the poetry manual. It was in exactly the same spot, and instantly recognisable by the string wrapped tightly around it. I took it from the shelf and carried it over to a table.
From what I could see of the cover between the bindings, it seemed to be of good quality. The rosy glow coming from the edges of the pages left me in no doubt that it could only be a volume that dealt with matters of the heart.
With eager fingers, I tore off the warning label and examined the knots in the string. Too difficult to untie, I decided. I fished in my pocket, took out my penknife and had sawn through the string wrapping in no time at all.
As I brushed the loose string away, the reddish gleam from the page edges brightened. Definitely the colour of love.
My eyes widened as I pulled open the cover.
The pages were covered in words, their handwritten characters resplendent with decorative whorls and fancy flourishes. But these were not like any words I’d ever seen. They didn’t stay still, but drifted about the pages, flowing like oil on water.
I ran my finger in a straight line along the page, trying to force some sense into the jumble of letters and spaces. Vowels, consonants, and entire syllables jostled one another and glided away from my fingertip like minnows.
There was a pop like someone clapping an inflated paper bag between their hands. A dazzling flash from the centre of the open book sent me stumbling backwards.
When my vision cleared, an odd little figure was stood on the spreadeagled pages.
He was about as tall as a cat. His weathered face was made up of a small nose and whiskery chin under deep-set eyes. Dressed in ragged coat, breeches and worn boots, he looked like he’d crawled out from under a hedge rather than the pages of a book.
“Free at last!” he said, stretching his arms and legs.
I have to admit, I was somewhat taken aback.
“Who are you?” I said with a frown. “And why were you shut away inside that book?”
He winked and said, “Inside the book? Oh, nothing. Just a little misunderstanding. As for who I am…” He bowed. “The name’s Cosferas.”
Stepping off the book onto the table, he grinned at me and added, “At your service.”
I leaned forward and flicked through the pages. They were all blank.
It was like a rug had been pulled out from under my feet. How was I going to impress Trewla if the manual of romantic poetry I was relying on was devoid of instructions?
I was doomed.
Or was I?
“At my service?” I said.
“Of course. You released me. I owe you.”
“I could do with some assistance, as it happens,” I raised an eyebrow and fixed him with a stare. “What do you know about poetry?”
“Everything under the sun and more besides.”
I took my notebook and pencil from my pocket. “What a stroke of luck! You’re exactly who I need!”
*** Continued in episode 3 ***
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