The Promptuary Read online

  'We will find you.'

  'I have one more question. What is the cloth?'

  'I know very little about it. I am only a humble papermaker and do not supply the materials to make it. The woman who brought it here could tell you more.'

  'But she's gone.'

  'I'm sure you will see her again. She is one of your kind. If you need more answers you will have to consult your Organisation. We are mere artisans and our powers are of this world.'

  'Can you at least describe her so that I know who I should be looking for?'

  'She had a very pale face and the strangest eyes. I didn't dare look at her for too long. I sensed a power within her beyond anyone else who has been to these premises. She wore a wide-brimmed hat, a fedora I believe, and a long black coat with high boots. I can tell you no more.'

  Anaïs sighed. The description was very familiar. Who was she? Anaïs was reminded of the woman who had played a part in Nan's death, the same woman who had been in Cornwall and perched on the basilica in Barcelona. Anaïs was certain she had also been the one attacking the Inquisitor at the airport. She made a mental note to ask Sojourner Pink about her next time they met. If there was a next time.

  She offered her hand to the papermaker. 'Thank you for your help.'

  He hesitated, unsure if it was safe to do so, and then took her hand and shook it. His hand was very cold and she shivered. 'There is no need to thank me. I am your humble servant, Miss Blue.'

  'I don't believe in servants, sir. And please call me Anaïs.'

  'As you wish. Anaïs it is.' The papermaker smiled for the first time. She caught a glimpse of his soft eyes beneath the hood. 'I hope you will be satisfied with the repairs to your book. If there is anything you need in the meantime you know where to come.'

  'That is very kind of you. I will not forget your help.'

  The papermaker put a hand on her shoulder. 'Come, let me show you to the door.' He directed her towards the stairs. Anaïs threw one last look at her promptuary wrapped in cloth on the table. She felt naked without it. She would take the papermaker's advice and not go too far.

  * * *

  --------

  * * *

  As Anaïs went through the doorway and mounted the stairs the book began vibrating. The room reverberated with the sound of it rumbling on the table. It lifted into the air but the cloth anchored it to the wooden surface. Only when Anaïs was completely out of the building did the promptuary stop struggling within its cloth prison. It settled back down onto the table, the only movement the light of the pulsing star on its cover, glowing through the cloth.

  Rags

  I'm afraid that in order to fully understand what makes a promptuary tick, we will have to take a history lesson. I realise that for some people the idea of having to study anything at all is boring and tedious. Particularly if it is subject matter which you have very little interest in. I won't force you to read this, or warn that some archaic punishment will be dealt out if you don't. I'll leave that sort of thing up to Victorian schoolmasters. I think it's sufficient to say that without this knowledge, the loss will be yours.

  So, let's learn about paper and book making in general.

  At some point, in a very ancient civilisation, somebody decided it would be a good idea to write something down. Possibly because otherwise they would forget whatever it was they needed to remember. Chances are it was a shopping list.

  I am not certain when we actually came up with written words and sentences, but even before they existed there were symbols. A single symbol could, and still does, communicate an incredible amount. We use them nowadays much more than ever, but it probably doesn't register how important they are. In fact, they are everywhere. If I suggest the image of a person shoving a stick into a mound of something resembling a pile of dirt, what springs to mind? Look out, workman working! Am I correct? It's a common symbol we see all over the place. If it was written out in full on a noticeboard we would probably not even bother looking. The simple shadow-puppet image is very effective. The bright yellow background also helps.

  The symbol itself is of no great importance. It's more the fact it has to be written on something. In the case of the workman sign, it is cheaper and more efficient to write it down than pay somebody to stand around and warn people. Although it can be particularly irritating if they forget to take the sign away. In which case you prepare yourself unnecessarily for a danger which doesn't exist.

  Originally symbols were carved into things. Bits of wood, stone, even your spouse's leg. But if you wanted to write something longer you needed more room to do it. There is only so much you can fit on a leg. Also, it's handy if it’s portable. A leg certainly fits the bill, but to stop it deteriorating it has to remain attached to its owner. Then you end up with the same problems associated with the workman sign. It's not efficient to drag around a notepad made of flesh and blood.

  It took a while but mankind progressed to stone tablets, chalkboards, plant material, animal hide—ok, there is an alternative to keeping the leg alive. Finally, people took to writing on linen. Eventually the linen itself was used to make paper.

  Many people believe paper is made from wood. It may be nowadays but for centuries it was not. It was made from used rags. Whole industries and people's livelihoods were dependent on the demand for the stuff. Such is the unusual preoccupation with things in the written form. You need a lot of rags to make a single sheet of paper. And there are a lot of pages in a book. Someone had to collect the base material.

  It was once considered an honourable, sought-after and useful occupation. Hence the words 'rag trade' I suppose. Although, I believe that now applies to the creators of fashionable clothing. They effectively provided the material necessary for traditionally making paper. I do wonder where all that used and pre-loved clothing ends up now. I, for one, would be quite chuffed with a piece of paper made from a Gucci ball gown.

  Discarded garments, rags, tatters and other cellulose material is pounded and hammered to within an inch of its life. You really have to spare a thought for what a piece of clothing goes through. How insensitive are we? We should pause and have some sympathy for the victim. The torture doesn't stop there. The material is soaked and boiled until it dissolves in water. The resulting concoction is then passed through a sieve. The solid material which remains is dried. The end product is a reasonably flat, lumpy thing which we call paper. Leaves of this are then sewn together to form books.

  Earlier I mentioned the whole idea of scrolls being misinterpreted as magic wands. Scrolls were around long before books, but with the introduction of new, more compact formats, they swiftly went out of fashion. The portability of a manuscript or codex served to make it popular. I won't bore you with the details but I'm sure you can guess who came up with the idea for this new format. Witches got sick of lugging around rolled up reams of paper.

  This brings us to the plight of the promptuary. A witch's handbook is no different to any other book. It goes through the same production methods. The pulping of rags, conversion to paper and sewing up into book form. What sets it apart is the material used to produce it.

  The paper a promptuary is constructed from is derived from a very special form of linen. Not only is the linen special, the thread used to make it is also exceptional. This same thread is also used to sew the handbook's pages together. There are limited supplies of both these materials. Where they originate is a closely guarded secret. There are also very few factories which are capable of handling this precious material. Had the promptuary been in working order, it could have told Anaïs all these things.

  Thankfully, she was not completely alone. The mysterious entity was not revealing itself but was certainly using all its connections to help her, facilitating things behind the scenes.

  Truman

  Marilyn leaned forward in her seat. 'So, what happened?'

  'They're going to repair my promptuary,' said Anaïs.

  'And what are we going to do?'

  'We'll
have to wait. I think it will be ready tomorrow.'

  Anaïs sat down at the table. She had spotted the rest of her companions after walking out of the paper factory. They were seated around a table on a small terrace. It was in front of what Anaïs assumed was the tavern the papermaker had referred to. The librarian sipped on a coffee and looked at the witch over the lip of her cup. Nan sat next to her with her arms folded. She eyed the coffee with jealousy. Anaïs felt sorry for her. When she was alive, Nan had devoured coffee like there was no tomorrow. Anaïs had once pointed out to her that there was more of it running through her veins than blood.

  Marilyn sat on the other side of the librarian and had found a spot in the last sliver of sunlight. She slouched in her chair and turned her face to the sun.

  Anaïs snorted. 'What are you doing, trying to get a tan?'

  'Of course, what's wrong with that?'

  'You're a shade. I don't believe you can get a tan.'

  Marilyn shrugged. 'It's worth a try.'

  'Forever the superstar,' said Anaïs sarcastically.

  The shade pouted at her. Sitting next to Marilyn was a gnarled old man. He hung his head and stared blankly at his hands nestled in his lap. In the dark shadow of one of the smoke stacks of the factory which cut across the terrace, he was barely discernible. Anaïs immediately deduced he was another shade.

  She indicated the man. 'Who's your friend?'

  Marilyn cocked her head towards him. 'Oh, him? That's Truman. Truman Capote.'

  Anaïs was nonplussed. 'Never heard of him. Who is Truman Capote?'

  The librarian put down her coffee cup with a clank and looked around. 'Truman Capote? What about Truman Capote?'

  Anaïs pointed at the old man. 'This is Truman Capote. Whoever that is.'

  'Wow! Truman Capote,' said the librarian. She bent forward to get a better look at the shade. She sat back and shook her head at Anaïs. 'You know nothing, do you?'

  Anaïs hunched her shoulders. 'What's to know?'

  The librarian frowned at her. 'He was a writer, a really famous one.'

  'Ok, if you say so. You should know. You're a librarian.'

  'Well, sort of,' said Immi. 'I'd love to have a chat with him.'

  'Not now,' said Anaïs and gave her a sour look. 'Could you give us a moment?'

  The librarian flashed her eyes at the witch. 'Fine!' She sighed and picked up her cup of coffee.

  Anaïs turned her attention to Marilyn. 'What's he doing here?'

  'I don't know,' shrugged the shade. 'Why do any of us end up where we are? I suppose he likes it here.' She moved her face slightly to keep it in the sunlight. 'I like it here.'

  'Does he know who he is?'

  'I don't think so. I tried to communicate with him but got no response.'

  'Do you usually get a response from other shades?'

  'Nope.'

  'Then how do you know it's this Truman guy?'

  Marilyn pulled her compact out of her pocket. 'I used this.'

  'I didn't mean, how did you do it,' said Anaïs, slightly frustrated. 'I meant how do you know it's who you say it is.'

  'I met him once, years ago. He was very nice to me. He was honest, genuine. Not many people were straight with me.'

  'Where did you meet him?'

  'At a funeral.'

  'That figures,' said Anaïs. She rummaged in her beret and found what she was looking for. She slipped on her sunglasses. Under his camouflage the man looked practically the same. Apart from a small pair of spectacles balanced on the bridge of his nose and the fact he was slightly younger, he carried the same catatonic demeanour.

  Anaïs waved a hand in front of his face. 'Sir, can you hear me?' He blinked but other than that he failed to react. He continued to stare trance-like at his hands.

  'And?' enquired Marilyn.

  'He's pretty far gone,' said Anaïs. 'I expect he's forgotten everything. I've met someone like him before. Not all shades are like you, Marilyn.'

  'That's a shame. I guess I'm one of the lucky ones.'

  'I guess you are. I have to admit I've never met anyone like you before, living or dead.'

  The shade grinned and puffed up her chest. 'One of a kind?'

  Anaïs sighed. 'I wouldn't know about that, but yes, you are special.'

  'Can we help him? I feel I owe him something. Very few people ever treated me with respect the way he did.'

  'I kind of have my hands full,' said Anaïs. She looked across the table at Nan.

  'Don't look at me, Anaïs. It’s up to you,' said the caretaker. 'I do think you should help everyone you can, but I'm speaking from a dead point of view. Maybe you should wait until you have your promptuary back, though.'

  Anaïs yawned. 'Maybe you're right. I need a rest anyway.'

  A waiter walked out of the tavern and up to their table. 'Miss Blue, your room is ready.'

  Anaïs huffed and eyeballed him. 'Why does everyone call me that!'

  Nightmare

  It had to be a dream. It could not be real. How could it be? It was impossible otherwise. How did he get here? Why was he standing there right in front of her, in the middle of the street in Amalfi? Something was not right.

  She tried to move but couldn't. She was frozen to the spot. She could move her body freely from the knees up, but somehow her feet were anchored to the ground. She looked down. Cobblestones encased her shoes. They had grown out of the ground and wrapped stone fingers around them. She tried desperately to shake the stone shackles loose. It was impossible. She strained against her shoes of solid rock. They didn't budge. She leaned forward and then backwards, almost losing her balance. It was pointless. There was nothing she could do. She was trapped.

  She looked up. He was approaching her. The man in black with the shaved head. The Inquisitor. He was alone. Where was the dog? He always had the animal with him. That was good. That was fortunate. She would only have one foe to battle. She was certain without the hellhound he could be defeated. The animal was a force to be feared. He was just a man.

  He measured his stride. He was in no hurry. There was no need. She could not run away. Frantically, she looked around for a weapon. There was nothing. She ran her hands over her body and down the heavy coat she was wearing. She searched for a bulge, a sign that there was something in its pockets. She felt nothing.

  She grabbed her own skull and felt around the contours of her head. She ran her fingers through her hair. Her beret. It wasn't there. She never went anywhere without it. Why wasn't it there? The fan was in it. She could have used it as she had done before. She could have blasted him the hell out of there. Maybe even disintegrated the stone around her feet.

  She shoved her hands in the side pockets of her jacket. She clawed with her fingers. The pockets were empty. Or perhaps not? There was something in the right one, something soft. She pried at it with the tips of her fingers. It was deep in the corner of the pocket between the folds. She pinched the edge with her fingernails and pulled out her hand. She held it in front of her face. It was a ball of lint. Or was it?

  She placed it in the centre of her palm and closed her hands around it. She rubbed and rolled it between her palms. It grew, expanding and filling the void between her hands. A black substance oozed between her fingers. It looked like cloth. It coated the backs of her hands. It locked them together.

  Damn! Her heart pounded. It encased her fingers like mittens and flowed to her wrists. It climbed her arms all the way to her shoulders. It continued to spread across them. In an instant it shot down her body. Dropping like a heavy curtain, it completely covered her torso and legs.

  From her shoulders it slowly crept upwards. She felt warmth as it made contact with the bare skin on her neck. It wrapped so tightly she thought she would choke. It pressed against her Adam's apple. She stretched her neck to try to pull her head away from the stuff. There was no escape. It continued to spread.

  He was centimetres away from her now, taking a last step towards her. He bent forward and nestled his head nex
t to her own. The buttons on the breast of his coat were in her face. Then she lost sight.

  The black moved up over her ears like the tentacles of an octopus. It covered her head. It ran over her forehead and down her face like a stream of warm water. She tried to blink it away but it was futile. She could not fight it.

  The cloth forced her lids shut and continued its journey down over the rest of her face. It covered her mouth. She panicked and began gasping for air. Calm yourself. She could breathe a little. It was difficult but she managed. She wasn't suffocating. She felt cool air passing through her nostrils. The cloth was not airtight. It had left little holes under her nose. She inhaled deeply through them and out again.

  She heard his voice. Close, so close, his hot breath in her ear. It echoed in her head.

  'Got you!'

  She grunted.

  She screamed.

  'No!'

  With a rush of adrenaline, she threw her arms wide. Surprisingly, there was no resistance from the black coating. It shattered. There was a fierce rushing in her ears and a tinkling sound, like the crystals chiming on a chandelier blowing in the wind. She opened her eyes and immediately the sound stopped.

  Strange. She was not standing. She was lying flat on her back. Something spongy was beneath her spine. Directly above her was a white surface. She peered at it closely, confused. The paint job had been heavy-handed. It was thick, glutinous and globular.

  She was looking at a ceiling. A broad wooden beam supported it. The beam was stained black and cut a sharp, wide line across the centre of the white expanse above her. She turned her head to the right. She felt the softness of a pillow under her head. There was a window. Through it she could see a shape, the outline of the towers of the paper factory against a starlit sky. It had all been a dream. She was in bed.

  She turned her head to the other side. Nan sat in an armchair looking directly at her. 'Go back to sleep, Anaïs. Get some more rest. You have been dreaming.'