The Promptuary Read online

  Anaïs nodded and closed her eyes. She focussed on an image of Nan in her mind. She narrowed in on it. A still-shot of the smiling face of her caretaker. It blocked all other thoughts. The dream did not return and nor did the Inquisitor. She slept soundly until the sharp rays of morning sunlight hit her face.

  Through the mist of sleep she heard the sound of knuckles rapping on wood. A door opened and then came the voice of the papermaker.

  'Miss Blue? Your promptuary is ready.'

  Battling Evil

  Evil has many faces. People generally become evil. They are not born that way. Certainly some are not aware they are perpetrating evil. Evil is a matter of opinion. Is there even such a thing as pure evil?

  Is evil perhaps something which is only the result of a sequence of events? People do the strangest things, sometimes for no reason. Apart from spreading negativity, what is the purpose of being nasty anyway? Even if you are building an evil empire, you are constructing something. Even in evil there is growth.

  Evil does not stand alone. It needs help. It has a group mentality. It needs support to be successful. Why would you practise evil if you have no one to share it with? Surely the evildoer is proud of their evil achievements.

  Murder, arson, robbery. If you ran around doing these things and nobody batted an eyelid, would there even be a point to it? Evil requires encouragement. Evil requires an audience. It has to have a goal like everything else.

  In some cases, the perpetrators of evil are unaware what they are doing is wrong. I am not excusing them, but it seems to me some will believe what they are doing to be for the greater good. So, is evil in fact just misplaced good? Is it all in the eye of the beholder? Or merely another viewpoint?

  In the dark ages, also a loaded term, witches had to face evil. Perhaps more than at any other time in history. There were those out to get them. These scoundrels were no match for real witches. They chose to attack those who were defenceless. They chose to attack the innocent and the weak. Women and even children. Witches were not really the target. Their name was borrowed and then misconstrued.

  In the Middle Ages the Witch-Finder General was one such person. He built a whole career around hunting down supposed purveyors of magic. Evildoers in his eyes. He gave them a name, labelling them witches, but only because he was lazy and probably a bit of a coward. Witches have a connection to something physical. At least in the minds of naturals. If he had said he was hunting down demons he may not have gained any kind of support. Not that he had real support. He forced his way into his dubious position. People need something physical to hang on to. There has to be a connection to reality. In general demons are rather difficult to see and it is difficult to prove they exist. Furthermore, if you go down that path you run the risk of raising something you can't control—the unknown.

  He gave himself the job. He invented a non-existent position. I suppose in some way it could be seen as admirable. He was being an entrepreneur. He was out to make a living. He spotted a gap in the market and went for it. The fact that it was inherently evil and preyed on the weak was clearly not a concern for him. But it is always that way. The weak are easily duped, and not just the victims. Somebody also had to foot the bill for all the madness. The unscrupulous are also easily misled if they think they are getting a good deal. Naturals have a tendency to believe anything if fear is involved.

  Whether the Inquisitor believed what he was doing was evil is debatable. He was certainly pretty good at generating fear. For him, this was relatively easy. Nobody really knew what his motivation was. The unknown was his greatest ally.

  Clearly he had an obsession with getting the job done. Beyond that, he had set his sights on Anaïs. Or so it seemed. At the very least he was disturbing her sleep. For a witch in training this sort of distraction could be just as damaging. Even when he wasn't actually there.

  If she was smart she should follow his lead. Not the evil part; more the work ethic. Just as he was doing, she needed to keep her focus on the job in hand.

  Reunited

  It was where she had left it, lying in the centre of the table. The papermaker drew back the cloth covering it and revealed his handiwork. The promptuary looked brand new. The once tattered corners of its cover were neat and sharp. The pages were also no longer dog-eared. There were no smudges, scratches or stains on its cover. No signs of wear whatsoever. It looked like any other book which had just come off the shelf and never been touched. It was in practically the same state in which she had received it all those years ago. The cover sparkled. The star gleamed brightly, casting a warm glow on the ceiling above the table. It outshone the single lightbulb hanging in the dim room.

  'You have a very special book here, Miss Blue,' said the papermaker.

  'Anaïs,' she said and eyed him. 'What did you do to it?'

  'Trade secret, I'm afraid, Anaïs,' he said, putting emphasis on her name. 'What I have done is of no importance. I am just a facilitator, a humble artisan. I construct and repair. You had some damaged pages. I replaced them and the book did the rest. The magic is in the material, not in the making.'

  Anaïs took his hand and shook it in gratitude. 'Thank you,' she said. 'May I?' She reached out to pick up the promptuary.

  'Certainly. It is your book. My work is done. I must say your promptuary is the most extraordinary handbook I have ever worked on. Even in its debilitated state it continually made attempts to return to you. We did have quite a struggle but we found a way. I am pleased with the result and hope it functions normally.'

  Anaïs twisted her lip. 'Honestly, I wouldn't know what normal is.'

  The little witch slipped her hand under the book and cautiously picked it up. She handled it like an incredibly fragile object, a fine piece of porcelain. She balanced it on her flat, open palms. At first there was nothing, but then she felt a mild tingling in her fingertips.

  The book sucked itself to her skin, creating its own vacuum and locking her palms to its cover. She felt its magnetic pull. A searing surge of power caused the veins on the backs of her hands to swell. The force snapped at her wrists and coursed rapidly up through her body. She stiffened and went rigid. A spike of adrenaline hit her and her heart began to race. It took her breath away. She felt a hot flush. The invisible force oozed from her pores like sweat and clothed her. She felt ensconced in it, almost as if coated in a layer of insulation.

  Her entire body began to quiver. Her teeth chattered. She locked her jaw to stop them. She rocked on her heels. The papermaker cautiously took a step away from her. He eyed her with suspicion.

  'Are you all right?' he whispered.

  Her eyeballs were the only thing she could move. She rolled them round in their sockets to look at him. She had no idea what was happening yet strangely felt no fear. Her body was immobilised but there was a kind of tranquillity. She was one with her book. Reunited with a long lost friend. She wanted to tell the papermaker everything was fine, not to worry, but could not find the words nor even form syllables with her mouth. Her lips were numb as if under the effect of an anaesthetic. They trembled.

  The star on the promptuary suddenly illuminated, flooding the room with blinding light. A wind emanated from the book. It blew the beret off her head. It felt as if someone had spat in her face. The blast shook the room. Centuries of dust, which had sat dormant on the rafters of the room, flew into the air. The whole room was covered in the stuff. The intense light from the star lit every speck and there seemed more than there actually was. It was like being in the middle of a snow storm.

  The room was not the only thing affected by this second surge. A new, more intense explosion of power shot through Anaïs. She choked and spat out a mouthful of air. She gulped and quickly sucked fresh oxygen back through her teeth. It was stale and musty from the dank room. Particles of dust affixed themselves to her teeth. Some of them passed through and lodged in her throat. She choked and coughed. Her head began to swim. Panic set in. She moaned. It was too much. She wanted out. It was enough. S
he began to hyperventilate. She drew in several short, sharp breaths. Desperately trying to get a hold of herself.

  Nan's voice sounded in her head. She spoke softly. 'Anaïs, go with it. Don't fight it.'

  Anaïs tried to turn her head to look at her caretaker, but could not. She was still fixed in position. She clamped her eyelids shut and concentrated on the force flowing through her. She followed its path along her arms to its source, the book in her hands. The promptuary began to vibrate. The reverberations shot up her arms. The book threw wave after wave of pulsating power through her limbs. It turned them to jelly. She shook all over, her arms locked to the handbook. The shockwaves hit her as if she were gripping a jackhammer.

  'Please stop,' she pleaded through her gritted teeth. A tear broke free of the corner of one eye and then a flood followed. They streamed down her face.

  She screamed for all she was worth. 'Stop!'

  The word echoed loudly off the walls, the ceiling and every other surface in the room. The power surge from the promptuary ebbed and suddenly stopped. The intense light was extinguished with it. She was released.

  Anaïs expelled all the air from her lungs in one massive gasp. Her knees went on her. Falling forward she caught herself on the edge of the table with her hips. She folded at the waist and dropped the full weight of her upper body onto her elbows on the flat surface before her. She let her arms fall forward. Her wrists jarred on the table top. The promptuary bounced out of her hands and slid across the table.

  The strain was too much for her neck, and her head followed her arms. She jarred her forehead on the hard wooden surface of the table. She yelped, let her head fall to one side and rested her cheek on the crook in her arm.

  She arched her neck and looked at the promptuary. She stared at it for a moment. It lay there innocently—just a book. She screwed up her face and then turned her head to one side. She searched for Nan.

  The shade was a few metres away, her arms wrapped tightly around a wooden pillar which supported the roof. There was a look of panic in her eyes. They flitted from Anaïs to the book and back again.

  The little witch grinned at Nan. 'Well, that was an experience!'

  Her whole body shuddered with a mixture of joy and relief. Anaïs began to giggle uncontrollably.

  The Message

  Outside on the street, Marilyn hung over the witch's shoulder and admired the promptuary. Next to her, Truman stood with his chin on his chest, staring at the ground. He was very pale, even for a shade. His knees were slightly bent and it appeared as if he would sink down on them and collapse at any moment. Anaïs felt a pang of sorrow for him. Nan and the librarian stood near the entrance to the factory. The caretaker was sketching something in the sand at her feet. She seemed to be explaining to the librarian what had happened in the factory.

  'It looks different, Anaïs,' said Marilyn.

  'Yes, it does, doesn't it?'

  'It must be a relief to have it back.'

  Anaïs nodded and turned the book over in her hands. It felt good. The cover was warm and tactile. She felt one with it. It had become a part of her. Not the irritating object she had been lugging around in the past. Now it had power. Together they had power. Intrinsically, they were linked. She rubbed the back cover with the palm of her hand. She pressed down on it. It was soft and malleable and moulded itself to her hand like a glove.

  As she caressed the back cover, letters appeared. They swirled around the surface and assembled themselves in the centre. Two neat lines of text emblazoned themselves in gold lettering beneath her fingers. She retracted her hand. It left a vague imprint on the surface and then dematerialised. She read the words aloud, 'Memento mori.'

  She scratched her head. What did that mean? She flipped the book over and ran her index finger around the contours of the star on the front cover. It sparkled where she touched it. A soft glow shone through the skin at the edges of her finger.

  She splayed her hand across the cover. An unseen energy flowed through the centre of her palm. She watched with fascination as the veins on the back of her hand stood out on her skin. Purple lines drew their way up her forearms. She concentrated and held back its full force. If she focussed, she had control. She didn't dare relax for fear of repeating the experience in the paper factory. The energy the book emitted tensed the muscles in her triceps. It crept further, up through her neck. It entered her spinal cord and bored into her head. A flush of warmth coursed through her brain. She felt a wealth of knowledge flow into it. For a moment she felt slightly faint. She widened her eyes and flexed her eyebrows. It helped to clear her head. In her mind's eye she saw everything. She turned to the shade.

  'Why don't you stop doing this?'

  'What do you mean?' huffed Marilyn. 'Doing what?' The shades eyes darted around.

  'Being a cardboard cut-out of yourself,' replied Anaïs.

  'What do you mean?'

  'You spend the whole day obsessed with your appearance. You even try to disguise your disguise. I like you but not the fake you.'

  Marilyn was insulted. 'It's not fake.'

  'Yes, it is,' said Anaïs. 'Why don't you just be yourself?'

  'It's too hard. I prefer being this. To be frank I don't even remember who I was before. This is me now.'

  'No, it's not.'

  The shade would not be swayed. 'It is!'

  Anaïs considered her for a moment. Confronting Marilyn head-on would not work. She tried a different tact. 'Wouldn't you be happier being yourself?'

  The shade shook her head. 'The thing is, people like what I have become. I wouldn't want to disappoint my fans.'

  'Marilyn, you're dead. Your fans won't be disappointed. They worship an image of you, a memory. Yours is perhaps the most famous image in the world. It's iconic and will never fade. It doesn't matter what you do now. Anyway, they can't see you anymore. You can stop the charade. It's pointless.'

  'Not to me!' The shade glowered at the little witch.

  'Is that why you killed yourself? So you could stay this way forever.'

  She eyeballed Anaïs. 'That's a bit harsh!' The witch folded her arms in defiance. Marilyn sighed. 'No, it had nothing to do with that. I was unhappy I guess.'

  'Why?'

  'I wanted to be a mother.'

  Anaïs raised an eyebrow. 'Oh, really?'

  'Yes, I tried but it didn't work. There was something wrong with me—here.' She rubbed her stomach. 'I couldn't have kids.'

  Anaïs bit her bottom lip. 'I'm sorry.'

  'Don't be. In the end I tried to accept it. It's not your fault. It’s nobody's fault. I got used to it, sort of. Well, I tried to get used to it.'

  'It's too late to do anything about that now, I suppose,' said Anaïs with a hint of sadness. 'But perhaps you could try to be yourself. You could stop acting.'

  'I'm worried if I do that then there will be nothing left of me. I've been doing this for so long.'

  'There's always something left of you. Just like the image of you people see on the outside, the part of you on the inside, the part you hide, can never die.' Anaïs paused. 'It is the real forever.'

  The little witch continued, 'The image you worked so hard on will be forever implanted in people's minds. You don't have to sell it anymore. I told you, you don't have to worry about that.' Anaïs reached out and clasped the shade's hands in her own. She fought the urge to shiver. 'Be yourself, Marilyn. Be the real you. Even if it's just for you. Your fans won't see it now. It’s safe to come out. Stop being a shadow of yourself.'

  Marilyn sighed. 'I have to think.' She looked down at the little witch and knotted her skilfully manicured eyebrows. 'Where do you get this stuff from?'

  Anaïs scratched her head. 'Beats me. Do you like it?'

  The shade grinned and nodded.

  'It's my job. I should try to be good at it,' said Anaïs. 'It's weird. The promptuary seems to be funnelling all this stuff. It's new.'

  'How old are you anyway?'

  'Eighteen.'

  'Impressi
ve. You don't look it.' The shade looked down her nose at the little witch.

  'No. As you see, you're not the only one with a physical anomaly.'

  'And you lecture me about my appearance?'

  Anaïs flushed red.

  'Sorry, being a teenager is hell. I remember. This must suck big time.'

  Anaïs nodded. She took a deep breath and mustered her strength. 'Thanks, Marilyn, but we're not here for me. What do you think? Do you want to give it another go?'

  'What?'

  'Life,' said Anaïs.

  The shade shrugged. 'I don't know.'

  'What makes you think you can't have a life like anyone else? What are you afraid of?'

  'I don't think I can trust anyone. I got screwed around so much in the last one I don't want to risk it happening again.'

  'It's a risk we all take. Nobody gets a choice in how it begins. But after that we do. It might not be easy, but we have to make the best of what we're given. Having a life is an honourable thing. You can do so much with one. Death is not going to get you anywhere. Wouldn't it be more fun getting the chance to see how a new one turns out? Wouldn't it be better to at least live a life on your terms instead of the one you just had. A life where you get to truly be yourself. Isn't that worth the risk?'

  'I suppose so, but I'm scared.'

  'Don't be. Fear is stupid. So are regrets.'

  'That's a good one. Who said that?'

  'You did.'

  'Really?'

  Anaïs nodded. 'Yeah, I read it somewhere. You also said you'd like to be delayed attending your own funeral.'

  Marilyn laughed. 'Well, that didn't go according to plan, did it?'

  Anaïs smirked and shook her head. 'No not exactly.' She smiled at the shade. 'Look, even if it all turns to crap you can always come back and do it again.'

  'Did I say that too?'

  Anaïs shook her head again. 'I'm all out of quotes.'