The Promptuary Read online

This is not to say that fans cannot be trusted. It is more that, once they have had a peek behind the scenes, they are usually in for a shock. More than likely, they are also in for a huge disappointment. Most people cannot cope with the reality hidden behind what props something extraordinary up. Generally, it is a lot more mundane and boring than expected. Maintaining a magical facade requires an inordinate amount of hard work. For most fans, this is no fun. They prefer to see results, and quickly. Otherwise, they will find something better to fill their time. They will move onto the next available icon to worship.

  The day-to-day life of a witch is not particularly exciting. They are the same as you and me. They have to do their daily ablutions. Not to mention, going grocery shopping, cleaning, washing and other menial tasks. Then there is the decision about what to wear for the day.

  Witches tend to have an extensive wardrobe, and deciding on the appropriate clothing for a day of witching can be quite tedious. This is especially the case when you are unsure of what you will be up against. All manner of supernatural and physical obstacles are likely to confront you. Choosing suitable attire is made all the more complicated when everything you own is stuffed into a hat. By the time you have rummaged through its contents, and laid it out on your bed—if you have one—you still have to decide what matches what. For this reason, witches tend to go for basic black. Although, in the case of Anaïs, purple was her preference. But then, Anaïs liked to be different.

  These things, the basics, all have to be attended to before any work can be done. The average fan would get bored senseless waiting for anything magical to occur. Not that a witch's assistant is expected to do most of these things. They are primarily enlisted to smooth over the inadequacies of physical witch communication. And occasionally do their taxes.

  One major requirement is that an assistant needs to be on call day and night. This is quite a stretch for an admirer, especially if the pay is not good. So, if a fan or supporter is of no use, then you need to find someone more reliable. Preferably someone close to home. An assistant who will not run off at a moment's notice and feels duty bound to the task they are given. Someone who is trained to be fully aware of their responsibilities. Someone who is mutually invested in the cause. Someone who feels morally obligated and who can be held accountable. Specifically, someone who is family.

  Some find it a curse, others an honour, but, whenever possible, the task of being a witch's assistant usually falls to their offspring.

  Kernel Panic

  Anaïs snickered. 'Sojourner Pink is your mother!'

  'Yes, of course. What's wrong with that?'

  'Oh, nothing,' said Anaïs. 'Perhaps a little odd.'

  'Odd?' squeaked the librarian. 'We all have to come from somewhere.'

  'I know that. I'm sorry. I suppose I'm just a little surprised.'

  'Probably not as surprised as she was when I popped out,' said the librarian with a smirk.

  'Oh, so you were a mistake?'

  The librarian's smile melted. 'I wouldn't know. I certainly hope not.' A troubled look clouded her face. 'I never thought to ask.'

  Anaïs sensed she had insulted her. She reached across to pat her arm. The librarian retracted it. 'What are you doing?'

  'I was trying to comfort you. I thought I'd said the wrong thing.'

  'Why would you think that?'

  'Oh, just because …' Anaïs was confused. 'Never mind.'

  The librarian looked at her with consternation. 'Even for a witch, you're a little strange.'

  Anaïs breathed out slowly. 'Maybe it's better if we don't discuss mothers?'

  'Yes, maybe,' said Immi. 'Let's change the subject.' She nodded at the hat on the witch's head. 'Could you check your promptuary? I'd like to know where we're going.'

  Anaïs brightened. 'Yes, good idea. So would I.'

  She took off her beret and rummaged around inside.

  'That's something I will never get used to,' said Immi.

  'What?' Anaïs stopped what she was doing and looked at the librarian.

  Immi pointed at the witch's arm which had disappeared up to the elbow into her beret. 'Your stump.'

  'Oh this? Stump? Now who's the one with the strange sense of humour?'

  'Peas in a pod,' said the librarian and grinned at her.

  Anaïs found her promptuary and pulled it out. She placed it on her lap and set the beret back on her head. She opened the handbook.

  'Map,' she commanded.

  Nothing happened. The pages of the promptuary did not transform. They looked like the leaves of any ordinary book. Anaïs closed the handbook. She turned it over in her hands and scrutinised it. She opened it once more.

  'Map,' she said forcefully.

  Again there was no response. She slammed it shut and slapped the back cover. She opened the handbook and bent it back, cracking its spine. She flipped through its pages and stopped at the centre. She closed her eyes and concentrated. Clearing her mind, she focussed on the book.

  'Map,' she pleaded softly.

  She opened her eyes. The pages transformed momentarily and a blue screen appeared. Anaïs's eyes widened. There was an electrical crackle and then the screen dematerialised. Once again she was left staring at ordinary sheets of paper.

  She was distraught. What's going on?

  Anaïs held the book in front of her with both hands. She shook it. She yelled at it in frustration, 'Oh c'mon, work!'

  There was no reaction from the promptuary. She closed the handbook and jammed her thumb down hard on the star in the centre of the front cover. It barely illuminated. It flickered sporadically on and off before emitting a slow, pulsing light. Anaïs set the book down on her knees and glared at it.

  'I thought that thing could tell us where we're going,' said Immi.

  'So did I,' said Anaïs. 'It wasn't the only thing it could do. Obviously there's something wrong with its supernatural circuitry, like it's locked in some form of sleep mode. It was working fine before.'

  'When before?'

  'In the town, before you-know-what happened.'

  The librarian dipped her chin and looked over her sunglasses at Anaïs. 'Uh huh, so you think that had something to do with it?'

  'How would I know? I just use the thing. I didn't make it. They didn't give me a manual with it. It is the manual.'

  'Who is them?'

  'The Organisation,' said Anaïs. 'They gave it to me a few years back. At least I think they did.' She pointed at the beret upon her head. 'They actually gave me this for a birthday. The promptuary was in it. I have no idea where it came from.'

  Anaïs paused for a moment. 'Your mum's a member. Didn't she tell you anything about this sort of stuff?'

  The librarian shook her head. 'No, she never tells me anything. Most of the time I wonder why I'm sworn to secrecy when nobody lets me in on any of their secrets.'

  Anaïs picked up the promptuary and ran her finger around the contours of the star. 'There was a heap of energy running wild last night. Maybe it short circuited?'

  'You mean like some kind of supernatural glitch has sent it haywire?'

  Anaïs leaned back in her seat, rested her head on top of the backrest and stared at the roof of the Morris Minor. 'What do I know?'

  The librarian sighed. 'Where does that leave us then?'

  'We have the car,' said Anaïs.

  'Yes, you have a point, but that's not exactly reassuring. At least, as far as I'm concerned.' She ran her eyes over the dashboard and stared at the needle quivering on the speedometer. 'It's fine if it knows where it's going, but I would kind of like to know as well.'

  'I agree, but maybe we should just trust it?'

  'Maybe, although I have to say there's not much I'm prepared to blindly trust anymore.'

  'Well, have you got any better ideas?'

  'Nope,' said Immi. The two women stared at the road ahead.

  The caretaker's voice rang in the witch's head. 'Why don't we all just relax, sit back and enjoy the ride.'

  The
librarian swung around in her seat and looked down at the witch. 'Did you say something?'

  'No, Nan did.' Anaïs furrowed her brow. 'Did you hear it?'

  'I heard someone whispering,' said Immi.

  'Wow, weird. Perhaps hanging around with a witch is starting to rub off on you.'

  The librarian frowned. 'Don't say that. I could do without the complications.' She eyed the shade in the rear-vision mirror. 'What did she say anyway?'

  'She told us to calm down,' said Anaïs.

  'Calm down? I am calm.' She squirmed in her seat. 'I'd just like to know what's going on.'

  'Wouldn't we all? Try being dead for a change and see how you like it,' said the caretaker dryly.

  Anaïs hooted and burst into laughter.

  'It's not funny,' said the librarian.

  Anaïs covered her mouth and tried to stifle her giggling.

  'Oh, yes it is,' she said, her voice muffled by her fingers. 'It's very funny.'

  * * *

  SUPERNATURAL SOFTWARE +

  * * *

  Not everything in the witch world runs smoothly. Just as in our own world, there are glitches. Nothing is infallible. The forces of nature will conspire and cause stuff to fail or have minor hiccups. Nature has a way of shooting itself in the proverbial foot. There are no hard and fast rules to it. Nature is constantly in motion. The more you try to get your head around its workings, the more confusing it gets. Nature is an incredibly complex beast.

  Witch's handbooks are rare objects. A witch does not choose a promptuary. There are no shops where you can buy them. Purveyors of the occult will try to fob something similar off to you but you will be squandering your money. A promptuary cannot be bought. Nor can it be traded for that matter. If you are fortunate enough to receive one, it will be yours and yours alone. When the time comes, and presumably a promptuary knows when this is—they know everything else—a witch will receive their personal copy. Without one you cannot truly call yourself a witch. Once a promptuary has attached itself to your person it will never leave your side. Anaïs had already experienced this peculiar irritation. A book which just wouldn't leave her alone. One which would reveal itself at will. One which had a mind of its own. Unfortunately, now she had a book that wasn't worth the paper it was written on.

  A small number of promptuaries have been discovered by naturals but, of course, no one has been able to get them to function. This is partly due to their not knowing what they held in their hands. To most naturals, it's just a book. To the human eye its contents are illegible. It is like having a toy or game in your hands and not being able to find the 'on' switch.

  One example of a promptuary which has fallen into the wrong hands is the Voynich manuscript. For hundreds of years it has mystified naturals. Nobody knows exactly where it came from. There are stories of it originally being owned by a nobleman and then being handed on to someone else as a payment. In the days before international currency, trade in goods and service was more common. Long after the Romans came along and gave everybody loose change to jangle in their pockets, people continued trading in valuable objects. They still do it today.

  There is much speculation as to who wrote the Voynich manuscript. On the surface it is constructed of a type of paper which was only available hundreds of years ago. The ink used on its pages is also not out of the ordinary for its pedigree. As far as old books go, it is just that—an old book. That is, until you open it.

  The most curious things are written in it. The book contains an alphabet and illustrations. Yet no one has been able to understand them. Over the past century a number of the world's best cryptologists and decipherers have given it their best shot. Even the United States National Security Agency made attempts to decipher it in the 1950s. Not one expert has found the solution. Nobody has been able to crack the code.

  At the very least they have concluded something very important. The contents of the Voynich manuscript are a code. On this point, they are correct.

  The manuscript is one example of a promptuary which has had a supernatural software crash. It should have gone in for repairs. The book's binding appears to have been altered. It is missing its original jacket. Every promptuary has a star on its front cover, but not this one. This may go some way to explaining why it does not work. For those without the necessary knowledge, what it now contains is gobbledygook.

  Its owner clearly did not have the ways or means to get it repaired and rather than seek a way to destroy it, which is also a difficult task, they misplaced it. Either that or perhaps the owner expired before they could do anything about it. Regrettably it has fallen into the hands of naturals. Fortunately, as long as it remains in its present state, it is harmless.

  Witches are aware of its existence and it has served as a warning to those who are in possession of their own promptuary. Guard your handbook well. If something untoward should happen to your copy, you are responsible for its wellbeing. If it is in a defenceless state and cannot perform its usual magic, you must ensure it stays hidden, even if you cannot repair it.

  In principle a natural should not be able to decipher a promptuary, but there are no guarantees. What naturals lack in knowledgeable management of the universe they make up for with ingenuity. One danger is that a handbook, in such a state of disarray, could attach itself to the wrong person. Someone without the knowledge to use it properly. Even worse, the code could be cracked. In the case of the Voynich manuscript there is the risk that maybe some hacker will stumble upon a way to reboot it. Then they could conceivably manipulate its power to wreak havoc. One step further, and a worst case scenario, is if naturals found a way to reproduce its inner workings. Then we would all truly be in trouble. Virtually anyone could get access to a copy.

  Thankfully none of this has happened, but we do not want to go tempting fate. Uncontrollable power in the hands of novices is never a good thing.

  An Apology

  Anaïs wriggled in her seat. It was getting uncomfortable. She also sensed the need for a toilet break. She turned to the librarian. 'Do you think we can make this thing stop? I think I need to take a leak.'

  Immi sat with her arms folded across her chest, her eyes shooting over the hedgerows as they flew by.

  'Do I look like I'm the one in control here?' She nodded at the steering wheel in front of her. It twitched left and right, keeping the vehicle centred on the bitumen. She snarled. 'You're the witch. Why don't you ask it?'

  'I never thought of that,' said Anaïs. She scratched her head. 'I'll give it a try.' She reached out and stroked the smooth metal dashboard. 'Please stop,' she said softly.

  Immediately, the Morris Minor cut its engine and slowed. Immi raised an eyebrow, pursed her lips and looked down at Anaïs. 'Next time, I'll just let you drive.'

  Anaïs grinned. 'Cool!'

  'I was joking,' said Immi. 'It's far from cool. I don't think letting you drive is a good idea. You can't even see over the steering wheel. I certainly hope this thing doesn't listen to you too much.'

  The smirk spread wider across Anaïs's face. Immi put her head in her hands and shook it. The car pulled over to the side of the road and stopped in a gap between the hedgerows.

  'I'll be right back,' said Anaïs.

  'I doubt I'll be going anywhere without you,' sniped the librarian.

  Anaïs batted her eyelids at her. She unlatched her door and pushed it open with both legs. She stepped out of the vehicle and slammed the door behind her. Beyond the hedgerow was an open field. She walked out into it, the frost-coated grass crunching under her shoes. She took in the view. The need to relieve herself faded. It hadn't been what had driven her out of the car. She really just wanted a moment to herself. She breathed deeply.

  Anaïs adjusted the sunglasses on her nose. She lifted them up and peeked out under them. She decided the purple tint suited her better than the natural light and dropped them back on her nose. She adjusted them so that they hooked more securely over her ears. She thought about the shade she had just save
d and smiled to herself, once again thanking him silently for his gift.

  'Nice view.'

  Anaïs jumped in surprise. She whirled around. Nan was so close the witch's face became buried in the folds of the shade's overcoat. She sucked in her breath and recoiled in shock. Stepping away from her caretaker, she turned, exhaled and waited until her thumping heart settled. 'Can you not sneak up on me like that?'

  'Sorry for startling you, I'm still getting used to this myself.'

  'That doesn't surprise me.' She pulled her beret down low over her ears and looked out at the undulating fields before her. She shivered, feeling the chill of the shade hanging on her shoulder. It was cold even without the addition of its aura. 'And yes, you're right, it is a nice view.'

  Anaïs closed her eyes. She sniffed and rubbed her nose. 'I'm sorry,' she said.

  There was no response from Nan. Anaïs sensed she was not ready to accept apologies. She pondered their situation and realised facing your killer, even if the act was unintentional, could not be an easy thing to do. She decided to try another approach. Perhaps it would help if they discussed the events which led them to their present predicament.

  'What happened, Nan?'

  'What do you mean?'

  'To you,' said Anaïs. 'What happened to you?'

  Nan considered her question for a moment. 'You mean before all this, in Amsterdam?'

  Anaïs nodded.

  'I don't remember much, only darkness. Lots and lots of darkness.'

  'And before the darkness, before it happened, do you remember anything?'

  'I was in the kitchen and the doorbell rang.'

  'That's it?'

  'Yes.'

  'And after that?'

  'Nothing else. Like I said, darkness. I was in the kitchen making you lunch and it was as if a curtain dropped. Then it lifted. Suddenly, there I was, standing on a street in Cornwall with you. We are in Cornwall aren't we? I saw some signs.'

  Anaïs looked over the field at the horizon. Running along it she could see the blue line of the ocean. 'Yes, we are in Cornwall, although I have no idea where exactly.'