The Promptuary Page 4

  One possibility is that during the process of translating the Hebrew Bible something went haywire. Perhaps whoever wrote it just couldn't count. They pulled a number out of thin air and were pleasantly surprised when everyone believed them. Perhaps they added an extra number to keep it interesting. It would be a really boring read if they merely named names. Perhaps they decided to spice it up. They knew that without some screwy bit of information the reader would skim that part. But that is all hypothetical. Maybe the solution is simpler than we think.

  We forgot. That's all it is.

  At some point in the modern age we forgot to live. We became too preoccupied with trying to work out our inner workings and didn't trust our bodies to look after themselves. We started tampering with stuff. We broke the most intricate piece of machinery on the planet.

  Naturals stuff their bodies with all kinds of concoctions. Witches are not the only ones with potions. We try to augment and change the body's inner workings. We take things out and put other things back in. We pump it with all manner of foreign material which is supposedly good for us. We immediately react to what we perceive is not running correctly. Often it's all in our heads and not in our bodies. We don't take a step back and let it repair itself. We are far too impulsive. Are we experts? What do we really know about the human body? Clearly, not enough.

  We are not qualified to tamper with something so complicated. That is better left to a higher power. We are like small children pulling the legs off insects. Often, we are destroying ourselves, when, all the while, we think we are helping ourselves.

  Witches don't tamper. They don't dabble. Or at least they try to avoid it at all costs. More importantly, they remember how to live. They have not forgotten. It's all about acceptance. They let things be as they are. They don't continually fight for control over the unknown. Knowledge is a fantastic thing but not always useful. It clouds judgement. High intelligence is no guarantee of being right. If we get bogged down with our perceived knowledge, and the eternal quest for more of it, we miss the whole point. The universe just is. Leave it alone. It will sort itself out. It's been around a lot longer than you or I. Don't mess with it and all will be fine. Then perhaps we will all live longer. Just like witches, we all have the potential to become preternatural.

  The Locomotive

  The locomotive wheezed loudly as if it were suffering from a debilitating lung condition. It was gigantic and practically filled the tunnel. Standing beside it, Anaïs craned her neck, tilting her head back and taking in its enormity. Its silver-coated bulk gleamed as if it had just come off the factory floor and never been in use. Anaïs smiled and her face lit up. It was quite something to behold.

  After they left the wooden shed, which in reality was a carriage at the rear of a train, the old man had proclaimed himself the engineer of the vehicle. He had led the way down the platform. Anaïs had followed him to the driver's cabin. He had climbed a ladder on the side of the locomotive and stepped inside. He now stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame.

  He reached into his greatcoat and, from a tartan waistcoat, pulled out a silver fob watch. He checked the time. Not unlike the locomotive, the watch was an instrument of generous proportions. He balanced it in the palm of his hand, the tips of his fingers barely wrapping around its edges. It trailed a heavy silver chain. The links disappeared into the folds of his greatcoat.

  The engineer flipped the watch over in his hand. Vapour hissed out through a tiny hole on its circumference. It appeared to be steam powered. He removed the glove from his free hand and pried open a small lid on its rear face. Bending down, he ran his fingers along the floor at his feet. Coal dust coated the tips of his fingers. He ground it between his fingertips and funnelled it into the hole. There was a flare and a lick of flame shot out. The engineer pulled his head back quickly, to avoid singeing his eyebrows. He snapped the little lid shut, turned the watch over in his hand and once again consulted the dials on its face. He pulled on his white glove and polished the instrument. From his perch he looked down his nose at the little witch and sighed.

  'There was a time when I had a little more assistance,' he declared. 'I would ask you to help but once this thing is up and running it's better not to be up here.' The engineer checked his watch again. 'We have a few minutes. Would you like to take a look?'

  Anaïs grinned up at him. 'Would I ever?'

  The engineer knelt on one knee, gripped the door frame of the cabin and reached down. He flipped his fingers at her. Anaïs grabbed his hand.

  He bared his dentures and winked at her. 'All aboard!' he cried.

  For such an old man he was surprisingly strong. Effortlessly and in one fluid motion, he pulled her up, standing as he did. She gripped her arm with her other one to prevent it being wrenched out of its socket. She felt like a fish hanging from a line. The engineer took a step back, spun a half turn and deposited her in the cabin beside him.

  Even in the relatively dim light of the cabin the engine sparkled and glinted. Anaïs had half expected to see a soot-covered lump of ancient machinery. This was something altogether different. There were all the usual makings of a steam engine: a coal furnace throwing off heat from its fire chamber, and all manner of cranks, cogs, levers and dials. Except, instead of being black, the machinery and mechanisms were silver plated and spotless. Anaïs could practically see her own reflection in the apparatus.

  She turned her attention to the engineer. 'It's marvellous!'

  The engineer took in the incredulous look on her face. He blushed. 'Thank you. You're too kind. I've had a lot of time on my hands. Unfortunately we don't get many passengers nowadays.' He puffed himself up with pride. 'However, as you can see, it has given me plenty of opportunity to keep the beast finely tuned.' He lovingly caressed one of the dials and buffed it to a shine with the soft edge of his gloved hand. 'She's quite something, isn't she?'

  Anaïs nodded enthusiastically. She reached out and touched one of the knobs closest to her. The engineer shooed her away and rubbed the fingerprint away with a gloved thumb.

  He shook a white finger at her. 'No fingerprints please.' He put his hands on his hips and looked around the cabin.

  'You may touch this, though,' he said, indicating a thick rope slung above her head. 'Here, let me help you.'

  The engineer knelt down and picked her up. He balanced her on his shoulder.

  'Go ahead, pull it,' he said.

  He was clearly fixated with keeping his machine immaculate and Anaïs was wary of touching anything.

  The engineer sensed her trepidation. 'It's ok,' he said. 'Go ahead, pull it.'

  She reached up and grabbed the rope. She had to pull with both hands as there seemed to be quite a bit of weight behind whatever it was connected to. As soon as she had done so, she regretted it.

  A great, thunderous horn bellowed out just above her head. The noise made her duck. Anaïs clapped her hands around her ears and grimaced. It sounded more like the foghorn of an ocean liner than a train and had approximately the same volume. The noise was made even louder by the confined space in the tunnel. The reverberations continued to echo off the solid stone walls for some time. Eventually they were swallowed up by the brickwork.

  Anaïs jiggled a little finger in her ear and flexed her jaw. The engineer chuckled at her and turned his head to one side. He pulled up one of the flaps on his hat and showed her a wad of cottonwool jammed into his ear.

  He winked and smiled at her. 'Sorry, I should have warned you.'

  When he smiled she noted the blackened build-up of coal dust between his dentures. He bent over and set her down. Pulling the instrument out of his coat, he consulted his watch once again.

  'Time to go,' he said. 'I could use the companionship but you better get down now. Unfortunately we have rules.'

  'Pity,' she said.

  'There's nothing to see really. You'll be safer in the carriage.'

  'Safer?'

  'You'll see,' he said.

  Anaïs climbed do
wn the steps of the ladder and dropped herself onto the platform. She hesitated and looked up at him.

  He cocked his head towards the rear of the train. 'Go on now. I'll see you at the other end.' He stepped back and gently closed the cabin door with a click.

  Anaïs looked around her. The platform was deserted. Above her, the vaulted tunnel arched over her head. The brickwork was intricate, each individual stone hand painted. She was pleased to see a proliferation of purple. Dwarfed by the enormity of the locomotive, she stepped back to admire it once more. It was an impressive piece of machinery. Emblazoned on its side in bold lettering were the words: PUFFING DEVIL.

  A blast of steam shot out from its underbelly. She jumped back to avoid it but the cloud caught her in a warm hug. It completely enveloped her and obscured everything. She waved her hands in front of her face to clear it but with little effect.

  A clear, loud, male voice sounded in the mist. 'Miss Blue?'

  'Thistle,' Anaïs murmured to herself.

  Again the voice called out in the fog. 'Miss Blue, this way please.'

  Anaïs followed the sound of the voice, feeling her way out of the cloud of steam and walking towards it down the platform. As the steam cleared, it revealed a man smartly dressed in a nineteenth-century uniform. The breast of his coat was decorated with two lines of shiny buttons. Wide, stiff epaulets sat on his shoulders like two thin planks of wood. A box-shaped cap adorned his head, with the small peak pulled down low over his eyes. He stood on the platform in front of the door to the train's solitary passenger carriage. It was coupled behind the coal tender.

  As she approached him, he opened the door with one hand and stepped back. He waved with his other hand, indicating that she should board. Anaïs stopped in front of him and studied his face. It was the engineer. Or at least she thought it was. The two men's faces were identical. The only difference, this man’s face lacked the engineer's handlebar moustache. This version of him was clean shaven. She furrowed her brow. It seemed pretty unlikely he had managed to shave in the short time it had taken to get from locomotive to carriage.

  'But—' stammered Anaïs.

  The man gave her a friendly smile. 'Is there a problem, madam?'

  She pointed at the locomotive. 'Weren't you just in—'

  He shook his head. 'No, that would be my brother. He's the engineer and I'm the conductor.'

  She scratched her head. 'I see. But he said he was alone.'

  'Please stop dillydallying, Miss Blue,' said the conductor, impatiently. 'We have a schedule to keep.'

  Anaïs folded her arms, stood her ground and glared up at him. 'My name is Miss Thistle!'

  The conductor took a deep breath. He straightened his overcoat by pulling on the front panel and smoothing it down. He systematically checked the buttons on his jacket. He tilted his head from side to side and stretched, cracking the bones in his neck. Finally, he straightened his arms and yanked down on his sleeves, snapping them taut. He fixed Anaïs with a stern look. 'As you wish. Now please board the train, Miss Thistle.'

  There was another tremendous blast from the horn of the locomotive. A fresh jet of steam shot from its underbelly and rolled down the platform towards them. Anaïs leapt in surprise at the sound and scooted up the steps.

  The conductor blew his whistle, mounted the steps and swung the door shut behind him. Anaïs stood in the vestibule watching him. The train jolted forward, almost throwing them off their feet. It then settled into a slow trundle.

  The conductor unlatched another door, leading into the carriage itself. He set a hand on the little witch's shoulder and gently guided her through the doorway. 'Please hurry and take a seat, Miss Thistle.'

  Anaïs stepped through the doorway and surveyed the interior of the carriage. Her jaw dropped.

  'Wow!' she exclaimed.

  The Dining Car

  Anaïs stood in awe, staring at the ceiling. It was arched and constructed entirely of glass. Where it joined the wall, an intricately carved cornice ran around the circumference of the room. What she saw through the glass mesmerised her. The ceiling was, in fact, some form of enormous skylight.

  Above her, Anaïs could see dark clouds swirling around. A storm was brewing. Occasionally a wayward leaf would float by. Seagulls hovered on thermal draughts and swept in and out of view. Droplets of rain hit the glass intermittently and ran in rivulets down the sides of the domed structure. In the corner of the skylight, Anaïs could see one of the turrets from the island fortress. It gradually disappeared from view. They were moving away from the island and out to sea. The seagulls were left behind and the sky began to clear. The storm clouds which had been building up receded into the distance and gave way to pristine blue sky.

  None of it computed and Anaïs wondered how it was possible to see all of these things. They were perhaps hundreds of metres under the sea. There was no indication the glass was a video screen of some description. What she saw was not a projection. She was looking through a window.

  The sun revealed itself and illuminated the entire room. It glinted off a crystal chandelier which hung in the middle of nowhere. It was suspended from a ceiling rose which seemed to float in the sky. Strangely, there was still the feeling they were on a train. Anaïs felt the vibrations beneath her feet and the soft sideways sway of the carriage. Even the chandelier shuddered.

  The ceiling was not the most impressive thing about the carriage. The interior of the carriage was completely out of proportion with its exterior. It was huge. She stood in an expansive hallway which had the dimensions of a sprawling eighteenth-century mansion and looked like one. A double floating staircase ran up the side walls and joined together at a small landing one storey above. Under the landing was a set of double doors. They were open and led through to a rather grand-looking dining room.

  Through the doors Anaïs could see Nan and Immi seated at a long, heavy oak table. It split the dining room. The table laboured under a vast amount of food. The librarian was stuffing handfuls of it into her mouth and wolfing it down. Nan sat opposite her with a look of dismay on her face.

  Anaïs took a step back to admire the room she was in. She bumped into the man standing behind her.

  'Oops, sorry,' she said apologetically.

  The man carefully measured his words and spoke with an impeccable Oxford English accent. It was not the voice of the conductor. 'No need to apologise, madam.'

  Anaïs spun to face him. He was identical to the engineer, and the conductor, save for a set of generous mutton-chops. He was dressed in a stiff butler's uniform: a black suit with swallow-tails, grey waistcoat, starched white shirt with winged butterfly collar and a thin black tie. His leather shoes were buffed to a high shine.

  'You've got to be kidding,' Anaïs muttered under her breath.

  'Excuse me, madam?'

  'Er, you wouldn't be related to the conductor by any chance?'

  'Why yes, madam, he's my brother,' replied the butler.

  'And the engineer? Is he your brother as well?'

  'Certainly, madam.'

  Anaïs cocked her head. 'There wouldn't, by any chance, be any more of your brothers floating around here somewhere?'

  The butler slowly shook his head. 'No, madam, not that I'm aware of.'

  'Good.'

  'Is there anything else you would like to know, madam?'

  'I don't think so,' said Anaïs.

  'Excellent! May I take your coat, madam?'

  Anaïs hesitated.

  The butler smiled at her. 'It's ok, madam, I will give it back.'

  Anaïs smiled back at him and nodded. She slipped off her coat and handed it to him. He folded it and slung the coat over his arm. He held out his free hand. 'And your hat, madam?'

  Anaïs reached up and placed her hand on her beret. 'No, I'd prefer to keep it on. And can you please stop calling me madam.'

  'As you wish.' He stepped to one side. 'Would you care to follow me, miss? Breakfast is served.'

  Anaïs frowned. 'Breakfast?'
>
  'Yes, or have you already eaten?'

  'No, I just forgot the time of day.'

  'Of course,' said the butler. 'I fully understand. The tunnel does tend to confuse the senses.'

  Anaïs looked up at the skylight. The sun went momentarily behind a cloud and a shadow flitted across the room.

  The butler indicated the dining room. 'Shall we go?'

  Anaïs nodded and followed him across the hall and into the room. The butler wrapped her jacket around a coathanger and hung it in a rack next to the door. He walked over to the table and pulled out a chair. He offered her the seat. She climbed up on it and let him slide the chair back under the table. For Anaïs the tabletop was neck high, her chin resting on its edge.

  She looked up at the butler. 'Do you have a cushion for me?'

  The butler saw her predicament. His eyes widened. 'My apologies, miss. One moment please. A cushion will not be necessary.' He flipped a switch on the rear of the chair and it began to rise. Once Anaïs was waist high with the table, he flipped the switch a second time and the chair stopped moving.

  'Is this better, miss?'

  'Perfect!' Anaïs grinned at him. 'Thank you very much.'

  The butler stepped away from the table and clasped his hands behind his back. 'A pleasure to be of service, miss. If there is nothing more, I have matters to attend to.'

  Anaïs nodded. 'I think I'll be fine now.'

  The butler bowed his head. 'Then I wish you a pleasant meal.'

  'I think that should be no problem,' said Anaïs.

  The butler did an about-turn on the spot, his shoes squeaking on the polished floor, and left the room.

  Anaïs watched him leave and then turned to survey the table. There was an enormous amount of food on it. Rows of steaming dishes were lined in front of her. There was a peculiar mix of smells. Salty fried bacon competed with the sweet waft of freshly cut fruit, the baked sour-doughy odour of pancakes and the punchy pungency of aged cheese.