Regular readers will recall that Lenore, the pet raven of the hermit Neville Moore, had given Philomena Bucket reason to believe that something was very wrong with Neville. Rallying the other residents of The Squid and Teapot, and leaving the Tomte to babysit her sleeping children, they set off in pursuit of Lenore. Following behind, no more solid than a shadow, was the Trickster.
The journey to Neville Moore’s cottage was neither pleasant nor particularly swift.
The wind had strengthened since leaving The Squid and Teapot, and Lenore seemed determined to lead them by the longest possible route. Every few minutes the raven would vanish into the darkness ahead, only to reappear moments later from an entirely different direction.
“Are you sure she knows where she’s going?” asked Tenzin.
“Neville Moore!” croaked Lenore.
“I shall take that as a yes,” sighed Reggie.
Eventually they reached the mausoleum-like dwelling that the hermit called home. A faint glow showed at the window.
“Well,” said Reggie. “At least the place hasn’t burned down.”
Philomena pushed open the door without bothering to knock, and Drury bounded in with a bark.
“Neville?” Philomena’s voice was full of concern.
The old hermit was sitting upright in his chair by the fire. Apart from looking rather bewildered, he appeared perfectly unharmed.
“Ah,” he said brightly. “Good even unto thee, most estimable companions.”
Everyone stared at him.
Neville blinked.
“Sooth,” he continued. “I perceive by your countenances that mine utterance hath occasioned some perplexity.”
“Has he always talked like that?” asked Tenzin, in a stage whisper.
“Never,” said Philomena.
“Absolutely not,” agreed Reggie.
Lenore landed heavily on the back of Neville’s chair and fixed the newcomers with a look that plainly said, See? I told you something was wrong.
Neville appeared oblivious.
“Marry,” he said. “I find myself in tolerable fettle, though somewhat discombobulated.”
“Discombobulated?” repeated Reggie.
“An excellent word,” said Neville.
“Not one I usually hear from you.”
“No?” Neville sounded puzzled by this.
“No,” insisted Reggie.
Only then did Philomena notice the book resting on his lap.
It was old. Very old. The leather binding was cracked with age, and there was no title on either the cover or the spine. The pages appeared yellowed and brittle.
“What’s that?” she asked.
Neville looked down.
“Oh, merely a book. I found it.”
“Where?”
Neville frowned.
“That is a remarkably good question.”
Nobody felt at all comfortable with that answer.
“You really don’t remember?” asked Rhys.
“I cannot honestly say that I do.”
Philomena held out her hand.
“May I?” she said.
Neville surrendered the volume without protest, and Philomena examined it carefully. There was no author’s name, or publisher’s mark. Not even a title page. There was nothing whatsoever to identify the book.
The first page simply began halfway through a sentence written in a style of handwriting that looked several centuries old.
Reggie peered over her shoulder.
“Curious.”
“Can you read it?” asked Tenzin.
“Some of it,” replied Reggie.
“So what is it?”
“I have absolutely no idea, old chap.”
Reggie’s admission alone was enough to make everyone uneasy. He usually knew something, and even when he didn’t he would be reluctant to admit as much.
Philomena turned several pages. The handwriting changed, then changed again… and again.
Some sections looked mediaeval. Others appeared comparatively modern. One page even contained a sketch of what might have been a squid wearing a bishop’s mitre.
“That can’t be a good sign,” observed Rhys.
“Very few things are,” agreed Philomena.
“What is all the fuss?” asked Neville. ” ‘Tis but a volume.”
“A very strange volume,” said Reggie.
At this point a voice emerged from the darkness near the doorway.
“Well, it’s nothing to do with me.”
Everyone turned.
“Nobody suggested that it is,” said Rhys.
“I felt it important to clarify.”
A smoky shape materialised from the shadows, drifted across the room and appeared to study the book.
“I have never seen it before,” said Trickster.
“Really?” asked Philomena.
“Absolutely.”
“That isn’t reassuring.”
“Why?”
“Because if it isn’t yours, then it belongs to somebody else.”
Trickster considered this.
“That’s a fair point,” he said, and for perhaps the first time in an age, he sounded genuinely puzzled.
“You’re telling the truth?” asked Tenzin.
“Quite probably,” replied Trickster.
“That’s not the same thing.”
“No,” Trickster admitted. “It isn’t.”
Philomena glanced from the book to Neville.
The hermit seemed healthy enough, yet every sentence that emerged from his mouth sounded as though it had wandered in from another century.
“How long has this been going on?” she asked.
Neville scratched his chin.
“I know not.”
“There!” exclaimed Reggie. “He did it again.”
“Did what?” demanded Tenzin.
“That,” said Reggie.
Neville sighed.
“Marry, I confess I have not the faintest notion of that of which you speak.”
“He sounds like Shakespeare on a particularly bad day,” observed Reggie.
Philomena snapped the book shut.
“Right. That’s enough.”
“What is?” asked Neville.
“You,” said Philomena.
“Me? Pray, why?”
“You’re coming back to the inn.”
Neville looked as though he might argue.
Then Lenore pecked him firmly on the ear.
“Neville Moore!” croaked the raven.
“There. Even Lenore agrees with me,” said Philomena, triumphantly.
Neville rubbed his ear.
“Traitor,” he muttered.
Lenore looked extremely pleased with herself.
An hour later the small party was making its way back across the island. Rhys held the lantern, Philomena carried the mysterious book while Neville clutched a small bag containing a change of clothes.
Lenore rode upon his shoulder like a feathered sentinel. And somewhere in the darkness nearby, Trickster accompanied them.
“You know,” said Tenzin quietly, “I’m beginning to think this might be serious.”
“Possibly,” replied Trickster.
“Do you know what’s wrong with him?”
“Not exactly.”
“You sound as though you are smiling.”
The darkness chuckled.
“Because,” said Trickster, “I have a feeling things are about to become very interesting.”
To be continued…