Neville Moore, the hermit, had caught a virus (of sorts) from an ancient book. This had affected his speech, reducing him to speaking almost exclusively in archaisms. Worried for her friend, Philomena Bucket insisted that he should stay in The Squid and Teapot until such times as he had fully recovered. The following morning, however, found the inn considerably less peaceful than it had been for many years.
Neville had been installed in one of the better rooms upstairs, where Philomena insisted he remain until she was entirely satisfied that whatever strange affliction had befallen him had run its course. The hermit himself maintained that he was “passing fair” and had expressed a desire to return to his home on Ghastly Green forthwith.
Unfortunately, he had also remarked that the chamber was “most commodious”, that breakfast had been “passing toothsome” and had enquired whether anyone had seen his “buskins”. Nobody quite knew what buskins were. Tenzin thought they might be a species of waterfowl, while Reggie suspected they were some sort of footwear. This was good enough for Philomena, who simply handed Neville his boots and hoped for the best.
“It is a passing strange world,” Neville observed gravely, “when a fellow may not distinguish his own shoon.”
“His what?” asked Rhys.
“Shoon.”
“I think he means shoes,” whispered Tenzin.
“I know what he means now,” said Rhys. “I’m just wondering what he’ll call them tomorrow.”
It quickly became apparent that Neville’s condition was not improving. By lunchtime he had thanked Philomena for her “victuals”, complimented Tenzin upon his “goodly countenance” and apologised for having “taken to his pallet somewhat betimes.”
“You know,” said Reggie quietly, “I almost understand him.”
“Well, I don’t,” replied Rhys.
“I said almost, old chap.” replied Reggie.
Meanwhile, Lenore had decided that if Neville was to reside at the inn, then so would she. Her chosen residence was, without question, and almost inevitably, Trickster’s chair. Every attempt to persuade her elsewhere met with complete failure. She merely fixed her would-be persuader with one bright eye, then uttered a single authoritative “Nevermore!” (a word, you’ll notice that she appeared to only recently have acquired), leading Neville to look up and say “Yes?”
Lenore shook her wings, and settled herself even more firmly upon the leather cushion.
“I do hope,” observed Trickster, adjusting the recognisably human form he had lately adopted (this was a carefully maintained tulpa of a hat, coat, and mildly aggrieved expression) “that somebody intends explaining this.”
“It appears,” said Reggie, “that you’ve been evicted.”
“What? From my own chair?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“By a raven.”
“That does seem to be the position.”
Trickster considered the matter.
“I have outwitted angels,” he said.
“Quite probably,” agreed Tenzin.
“I have confounded demons.”
“Or so you claim,” said Rhys.
“I once persuaded Time to walk backwards for almost a quarter of an hour.”
“You definitely did that,” admitted Philomena. “I remember it well.”
“And yet…”
He looked upwards.
“…I appear to have been defeated by poultry.”
Lenore looked down at him.
“Nevermore.”
“That,” sighed Trickster, “is unnecessarily triumphalist.”
Unfortunately, Lenore possessed one habit that nobody had anticipated. Ravens, it transpired, were not especially house-trained. The Tomte, muttering darkly in a language that, luckily, nobody else understood, spent much of the day polishing the chair. No sooner had he finished than Lenore would return, and the process would begin again. At one point the little fellow stood before the chair with his arms folded, glaring upwards. Lenore regarded him thoughtfully, and there followed a brief but eloquent exchange of clicks, croaks and indignant muttering. No agreement was reached.
“I believe,” observed Reggie, “they’re negotiating.”
“They’re arguing,” said Rhys.
“I stand corrected.”
By teatime even Philomena was beginning to wonder whether the old book might be more troublesome than she had first imagined. Neville had produced it from beneath his blankets and now sat turning its yellowed pages with great care.
“What does it say?” asked Tenzin.
Neville frowned.
“‘Tis… difficult,” he muttered.
“Because it’s old?”
“Nay.”
“Because it’s written in another language?”
“Nay.”
“Then why?”
Neville looked genuinely puzzled.
“‘Twould seem,” he said slowly, “that the tome doth alter itself according to the understanding of him that readeth it.”
A silence settled over the room.
Even Trickster stopped looking aggrieved.
“That,” he said eventually, “is not one of mine.”
“You keep saying that,” said Rhys.
“Because it’s true.”
Trickster leaned forward.
“I have many faults,” he said.
“You certainly do,” agreed Rhys.
“I am vain.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“I am mischievous.”
“No argument there.”
“I occasionally try to improve reality when it was perfectly adequate beforehand.”
“You definitely do that,” said Philomena.
“But I have never written a book.”
He regarded the volume with something very close to suspicion.
“Because they are dangerous…”
To be continued…