Some believe the book wrote itself, that no mortal hand crafted the words in which the spells are revealed. Some people believe the book consists of blank pages and the spells appear, as required, by whoever holds it.
And there are those who believe the book doesn’t exist physically at all, that it is itself a form of spell, from a place where spells, witchcraft and magic abound. Those people believe that whoever that spell touches, will find the secrets in whichever book they hold. One thing is agreed by all, nobody chooses to own the book, it chooses you.
Oliver Pendry was in a charity shop, idly running his finger along the edge of a shelf, while his mother scoured the racks of second-hand clothes. He was there because he needed a jacket and long trousers for his new school, and she couldn’t afford to buy his uniform from the designated stores.
There was a row of old, thumb-eared books on the shelf. His finger bounced as it traced along the spines, while he read the titles with his head tilted to one side. He liked books, not necessarily to read, but the feel of the edges of the pages when he let them brush through his fingers. The way some almost creaked when you opened them. One of the books was a hardback, leather-bound, an anomaly amongst the more lurid paperbacks. It had a picture on the spine, but the colours were faded and scuffed. He slid it from the shelf to look at the cover, the spine being so worn he couldn’t read the title.
Curly, convoluted letters read ‘The Little Book of Spells’. A picture of a dragon adorned the cover, twisting and turning until it was biting its own tail. The colours were dark green, gold, and red, on a black background, but all dulled by time. He ran his fingers over the illustration of the dragon and could feel how parts of it were raised from the surface. The book looked old and felt even older, although Oliver couldn’t explain that sensation.
As his fingertips caressed the image, the colours began to brighten. He was sure the dragon moved; its tail was no longer in its mouth.
“Ollie, come over here, try this on. It’s the right colour.”
Oliver sidled over towards his mother, hands in pockets, feet scuffing the floor.
“Nobody will know it’s not new once I’ve given it a steam and press.” He let his mother feed his arm into one sleeve, and without enthusiasm, shrugged the jacket onto his shoulders.
“Can I buy a book mum? Uncle Henry gave me five pounds.”
His mother ignored his request, which he took as a yes. Oliver’s father had disappeared almost two years ago, simply never returned home from work one day. His mother, after consuming almost a bottle of wine one evening, had told him that Uncle Henry must know what had happened to his brother, but wouldn’t tell her. She had never mentioned it again.
Oliver stood still as his mother held a pair of long grey trousers against his waist.
“They’ll do”.
Released from his mannequin duties, Oliver returned to the shelves at the rear of the shop. He was sure he had pushed the book back into its original position, not wanting anyone else to chance upon it. But it was stood out from the rest, threatening to drop onto the floor. When he raised his hand, the book fell into it.
His mother, who was folding his new clothes into a carrier bag, didn’t take any notice of him when he brought it to the counter.
“May I buy this please?”
The woman at the till looked at him and frowned.
“Buy what?”
“This book.”
He held it up, but she shook her her slowly from side to side, her mouth set in a firm straight line before she replied.
“You may buy any book you wish dear. Just pick one and stop messing me around.”
She turned away from him, muttering, but not so quietly that Oliver couldn’t hear.
“Boys. Some days I thank the Lord that I didn’t have children.”
“Stop being silly, Ollie,” his mother snapped. “We’re going to miss the bus if we don’t get a wiggle on.”
Oliver carried the book out of the shop, turning to look at the woman again, certain she was playing a trick on him and would, at any moment, shout ‘thief’. She didn’t, and his mother never mentioned the book resting in his lap on their journey home.
Once he was in his bedroom, alone, Oliver sat on the floor, his back against the wall, knees raised.
The book rested against his legs and his fingers caressed the dragon. It twisted and turned, like a cat trying to settle, until it came to rest, curled into a ball, head resting on its clawed front feet.
Oliver’s fingers found the edge of the cover, but before he opened the book, he wondered what sort of spells it might contain. He could feel his heart beating faster, and his face was burning.
What he wanted most in the world, was for his father to return, his mother and uncle to be friends again, and maybe a brand-new school uniform. Everyone would know his clothes were second hand, and even if they didn’t, he would know.
He opened the cover cautiously. The first page had a repeat of the title with a small black and white illustration of another dragon, or maybe the same one, as it too was curled up asleep.
Oliver took the top corner of the page and turned it slowly, so as not to disturb the dragon. The next page was blank. But as he looked words began to appear, as though an invisible hand was writing each letter in an old-fashioned script. He mouthed each word as it was completed.
Proceed with care. Words are powerful.
Oliver’s mother called to say supper was ready. He closed the cover and slid the book under his pillow.
While they ate fish cakes and peas, he asked his mother what she would change in her life if she had the power of magic.
“I’d put a spell on your uncle to tell the truth for a start. But what prompted that question?”
“Just curious. I thought you’d want to win the lottery or something like that.”
“Money only solves money problems, and it often cause more problems of its own making.”
Oliver chewed on a mouthful of fish cakes and wondered what sort of problem too much money could cause. But he couldn’t see any trouble with getting his uncle to tell the truth. And there had to be a spell for that.
The normal television programmes held little interest for Oliver that evening and he was glad when bedtime came around.
“I’ll be up to say good night soon. And don’t read for too long.”
Oliver cleaned his teeth and changed for bed, neatly folding his clothes to avoid his mother lingering longer than necessary in his room.
Once the rituals of the evening were complete, and Oliver knew he wouldn’t be disturbed, he slid the Little Book of Spells from under his pillow and propped it on his knees. The first page, when he turned the cover, still carried the same warning.
His fingers ran up and down the smooth, cut edges of the book, which had a slight concave curve, matching his fingertips.
Holding his breath, he caught the edge of the next page and turned it over. It was blank. Oliver breathed out in a sigh of relief. But as he looked at the book, writing began to appear,
Speak aloud your wish and see
Your uncle’s truth will be set free
Oliver was surprised that the book knew something about his wish already, but it was magic book. He hesitated before saying anything out loud. The book had cautioned him, but his mother often said that telling the truth was important.
Oliver said out loud that the wanted his uncle to tell the truth. The ink on the page, if that’s what it was, faded until there was nothing to see. He stared at the blank white page. Nothing else appeared.
Not confident anything would change, Oliver slid the book far under his bed, turned off his light, and tried to go to sleep. His uncle would be coming to pick him up on Saturday to take him to watch the local football match. All he had to do was get his mother to ask Uncle Henry a question to test the spell.
For two days he thought about the problem of what to ask Uncle Henry. By Saturday morning Oliver had rehearsed a question in his head until he was confident it would work. During breakfast he launched the first part of his plan.
“Can Uncle Henry come in for tea after the match? We never get enough time to talk about it on the way home.”
His mother and uncle Henry were good friends before his father had gone missing, but now exchanged as few words as possible when they met. She stared at him for a few moments and sighed.
“I suppose it won’t hurt.”
Oliver’s plan was coming together.
Their team won three nil, so his uncle was in a good mood when they arrived back at Oliver’s house. Uncle Henry parked in the road and left the engine running.
“Mum said to come in for tea.” Oliver made no move to get out of the car.
“Are you sure?”
Oliver nodded vigorously. Uncle Henry frowned but switched off the engine.
“She definitely said that? You’re not making it up?”
Oliver insisted that he was telling the truth and Uncle Henry took the keys out of the ignition and opened his door.
“Okay, but you’d better not be telling porkies.”
“Mum says it’s wrong to lie.”
His mother ushered the two of them into the lounge but lingered at the door. She had not followed them in.
“I’ll make a pot of tea, you two can have a chat.”
Oliver’s uncle perched on the edge of an armchair, his wrists resting on his knees. A plate of biscuits sat on a coffee table between them, digestive in the middle, a circle of custard creams surrounding them. They were Oliver’s two favourite biscuits, and he knew there would be more, still in their packets, in the kitchen.
“This makes a change,” Uncle Henry said, eyes fixed on the plate.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure. Anything. Ask away.”
Oliver took a deep breath and stared at his uncle. He didn’t want to miss any tell-tale signs.
“Do you know where my father is?”
There was no-immediate reply, so no way of telling yet if the spell had worked. His mother chose that moment to reappear with a tray carrying cups, a teapot, sugar bowl and a small jug of milk. She normally made their tea in mugs, with tea bags.
Oliver waited until she had poured three cups and put two spoons of sugar in his cup, before he repented his question so his mother could hear it.
“I just asked Uncle Henry if he knows where dad is.”
She took a biscuit, carefully placed he own cup on a place mat, and avoided looking at either of them.
“Good question. And what was his reply?”
“He didn’t say, you came in. But do you know where he is, Uncle?”
Oliver was looking straight at his uncle, whose month was slightly open, almost twitching, as though he was trying form words which wouldn’t materialise, or maybe resist saying words that wanted to be heard.
“I do. Well, I don’t, not exactly, but yes, sort of.”
Oliver’s mother was sitting up straight, she had put a hand up, palm facing his uncle, stopping him from saying anything else.
“I think, maybe, it would be better not to discuss this in front of Oliver.”
She encouraged Oliver to take his tea, and a generous handful of biscuits, up to his room. She told him that his uncle and her had to have a very serious discussion and that she would tell him everything later.
Oliver knew not to argue with his mother when she used her telephone voice, that serious no-nonsense tone with which she dismissed cold callers.
Safely alone in his room, Oliver slid the book out from under his bed and opened it randomly, somewhere near the middle. He needed more than a beginner’s spell to get back in the lounge and find out what uncle was about to tell his mother.
The warning about the power of words didn’t appear this time, just a message which suggested the book already knew what he wanted.
Speak around your wish so you may know
All that’s said in the room below
“Please book, dragon, whoever you are, I want to hear what they’re talking about downstairs. And please hurry, I don’t want to miss anything important.”
The writing on the page faded, and a picture slowly started to form. The book became like a television screen, a window into the lounge downstairs. He heard his mother repeat his original question. His uncle closed his eyes and spoke very quietly.
“You won’t believe me. That’s why I’ve never said anything.”
“Try me.” His mother’s voice was stern, almost threatening.
Oliver stared at the scene the book was showing, listening to the story his uncle was telling his mother. It all made sense to Oliver, but his mother didn’t look happy, she was frowning, the kind of frown she reserved for when she was very angry with him.
Uncle Henry claimed that his brother had met him for a drink one day, after work, and told him that he had been living a lie for fifteen years and couldn’t do it any longer. After taking a deep breath, he spoke quickly, with his eyes closed.
“He told me that you didn’t love him, that you loved me, and he had tricked both of us.”
My mother hesitated for a moment and told him it was ridiculous. But she didn’t make eye contact with him, even when he looked straight at her. Instead, she rearranged the remaining biscuits into a symmetrical pattern. She looked around the room, stood, moved three candles on the windowsill so the tallest was in the middle of the group.
“I liked you. I always liked you. Maybe, when we first met, I was more attracted to you. But I fell in love with your brother, your twin. I suppose I was confused, you did, still do, look so alike.”
Uncle Henry sounded sad, his voice had dropped, he was almost whispering.
“I thought he was making excuses. I thought he’d met someone else. He even made up an unbelievable story to cover up what I suspected.”
My mother asked him what the story was that he invented. She was still standing at the window, staring out at the street. Oliver couldn’t see her face, and asked the book if it would move so that he could see both of them.
The picture faded and reformed within a few seconds. Oliver was now looking at the scene from outside the house, looking through the window. There was a tear on his mother’s cheek. She dabbed it away with the back of her hand.
“So, what was his excuse, this story he made up?”
Uncle Henry said it was not important, that it was nonsense. But because she had asked, and he was compelled to tell the truth, he told her exactly what my father had said.
“When we were about seventeen, soon after we all met, he had found a book in a junk shop, a magic book, a book of spells he said.”
My mother turned to face Uncle Henry and the book, without asking, switched to a new viewpoint, enabling me to see them both.
“He said he cast a spell on you, to make you fall in love with him, not me.”
Oliver pushed the book away from him, but it remained floating in mid-air, still showing the scene in the room below.
“I did love you,” his mother said. “The moment I set eyes on you I knew we were destined to be together. But it all changed. I never knew what happened in me.”
“I felt the same. I still do if I’m honest. But we can’t go back and change the past, can we?”
Oliver reached for the book, still floating over his bed. It made no effort to escape his grasp. Holding it tight, his whole body trembling he whispered.
“But I can. Maybe.”
The image showing the lounge downstairs and his mother and uncle, gradually faded to white. And familiar words unfurled on the page.
Proceed with care. Words are powerful.