Book sat pensively on his stand, speculating Gertrudis’ whereabouts. She was very likely dead, he supposed. Book was most definitely a he. A he without a she. His mistress, the greatest witch who’d ever lived, had abandoned him without so much as a by your leave. The nerve of the woman.
Why did she even bother lovingly stitching together his binding by hand fifty years ago? Or harvesting only the finest of vellum sheets from the market? How fickle of her. Leaving a poor book behind. A book with feelings, no less. A book with a soul!
No matter. He’d get by just fine. Resting in the cellar on Gertrudis’ favorite writing table. Open. Feeling his binding settle more and more with each passing day. Damned woman couldn’t even be bothered to close him before gallivanting off. How very like her.
Now all Book had to keep him company were several shelves of pickles, powders, and pitch black darkness. Occasionally he thought he heard a mouse. Maybe not. It was a terrible thing for magic to be left alone to rot, whether in a wand, a well, or a humble and unassuming book with what most would consider a charming personality.
“I should go on my own trip,” Book grumbled in writing on his title page. “There are plenty of people who’d be grateful to have me,” he added with a slightly bolder and more irate script. Over time, the words faded back into his vellum pages.
Eventually, when a week turned into two, and Book didn’t see hide nor hair of Gertrudis, his anger became bargaining. He thought to himself that surely this must be a test, so with great effort he managed to flip through his own pages and spent countless hours tidying up her handwritten spells. Correcting errors here and there, erasing spots from when she’d been working and spilled something or other on the page. He even went so far as to add illustrations, which was terribly exhausting without his witch around to tap into her magic and aid him.
By the time Book was done with his work, and fully satisfied that he looked the best he ever had, it had been a month. Gertrudis was still gone. So, finally, he became very depressed. In his deepest pit of misery, he erased everything. Every little word. Every lovingly-crafted diagram or picture. Then he refilled himself with one word written over, and over, and over again.
Lonely. Lonely. Lonely…
It was impossible for a magical tool to go mad, but sometimes they could turn just a little funny. Book didn’t want to acknowledge that may be the case for himself. He was far too young to develop unbecoming quirks and habits. Half a century for a spellbook was practically adolescence.
Lonely. Lonely. Lonely.
Writing the word gradually became less of a delirious sadness scrawling itself across his pages. Eventually, it became a game. Sometimes the letters would be large enough to fill a page each. Sometimes they’d be in another language. Or backwards. Another color. Another pattern. It became a frantic task for him, figuring out every possible combination and style anyone would write the word.
Одинокий. Solitaire. さみしい.
Book discovered nuances to the word the more he explored it. There was the type of loneliness one felt when surrounded by others and ignored, like when Gertrudis took him to gatherings to brag about her latest feat. Then there was the type of loneliness one felt when simply being alone in a room–in the dark. Then, finally, there was the loneliness of being the only one of his kind that he knew. No one understood him, not in the way another magical book might.
Lonely. Lonely. Lonely.
In one word, Book found the exact opposite of that very word’s meaning. He found solace. He found comfort. He found distraction. Eventually, he found rest. The spellbook had run out of magic, fully exhausting itself, and experienced something he had always longed for. A good, long, nap.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
Lonel–
The words began to fade away into the vellum, one by one.
Lone–
If he had eyes and eyelids, he was certain he’d feel them growing heavy.
Lon–
His pages fluttered, his binding cracked from exhaustion.
Lo–
His thoughts were becoming fuzzy and patchy.
L–
Book slept. At long last, Book slept. Still waiting for his mistress, but comfortably accepting that maybe she wasn’t coming back, and that was okay.
----------------------------------------
“No,” Rachel said flatly, closing her eyes. This was easier to accept if she couldn’t see the talking cat that was now perching on her chest again.
“I’m in pain, so I know I’m not dreaming and this is all terribly real. I get that. Still, I refuse. Pick someone else,” she went on, just warming up, “at any rate, I’m not a witch. I’m a regular nine to fiver, and I’m already in the negative on my PTO, so you can just use your mugwort and send me out of here, kitty.”
The cat scoffed. Something all cats seemed to do, whether they were magical or not. “You think you can refuse? Madam, the spell chose you. The forest chose you. I chose you. There’s no backing out of it now.”
“You can’t back out of something you never agreed to,” Rachel pointed out reasonably. The little creature had, after all, patched her up. Even if he was mostly responsible for her injuries. Speaking of which, she cracked open one eye and looked down to examine herself–what was she even wearing?
The last thing Rachel remembered was driving home from work. Sort of. It was the last clear memory. She was sure other things happened after that, but trying to focus was like trying to recall a breakfast she’d had three weeks ago. Her brain stubbornly refused to allow her to summon the mental energy. Still, she knew she definitely hadn’t been wearing a frilly cotton nightgown.
Rachel opened her other eye, “did you change my clothes?” She demanded of the cat, and drew her hands protectively to her chest. Underneath the gown she felt a tight pressure around her chest, which she assumed must be bandages.
“Absolutely not!” Sir Fishbits replied, turning his head towards the door with a cool air, “The Horseman did that part. You would have caught your death in those shredded rags you’d been wearing before.”
Not one to embarrass herself multiple times in one sitting, Rachel settled on a furious blush rather than trying to run out of the cottage again. “So you and some guy on a horse saved me from a giant fish and stripped me naked?”
The cat nodded, “I wouldn’t put it quite that way, but yes.” He eyed Rachel up and down, starting from her head and going down to her feet, supremely disinterested in any of the details.
Then, he spoke again, “I’m assuming this has something to do with that odd habit you humans have of pretending your body is so particularly special that no one else in the universe has ever seen the like before, and so you must protect that knowledge from them lest their very minds and beings are torn asunder?”
Rachel lowered her hands, using them to prop herself up on the lumpy mattress. She didn’t like the way Sir Fishbits was speaking to her right then.
“Listen, you,” Rachel said, “I’m a lady. I get to decide who sees what and when.” She paused, “but if I’m dying, I guess that’s one very specific scenario I’m alright with being undressed. I’d still like to have been told. Where is this Horseman guy, anyway?”
“It isn’t important,” Sir Fishbits replied, “he only shows himself on full moons. We were lucky, really. The timing worked out. Now, back to the matter of your position as the new Witch of Dreadforest, I’m afraid it’s not something that can be rejected. The place picks you, not me. Otherwise I’d have fancied being the witch myself.”
“You’re male,” Rachel replied flatly.
“Very well, the Wizard of Dreadforest.”
“You’re a cat,” she added, taking the opportunity to eye him up and down this time.
“How very closed-minded of you,” Sir Fishbits retorted, “to think a cat can’t become a wizard.”
“Judging by what happened to me, I don’t think you’d made a very good one,” Rachel replied, “but I am sorry. I guess I don’t know anything about wizards or talking cats. Actually, wait, hold on–I can’t be a witch. I don’t know any magic.”
The look on the cat’s face almost resembled a self-satisfied smirk. Granted, that was sort of the shape of his face anyway, but it looked even more smirky at that very moment. Rachel grew uneasy.
“Oh, but you do,” Sir Fishbits practically purred, “quite a lot of it. You just haven’t realized that yet.”