Madeleine sits slumped, face forward, on the table, her mask resting face down on top of her folded arms. Hood sits, his legs folded beneath him, his chair slightly pushed back, away from the table, nervously jiggling a knee and slowly chewing his bottom lip, contemplating.
From outside, the slightly dull sound of arguments and shouting is suddenly replaced by a resounding “Hurrghh!” accompanied by several long blasts of horns. The assorted screams of officer’s commands: “Ready yourselves! To arms to arms! Look lively! Fall in! Attend ranks!” soon follow. The barbarians, it seems, have made the wall.
Helmet, not knowing what to do, or fully understanding the situation that has played out between Madeleine and Hood, paces backwards and forwards. “Here, for what it’s worth, is my contribution,” he says, placing a book onto the table alongside the ripped and shredded parchment from Arkanthor and the three other books that have been gathered.
The Companions of Reeva
- a compendium of tales collected by Thurman Bombajay
Like Madeleine and Hood before him, he brings forth the locator page that he’s been given and, allowing it to fly free from his grasp, watches as it causes the book to open and intermingles with a page. He glances at Madeleine and Hood, hopeful for a response but receives nothing. Muttering to himself: “Worst treasure hunt. Ever,” he wanders back up the aisle away from the sullen, morbidly depressed and seemingly defeated pair.
Hood’s eyes flick to the cover of the dark black leather book and the rent scar across it. He breathes slowly, focussing his mind, and contemplates darkly the meaning of what is happening. Much as he likes magic, much as he likes logic, two and two do not come together. At an impasse, his eyes momentarily flick across the pages of the open books before him, coming to rest on the page from the ‘Crowlooms of the Arkenites’.
Now, if you had asked Hood several moments ago if he believed he could possibly feel any worse, then he would have responded - if you had gotten a response - with a resounding no. But that was a few moments ago, before he had seen the intricate illustration of two nested crowlooms, one black and one white and read how they were always produced in pairs from the grinkle wood tree, and that being so, separated and given to two different wizards, allowed each wizard, because of this connection, to always know where the other one was at all times, should they so desire.
Hood starts to shake his head. “No! No!” he rasps, standing suddenly, rage in his voice and coursing through his limbs, enough for Madeleine to lift her face from her arms and stare at him.
“Hood?” - Madeleine has only ever seen him like this once before and is about to go to him, in an attempt to calm him down, when a shout comes from further down the aisle behind them.
“By the fabrics of Tulsor, I’ve got it! It’s the bally lanterns, isn’t it?! Tell me I’m not wrong! It’s the lanterns...”
Hood looks darkly at Madeleine, a look she’s never seen in his eyes before. “Betrayed,” he hisses, “Grumpini!” Hood swallows, trying to moisten his throat, the effort of speaking almost too much for him. “We...must...hurry.”
“...and I know why we have to wait. It’s the colours from the stained glass! We have to align the lanterns each to the right level, in line with certain colours. I saw them, the colours, there’re colours on the parchment, colours that match the stained glass,” shouts Helmet charging up the aisle completely oblivious to the exchange between Hood and Madeleine, pointing his finger and waiving it at the parchment upon the table.
As Helmet approaches, Hood, gathers the books from the table and places each of the slim volumes into his satchel.
“It’s just…how?!” exclaims Helmet, frustrated that he believes himself so close to solving the puzzle, and yet how tantalisingly elusive the solution appears to be.
Hood simply turns and points at the five stained glass windows on the east wall. Helmet and Madeleine follow his finger.
Things can become clearly obvious once you know what it is you’re looking at, and the situation, presented to two of our three companions, is a case in point. The central window shows a garden scene with a small robin, apparently in full song, sitting upon the gnomon of a sundial, behind which a glowing sun is rising, the light beams of which spiral out and extend into, and are taken up by, the other four separate windows, spaced on either side. Each of these four remaining windows is perfectly aligned with one of the lanterns that hang down along the length of the hall. Each of the iron chains, by which they are suspended, disappearing into a hole in the ceiling.
As it so happens, the moment that Hood has been waiting for is almost upon us, and as the sunlight begins to shine directly through the emblem of the sun in the central window, from each of the other windows four different coloured beams are directed, coming through four different squares of glass that are seemingly placed at random in each window. Deciding which beam for which lantern is clearly what is required.
Turning to the parchment still upon the table, Hood rolls it round like a cylinder and standing it on its base pushes down on the top. What was previously considered to be simply rips and tears can now be seen as slits, and the parchment itself has taken the form of a paper lantern. Again, Hood points out the details, indicating the vertical slits and the form of the lantern’s top, identifying it as the third lantern in from the front entrance. By winding the parchment thus, several separated coloured lines - all blue - have come together.
“Blue, the third one’s blue!” shouts Helmet, his enthusiasm forcing him to state the obvious.
Hood unwraps the parchment and rewraps it so that it is now in effect inside out. Pushing down the top, it folds in a slightly different way, corresponding to a subtle change in design, a design which matches the first lantern closest to the main entrance. The colours that align are red.
“Red, the first one’s RED!” screams Helmet.
Madeleine looks at Helmet, concerned for his mental well being. “You really do like treasure hunts don’t you?” she says, slightly bemused by his reaction.
“I love them!”
Hood works his finger magic again, unrolling the parchment and rolling it from the cross side next, such that the slits now form horizontal bands, bands which match the construction of lanterns two and four. Again, the tops distinguish which lantern is being referred to and within a few seconds Helmet is slowly chanting, “Red, green, blue, yellow, red, green, blue, yellow.”
“Now what?” asks Madeleine. Hood points up to the west wall where in the lightening gloom, directly across from each of the lanterns, four iron handles can be vaguely made out.
“I’m on it!” shouts Helmet, coursing down the aisle to the base of one of the iron stairways and pounding up its steps, each footfall sounding out a resounding clang. Clang, clang, clang clang, “Red, green, blue, yellow,” Clang, clang, clang, clang, “Red, green, blue, yellow,” Helmet continues to chant to himself, eventually making the handles and turning them each in order, raising the lanterns so that each is illuminated by the correct coloured beam. The first requires little movement, the second a few cranks, the third almost to the ceiling. Reaching the fourth handle, Helmet pauses dramatically, making a movement with his arms as if rolling up his sleeves. “Everyone ready?” he shouts, not interested at all in a response. He looks across to the four beams streaming through the fourth window and locating the yellow one amongst them, observes how it is angled slightly up. “About three or or four cranks by my reckoning!” shouts Helmet.
Madeleine turns to Hood, “I’d hate to see him milk a cow.”
Hood, even amidst everything that is going on, can’t help but chuckle. And standing there, for a brief moment he remembers what life was like many years before when he and Madeleine had first met. They had laughed often like this. How quickly nostalgia turns to sadness at the recognition of loss, and how, what had, just at this moment, caused Hood joy, now causes him pain.
Hood breathes in deeply, but, breathing out, masks his sigh by breathing out slowly, and forces himself to stare at Helmet by way of distraction.
The handle turns in ratcheting clicks, each full turn seemingly corresponding to the disappearance of a full chain link of the lantern chains above. The fourth lantern rises in increments: one…click…two…click…three…click…still not quite there. Helmet turns it a fourth time, a turn that one would expect to be accompanied by a click but instead, upon completion, the whole chamber seems to emit a soft rumbling grinding noise ccccrrrrraaggghhhhh and something starts moving in the floor.
Whatever is happening beneath Hood and Madeleine’s feet is obscured by carpet, but its effects are clearly visible. Stacks start to waver, one toppling over to narrowly miss Hood, who momentarily loses his footing. Madeleine opens out her arms to maintain her balance before springing to the side, as the carpet section upon which she and Hood are standing begins to sink, the table next to them toppling over. Hood makes a desperate grab for the parchment lantern, which he manages to get hold of, but not before falling sideways to find himself partially under the table and mixed up with the legs of a capsized chair, several feet below floor level - the carpet acting like a kind of papoose. Lying there, the sound of several more stacks, falling and clatting against one another, the slow slide of books falling from shelves echoes around the chamber. Hood sighs again, considers closing his eyes and sleeping, the simple act of attempting to lend a library book has become a poignant reminder of just how little control he has over his life. Hood gazes philosophically into the shadows of the carpet that is now suspending him over he knows not what. For all he knows, the carpet beneath him is all that is preventing him from falling into the void.
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“Need a hand down there?” asks Madeleine, standing over Hood on the edge of the large dimple that has appeared in the carpet, grateful for the comedy she perceives in the situation that takes her mind away from the actual situation.
Hood just grunts, making no attempt to move.
“Hey, I thought we needed to hurry?”
“Perhaps he’s injured,” shouts Helmet from above, surveying the devastation that he has caused.
“No he’s not injured,” Madeleine says, the tone of her voice intimating that Hood might be dealing with psychological and emotional issues but needs to pull himself together.
“Oh right then, well…” Helmet responds, gazing again at the scene before him. The library looks totally trashed. “Well, at least we haven’t smashed any of the stained g…”
A shadow looms behind the rose window and just as Helmet is finishing his sentence a loud raucous Caaaawwwww! sounds out as the central window of the rose buckles and explodes inwards, the beautiful antlered image of Aspartemane being replaced by a large white crow, cannoning forwards amidst a shower of glass, its talons afore itself, its wings outstretched. No sooner as it enters does its form change, disintegrating before the companions’ eyes like powdered snow, before integrating back into a shuffling form of darkness, a hunched old crone dressed in loose black garments, black-framed jam-jar glasses, and clutching, in wizened and wrinkled hands, a thin black walking cane.
Mordette!
Madeleine recognises her as one of Grumpini’s cronies, a teacher at Arkanthor feared by students and always close to Grumpini, having hushed and whispered conversations with him, in corners or private offices.
Mordette surveys the room with one swift turn of her head, her down turned mouth and beady eyes assessing the situation in a single glance and, without further ado, sends a blazing bolt of lightening from the tip of her cane directly at Helmet. Helmet, still taken aback by her entrance, has no time to react and the lightening bolt hits him directly, blasting him backwards against the handled wall from which he tumbles with a metallic clang. He tries to right himself but the lightening appears to have affected his motion and as he attempts to scramble to his feet he pitches over the side of the mezzanine’s hand rail and falls spread eagled, face first, into one of the fallen stacks, splintering shelves and casement alike.
Before the lightening bolt has even reached Helmet, Mordette has cast her cane aside and allowed her hands to move into a whirring blur. With a few choice words, a horizontal tornado expands from where she stands, its tip extending down the aisle towards Madeleine. Sucking in books and splintered bits of wood, each item barrels around the whirling funnel’s sides spinning and whirring, increasing in speed in ever tighter circles until it is spat out with prodigious force. Madeleine dives for cover behind the over turned and sunken table, feeling and hearing the slam of objects half hitting the table top. Such is the angle of the table that the objects are skimming off it and crouched as she is behind it Madeleine hears them impact first then whoosh overhead, flying off to hit stairs, walls and entrance doors alike.
Suddenly a large piece of glass punctures the table with a thrum, stopping inches away from Madeleine’s throat…and then silence. It all stops…and then only the sound of fluttering pages falling, and the soft thud of a walking cane on carpet.
“Where is the little imbecile?” a harsh and venom laced voice filled with derision and scorn sounds out.
Madeleine looks at Hood, Hood turns over and stares silently at Madeleine.
“I think she’s talking about you!” says Madeleine.
Hood starts to laugh, not his usual rasping laugh that heaves his shoulders and makes his entire body shake, but an empty hollow laugh that echoes the bleak state of his mind. In the shadows of the carpet Hood has been putting two and two together, has skimmed back over his memories and realised every single step where he has been manipulated, and deep within his soul he begins to fume. He recalls the first time that he heard about the Book of Portals, he was sitting outside Grumpini’s office, having been called there for some mild infraction involving one of his peers, when Mordette entering before him, catches his eyes as she passes and quietly closes the door as if the conversation that was to take place was private, secret. So of course Hood had strained to listen. And the conversation that he heard gave him hope, hope that there was a means of healing Madeleine. Of course he would search for the book, he would spend hours, days, years reading and rereading, he would read til his bloodshot eyes were heavier than lead - anything for his friend. Read ’til he collapsed exhausted upon desks wet and streaked like tears with candle wax. Read til the last wick expired in a puff of sightless smoke and the archives plunged into darkness. He would wade through texts, hunt down clues and not just put two and two together but assemble vast architectures, all in an attempt to locate this one thread of hope, this one possibility of restoring Madeleine to what she had been. He owed her that much, for he thought the responsibility lay squarely at his feet. A debt that must be paid. Of course he had blamed Grumpini for the suggestion that led to her tragic state, but now the more he thinks on it, the more the realisation dawns on him that he has been manipulated from the get-go. Even before the search for the book, the motivation for the search must be birthed. And what better way to birth a motivation steeped in hope than via an incident of grief, guilt and tragedy. And to engineer such an incident? Well, why not pray on the hubris of youth, on talent’s desire to excel and be seen, to think that as great as one can shine, one can shine even more brightly…
“Come in Master Hoodinius, come in.”
It is only the fifth day since Hood has arrived at Arkanthor. Sunlight streams through the window, bathing the desk in a golden spring glow. Grumpini sits behind, carefully peeling an apple with a knife. Cutting a chunk off, he munches it slowly, a thin line of juice dribbling from the side of his mouth, down his chin, then following his jowl line, seeps into the neck of his smock. He indicates for Hood to sit and stares at Hood, all the while silently chewing until he swallows the pulped mush and sets knife and apple aside. "I hear great things about you young man, a talent for research and study. And still so young.”
Hood is flattered, and slightly surprised. He has heard only bad things about Grumpini. That the Grump-a-dump eats students, clearly a stupid and absurd rumour and put about by spite but spite only grows in the soil of resentment and resentment is only caused by unfair treatment, so Hood’s wariness upon entering was entirely logical and yet seemingly unfounded.
Grumpini continues: “A burning desire to master the magic energies and, by no small means, I believe it has been said that even at your sapling age you are well on your way to doing so…It is most impressive the reports that I hear about you, and I’m sure that you will become a valuable addition to Arkanthor…But not just that, for I have heard it said, rumours only mind you - and have invited you here to politely enquire as to whether these particular rumours are true - but I have heard it said that you have managed at such an early age, even before you arrived at these hallowed towers, to capture and master a diabolical.” Grumpini let’s the word hang in the air for a moment. “To capture and master a diabolical! Tell me, if you do not mind - is this true?”
Hood does not talk much, but in the presence of authority, when asked, he will respond as politely and truthfully as possible. “Yes Master Grumpini, though not as diabolical a diabolical as one might expect.”
Grumpini’s eyebrows rise. “Oh, how so?”
"Well, I would not say that I captured or mastered it either - it is a simply an Imp.”
Grumpini purses his lips, and nods his head, as if considering this statement carefully. “Simply an imp,” he smiles.
“He was frightened when I met him and, well, he is more of a friendly acquaintance than anything.”
“‘A friendly acquaintance’ says he!” Grumpini slaps the desk top with a hand and laughs breathlessly. “Indeed - I applaud your modesty young man. But I see the light of power in your eyes - you remind me a little of myself when I was younger…Hmm, well, if the rumours are true - and you yourself have confirmed them - then, I believe I have a present for you.”
Grumpini leans forwards conspiratorily, sliding something across the desk towards Hood.
Hood watches himself from the shadows of memory, watches as he watches Grumpini slide the black leather bound book with its golden letters and rent cover across the table. Watches as he eagerly, foolishly accepts and cradles it to his chest - the object of his future destruction.
“Now I must warn you that you are not yet ready for the magic within that book, but why not at least take a peek within its bindings. A small peek never hurts, and careful study lays the foundation…” Grumpini lifts a single finger before him as if emphasising a key point in a lecture, bouncing the finger backwards and forwards in the air in time to the words that he speaks “…and a foundation of study sets the path, determines the twists and turns of that path, but moreover, determines how far along that path one may walk. Do you understand my meaning?” The finger stops, pointing at Hood
Hood reflects on the words carefully. “Yes Master Grumpini.”
“Good, then let the book be yours. That is all…for now”
Hood stands.
“Thank you master.”
“Think not on it dear boy…think not on it. And good luck with your studies.”
…
From the vantage point of the future, Hood’s lips curl in hatred, his eyes burn orange and red beneath his hood, and he grinds his teeth to such a degree that Madeleine can hear his jaw creak. Two gifts, and each poisonous - and a fool not to have learnt from the first! But whatever anger he is feeling, Hood realises the futility of the situation. He looks at Madeleine silently, and for the first time truly accepts what he has done. Even though he sees the spider’s web that he has blindly been caught in, even though he can perceive the machinations of Grumpini, he realises that without his own weaknesses and foibles, without his wants and desires, he would never have succumbed to such manipulation.
Madeleine looks back, smiling, Madeleine will always smile. “Well, what say you Hood?” she asks softly, the muffled sound of Mordette’s tapping cane growing closer.
“I…have…no…power.” he rasps.
“I know,” says Madeleine, reaching out a hand that falls short of reaching, her voice conveying sympathy and understanding.
“Cut…cut the carpet.” Hood rasps once more, before coughing violently. His throat red raw and sore from speaking too much - and each cough making it worse.
The tapping of the cane stops. “Well, there he is!” The stooped form of Mordette stands above him, her mouth twisted into a bizarre pantomime of a smile. Her glasses, magnifying her small beady eyes to large saucers “And always inseperable from his friend,” she mocks, speaking the word ‘friend’ as if it’s something she is going to eat, whilst flicking her eyes momentarily to Madeleine. “And what do you think we should do with the pair of you?” she asks rhetorically, blackened and cracked teeth being revealed as she cackles a laugh that sends chills down Hood’s spine, but before the answer to that question comes, a faint slicing sound followed by the sound of something tearing precludes a sudden sensation of falling.
Hood plunges into darkness, his clothes flapping about him as he falls, and with a rib busting, breath taking thud Hood hits rock bottom…Ooomph!…or at least bottom, for the ground beneath him seems to be relatively soft, as if he’s fallen onto grain sacks, the type that used to be housed in the ‘pantry’ at Arkanthor. If he has done so, it is purely fortuitous, for all around him comes the sound of wood impacting and splintering. Groaning he painfully pushes himself up on his fists and, sitting back with his legs tucked beneath him, opens his eyes, only to realise that his eyes are open already. The darkness is cloying. He looks up, to see that he must have fallen about twenty-five feet, the dim frayed threads of carpet high above him - a tear of light in a ceiling of darkness. Madeleine must still be up there - a blessing or a curse? If she had fallen, judging by what must have been the chair that fell with him, she would not have survived. But remaining as she must, she is at the mercy of Mordette. Momentarily pondering this, Hood feels the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Something moves behind him! He turns slowly, searching the darkness. Nothing. Nothing that is, until two large orange eyes slowly open before him, the glow from them reflecting off his face to reveal an arching row of needle teeth exposed by a widening and fiendishly glistening grin - the biological sounds of saliva and contracting flesh permeating the darkness.
The shadow of a twisted finger rises slowly between Hood’s face and that of the Diabolical that is staring at him. “Shhhhhh” it whispers.