Vellum and Green Vitriol
Copyright © 2007, S. Y. Affolee
The Second Conjuration
Seal XVIII
My fingers itched to roll down the passenger side window. Outside, along Maddock Road leading out of Fairmont, oaks lined the avenue and bright red leaves swirled in the wind. The early afternoon light--although strong--failed to penetrate the canopy of the surrounding woods. The only sound was the hum of the automobile engine and Thor's tail as it thumped against the Necronomicon.
Rhys and I had managed to get back to the Fairmont Bed and Breakfast before noon with the old grimoire in tow. It constantly grumbled about being dragged around by ignorant youngsters and insane owners. I had checked the book for any blood stains and had found none--on the outside at any rate--so I had privately speculated that it could not Turn. But it was an old book. Who knew what it would do? Perhaps it was just remaining a book because it preferred that form.
Thor, however, had taken an immediate dislike to the Necronomicon. The cat had hissed and had attempted to scratch it up although his paws had curiously skittered across its cover without finding any purchase. Perhaps it was the book's self defense. On its part, the Necronomicon had complained about uppity animals with no sense of place and order.
I had decided to visit the cottage on Fairmont Lake after the lunch at the pub, Barney's. I could have driven the rented automobile myself, but Rhys insisted on tagging along, calling himself the chauffeur. Reluctant to leave the old grimoire lying about the bed and breakfast where someone could get their hands on it--namely Tabitha who would probably attempt to open it thinking there would be love spells in there--I had taken it with me and leaving it in the back seat of the automobile. Thor had decided to follow in order to continue his abuse on the grimoire. Since the cat couldn't tear it up, he had settled on trying to bash it into submission.
The Necronomicon had made threats against the cat, but so far had not even attempted to follow through.
"There has to be someone in town who knows the whereabouts of Archibald Chesterfield," said Rhys as he drove. "You did say that the Widow Fitzgerald claim that he was only at this cottage for only a few months during the year. And she said that he was somewhere south the rest of the year."
"Yes, that's right. But if we're lucky, we might catch him at his cottage today."
"Sure. If we're lucky."
"You sound like we're having terrible luck so far. And that's simply not true. We've been stymied, yes, but it's not like we're not making any progress at all."
"Hm. I suppose things could be worse."
The trees thinned out a bit revealing a bit of grassland beyond. And then there was the lake. Flat. Cold. Dark blue. Several willow trees grew by the edge. Tufts of cattails skirted the shore like the last hairs on a bald man's head. A row of ducks beaded in the shallows, bobs of dark feathers.
"So Al, what do you think?" I called back. The old grimoire had insisted on the nickname which was derived from its original Arabic title. "You've been in Fairmont for far longer. Is Archibald Chesterfield around?"
I'm not clairvoyant.
Thor thumped the book again.
"All right," I drawled. "So do you know anything about Archibald Chesterfield?"
Very little. He didn't seem very memorable. From his conversations with the widow, he didn't seem interesting. He was a book collector and he did seem to take an interest in me.
"If Chesterfield bought the Liber Tutelarum," said Rhys, "and he knew what it was, it would certainly make sense that he would take an interest in Al. I bet he made an offer to the widow to obtain you."
He did. But for some reason, the widow did not sell me to him. At the time, I thought it was merely human sentimentality--that she did not sell me because I had belonged to her dead husband. But since she gave me to you, I'm rethinking that. Perhaps there was something about Chesterfield that made her uneasy.
I crossed my arms and tapped a finger against an elbow, thinking. "Do you think that humans might have some sort of sense that we don't have?"
"I wouldn't put it against them," Rhys replied. "When we're in book form, they have all sorts of advantages. They have vision. We don't."
"True. But why give Al to me? Sorry Al, but I'm probably not very qualified to take care of you."
Young people take care of their elders all the time.
"I think I'd have to pass."
Selfish chit. Be thankful that I never asked to be given away in the first place.
I ignored the insult. "So we're basically back to where we started."
"Oh, I wouldn't exactly say that." Rhys was frowning as he turned the steering wheel, guiding the Rochet-Schneider from the main road to a smaller rutted turn-off. The automobile jolted and jerked on the unpaved smaller road which headed closer towards the shore of the lake and to a small copse of trees framing a squat cottage with denuded branches.
He parked next to one of the trees. I got out and breathed in the cold, moist air. Two magpies on a branch swooped down, barely missing me as they chirped angrily. I clutched my hat to my head and quickly made my way toward the cottage entrance. The door was painted with a rustic shade of burgundy that was slowly chipping away, revealing the wood underneath. I tried peering through the window nearby, but saw nothing. Was anyone home?
I knocked. We waited for a few moments. Then Rhys pounded on the door.
It creaked open and a plume of stale air hit my nose. Coughing, I tried waving it away. "I don't think Chesterfield is in residence. Perhaps he has not been in residence for quite a while."
"That doesn't make very much sense," said Rhys. "Severin said that he had visited the Greenglass Auction House recently to buy a batch of books."
"But that doesn't mean that he had to come straight back here." I took one step into the cottage and paused for my eyes to accustom to the gloom. "He could have just been visiting Greenglass from elsewhere and had decided to go back there rather than coming back to Fairmont. It makes a sort of sense if you assume that he keeps this cottage for his summer residence."
"All right. So let's assume that he hasn't been here. But that doesn't mean that you need to snoop around."
"But no one's going to know."
"Hm."
The windows, I discovered, were covered in curtains--which blocked out the light and any attempt at peering into the interior. The front room of the cottage did not look very remarkable. There was a couch, some chairs, an armchair, a table, a lamp--typical things one would expect of a receiving room. Off to the left of the front room was a relatively sparse kitchen. Beyond that was a bathroom. To the right was a stair leading up to darkness.
"There's something wrong about this place," I said as I climbed the stairs and entered into a sparse bedroom.
"What?" Rhys had followed me. He went to the window to look out onto the lake. "This looks like an ordinary enough cottage to me."
"If this was rented out to someone who collected books, wouldn't he have books lying around?"
"Well, considering that we don't see anything lying around, I would assume that Chesterfield had packed up all of his belongings when he left."
After a glance at the room, I moved toward a wardrobe shoved up against the far wall. I opened one of the doors. It appeared empty. "This is so disappointing. I suppose we will have to get back to Fairmont and question some more people. Someone surely knows where Chesterfield lives the rest of the time."
"And that would assume that Chesterfield ever mentioned this to anyone in the village."
I tugged the handle to the other door of the wardrobe. It jerked open. Something flew out. A flock of somethings flew out. My scream was only muffled because I had covered my face with my arms. Rhys cursed loudly and the door to the bedroom slammed shut.
"Ana, are you all right?"
He was still here. Slowly, I lowered my arms and blinked. Rhys was standing over me with my hat in his hand. I looked past him. Towards the ceiling drifted paper birds--all of them animated by strange black sigils that twisted and changed on the parchment.
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