Billy's Book
Simon Haynes
Copyright (c) 2011 by Simon Haynes
The explosion was completely unexpected, and Billy Crump cowered as test equipment, ingredients and broken glass rained down. He yelled in pain as a length of copper tube bounced off his skull, and when all was finally still he opened his eyes to survey the wreckage.
"Oh, shit," he muttered under his breath. "Oh shit, shit, shit!"
He was standing in the middle of a rough stone floor, right next to a blackened workbench. Every surface was littered with shattered glass, bent metal and shredded paper. Even the tops of the bookcases were dusted with the aftermath. Even the lintel above the door.
Billy glared at a book lying face down on the floor, its title barely legible on the scuffed green cover. "Uncle Frooter's Experi-mental Alma-nac," said Billy, reading the words haltingly. "This is your fault, this is." He lashed out with a size thirteen boot, and the book flew across the room in a flutter of yellowed paper.
"Ow!" said a tiny voice.
Billy stuck a forefinger in his ear and twisted it savagely. "Could'a swore I heard somefink."
"You did, you big bully," squeaked the voice.
"Huh?" Billy's forelock slid across his brow as he turned his head from side to side. "Who's there? What's talkin'?"
The book fluttered. "Who do you think, you two-legged disaster zone?"
"A talkin' book?" Emotions ran over Billy's face like drops of food dye in a goldfish bowl. Surprise was followed by bafflement, bafflement by comprehension and comprehension by cunning. "I could sell you," he said under his breath. "I could sell you an' then I wouldn't have to muck out no more stables."
"Sell me?" squeaked the book. "You don't even own me!"
Another thought occurred to Billy, telegraphed by a widening of his eyes. "Here, why din'ya talk when I was putting all the stuff together like in the pictures? Advisin', that's what I needed!"
The book sniffed. "I thought you knew what you were doing." The cover opened and closed. "I didn't realise I was being pawed by a semi-literate shit-shoveller."
Billy sighed and looked around the workshop. He was gonna catch it when old man Wiltred came back, unless he could pin the blame on someone else. Belatedly, he realised he should have removed his stable-cleaning boots before using the wizard's laboratory, because the floor was criss-crossed with thick brown footprints. Billy stared around for inspiration, and as usual he found none. "I'm really gonna cop it this time. Shit."
"Swearing won't help."
"Shuddup or I'll burn you," growled Billy.
"Might I suggest a tidy-up spell?"
"A what?"
The book fluttered. "Come and have a look. It's mostly short words."
Billy stomped over to the book and picked it up by a single page, ignoring the squeak of anguish. His lips moved as he scanned the writing, and when he was ready he held the book at arms length and cleared his throat. "Clean up this rat hole, you witch," he intoned. He stared closely at the page, then held the book out again. "And I don't want none of that tripe for tea again." He lowered the book and looked around expectantly. Nothing happened, and he was about to try again when a shadow passed over the window. A wizard-shaped shadow with a pointy hat.
"Oh no," moaned Billy. "Wiltred!"
The door creaked on its hinges and a wizened old man tottered in. Glass crunched underfoot, and his shaggy white eyebrows climbed to meet the brim of his hat as he took in the destruction. "My equipment!" he shrieked. "My experiments! My laboratory!" His bright, beady eyes fastened on Billy. "Give me that book!"
Billy hung his head and held the book out, not daring to meet the old man's eyes. It was snatched from his grasp, and he heard a rapid turning of pages. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw a flush creep into the wizard's pale cheeks. Oh, he was really for it this time.
Wiltred stopped reading. "Look at me, boy."
Billy shuffled his feet, concentrating on a smear of manure. Suddenly he felt his neck twisting of its own volition, and his head snapped up with a click. He flinched as he stared into Wiltred's pale green eyes, and his stomach contracted as he imagined the dreadful spell the wizard was going to punish him with.
There was a swish and thud. "Ow, fug!" yelled Billy, as the book slammed into the side of his head.
"How many times have I told you to stay out of my workshop!" shouted the wizard, swinging the book again.
Billy ducked and ran for the door. As he dived through the book sailed overhead, neatly parting his hair.
"You're fired!" yelled the wizard. "I never want to see you again."
Billy stooped to grab his severance pay off the muddy ground, then ran like hell. His solid legs fairly blurred as he put some distance between himself the wizard's curses, which tainted the afternoon breeze like bursts of pure cyanide.
* * *
A mile or two later Billy plunged into the forest, not daring to look back in case Wiltred was pursuing him. He kept going until he was deep in the tangled undergrowth, before flopping down exhausted in the shade of an old willow tree. There was so sign of the vengeful wizard so he set the book on the muddy ground, rubbed his throbbing ear and cleared his throat. "You really a talking book?"
The book lay there, as any book would.
"Hello?" said Billy. He looked around. The villagers didn't rate his intelligence at the best of times, but if they caught him talking to an almanac ...
The cover lifted about an inch, then closed again. There was a groan.
"Book? Are you all right?"
The cover moved again. "What hit me?"
"My head," said Billy rubbing his ear. "Here, what kind of book can talk?"
"Gee, I don't know," squeaked the almanac. "A magic book, perhaps?"
Billy glared at it. "An' why didn't your clean-up spell work?"
"Perhaps you didn't have the right ingredients."
"Ingredients? You didn't say nuffink about ingredients!"
The book sniffed. "I just supply the spells, sonny. You have to do the rest."
Billy leant against the tree and closed his eyes. "Figure I won't be sleeping in the barn tonight," he muttered.
"And I can't see myself back on my shelf," said the book. "Just as well, really. Stuck up twits, the lot of them. Always looking down on me because I didn't have a jacket."
Billy opened one eye and glanced at the book. "A talkin' book 'ud be worth a fortune."
"Unfortunately, stolen ones are a little hard to sell."
"You was thrown away!"
The book's cover opened, then closed slowly. "In a strictly literal sense, but ..."
Billy put his hand up. "No buts. Was you thrown away or not?"
"Yes," said the book huffily.
"Then I can sell you."
"But we could make a fortune together!"
"How?" asked Billy.
The book was silent.
"You don't know, do you? You just don't wanter be sold."
"I suppose I would be better off with someone who appreciates me," muttered the book. "Perhaps even someone who can read."
"I can read," said Billy defensively. "I just 'ave trouble wiv long words."
The book flipped open. "Try reading this."
Billy leant forward and stared at the page. There was a picture of a tree standing alone in a barren land. Underneath was a short sentence. Billy stared at the words, his lips moving as he worked them out. "Copyright Lone Pine Books," he said.
"Well done," said the book. "Four down, twenty-three thousand to go."
Billy slammed the book shut. "No more talking!" he hissed at the cover. "You're mine, and I'm sellin' yer." He got to his feet and walked along the rough path between the trees. Before long he emerged from the forest, and the
sun and the green fields lifted his spirit until he burst into an inane song, the sound of his voice getting gradually fainter as he got further and further from the forest.
Oh!
I knew a lass from down the dell,
And the o-ther lads knew her just as well,
Took 'er to the fair an' she won a duck,
And to celebrate we had a …
But by then Billy was over the hill and the rest of the song was lost in the gentle sounds of the countryside.
* * *
"Book?" Billy shook the almanac.
The merchant's grin widened. "Perhaps, friend, it has a sore throat."
"I shouldn't of shouted at it," muttered Billy. "Hey book, I'm sorry. Now say summink before I heave you on the fire."
"Alas, I do not have a fire," said the merchant. "Nor even a fireplace."
Billy sighed. "The book didn't know that, did it?"
The merchant's mouth twisted. "So your magic book is blind as well as dumb?"
The cover opened slightly. "You fat git! Who are you calling dumb?"
There was a thud as the merchant dropped to his knees. "By the gods. It spoke!"
"Dat's what I've been telling you for the last twenny minutes," said Billy. "Now gimme the money."
The merchant held out a small bag. "Five golden talons, as agreed."
"Five talons?" shrieked the book. "FIVE TALONS? I'm worth ten times that amount!"
"I shall pay no more than forty," said the merchant firmly.
"Wunnerful," said Billy, as he took the heavy coins.
"Hold on there, sunshine," said the book. "I'm not going anywhere unless he's got a decent shelf. No rickety jobs built out of planks and house bricks."
"For a book such as you, I will construct a bookcase of finest mahogany." The merchant described the shape in thin air. "It shall be carved with all the gods in the heavens and decorated with gold leaf of the highest quality."
"Sounds draughty," said the book.
"I shall commission a fireplace."
"A fireplace," muttered the book darkly. "He's going to put me near a fireplace."
"It shall not be lit," said the merchant.
"So now you don't care if I get cold?"
The merchant's gaze lingered on the coins clutched in Billy's large, meaty hands.
"You can't change your mind!" said Billy, taking a step back. "You got the talking book, I got the money."
The merchant sighed. "You were successful in making it talk. Pray tell, by what manner do you cause it to cease?"
Billy glanced at the almanac. "I think you can knock it out with a good whack."
"Isn't that typical?" muttered the book. "Sold twice in one day."
The merchant got to his feet and clapped his hands. A servant entered the room, his curved sword scraping a line in the plaster.
"Arnold, how many times have I told you to keep that damn sword off my walls!" shouted the merchant. He remembered his guests, and coughed. "Urm, servant of mine. Wouldst you were so kind as to escort this gentleman to the exit."
The servant raised one eyebrow. "You what?" he rumbled.
The merchant jerked a thumb at Billy. "Show him out."
The servant hustled Billy through the arch.
"So that's it?" cried the book. "Dumped for forty talons?"
"You said you was worth that much!" called Billy.
"My spells could have made you urk!"
"Urk?" Billy frowned. It was not a currency he was familiar with. He tried to turn round, but found himself driven along by the servant, much like a leaf in a storm drain.
"See you later, book!" yelled Billy from the front door.
There was no reply.
* * *
Billy sighed as he stared at the single golden talon lying on the rough wooden table in front of him. He scooped up the last few crumbs and tipped them into his mouth, then sighed again. Who'd have thought a jug of ale and a meat pie would come to thirty-nine talons? He scratched his head. Before now he'd bought pies using the copper coins he earned mucking out stables. These soft yellow ones must be almost worthless.
He remembered the way Arnold had rushed him out of the merchant's house. How they must be laughing, getting a valuable book like that for nothing!
A meat pie and a couple of beers for a magic book. Billy sighed and lowered his head to the table.
"Finished with the jug?"
Billy glanced up. A young woman was standing beside him, hands on hips and a kindly expression on her face. Billy's eyes travelled down her plump figure, stopped at her sandals, then came up to her face.
"Are you done?" she said.
Billy reddened. "Uh-huh."
The woman took the jug and wiped the table with a flick of her rag. Billy watched her walk back to the kitchen.
"Want a room for the night?" called the barman, a squinty-eyed dwarf. He hobbled across to the table on his wooden leg, wiping a glass with his beard.
Billy looked up. "What?"
"Room for the night. Only two hundred talons," said the dwarf.
Billy shook his head sadly. "I only got one of dose left."
"Done!" said the dwarf, whipping the coin from Billy's fingers with a move so fast it would have left a cobra gasping in astonishment. "Up the stairs, first on the left. No spitting, no smokin' and no broads."
"Broads?" asked Billy.
The dwarf made a lewd gesture. "Wimmen."
A red flush crept up Billy's neck, slowly making its way onto his face.
"Hey, boy, what's the matter? Never ridden the pink pogo?"
Mortified, Billy grabbed the key and hurried up the stairs.
* * *
The room was small and dark, the bed a collection of planks slung between bales of hay. Fingers of cold air poked through gaps in the walls, ruffling the flame on Billy's candle and chilling his nose. Billy undressed quickly and got into the bed. He lay there nibbling the edge of the blanket, oblivious to the rancid taste as stray thoughts echoed around his head.
The merchant had cheated him, there was no doubt about it. The book must have worked some magic, the way it had got rid of him like an unwanted fur ball. He made up his mind to visit the merchant in the morning and sort things out. The man had seemed reasonable, and there was a good chance he could come away with a fairer price.
Billy spat out the blanket and was just leaning over to blow out the candle when he heard a creak outside the door. He stared at it, wide eyed, as the handle squeaked, then pulled the blanket up to his chin as a shadowy figure stepped into the room.
"Any room for me?" called a low voice.
In the moonlight Billy saw the young serving woman, clutching her nightgown around her plump figure.
"I c-can't seem to get warm," she said.
* * *
Billy shovelled egg and bacon into his mouth as fast as he could, unable to believe his good luck. He'd woken alone, and at first he'd wondered whether he'd just enjoyed a particularly good dream. The girl's scent lingered on the bedclothes, however, and after savouring the memory for a moment or two his thoughts turned to the stern dwarf with his three rules. Billy had only broken the last one, but he'd done so several times.
However, the dwarf had been expansive, offering a free breakfast at the best table in the house. As Billy chewed on the lumps of white gristle called 'bacon', he glanced out of the window at the busy street. It was market day, and half a dozen colourful stalls lined the main street. Happy families in stiff Sunday clothes wandered up and down, calling greetings to the stall holders. Merry traders replied in the manner of their kind, demanding their clients buy something or piss off.
Suddenly, a giant with a long, curved sword appeared through the bustling town-folk. Striding in his wake was the merchant, a grim look on his face. As they got closer, Billy saw the book under the merchant's arm. He'd been planning to visit the merchant and ask for more cash, copper bits this time, but the expression on the merchant's face was so forbidding he quickly change
d his mind.
Billy pushed his plate away and jumped up. Before he could make the door, it flew open and Arnold squeezed through. Then the merchant made his entrance.
"Good morning, Billy."
Billy swallowed. "Mornin'"
The merchant held the book up. It was dripping wet and tied up with yards of rough string. "This is trouble, Billy," he said.
"For you or me?"
"Last night, it was trouble for me." The merchant leant closer and lowered his voice to a rasping whisper. "Now it's trouble for you."
"What d'ya mean?"
"My wife and I were in bed early. After a few minutes, I began to hear moaning."
Billy reddened. He'd heard plenty of moaning throughout the night too, but this wasn't the time to mention it.
"I explained to your book that it was time to sleep. It asked for a cup of warm milk. I summoned the servants, who supplied the milk. Then it wanted more light. I lit a candle. Then it couldn't quite get comfortable. I moved it. Then it was too cold."
"It can be a mite fussy," agreed Billy.
"At four o'clock in the morning my wife threw a bucket of water over it. After that, you could hear the wailing all over the house. We tied it up just before dawn, and it is in that state that I am returning your book for a refund."
"What?"
The merchant held the book out. "I want my money back."
"You can't. I spent it on dinner," said Billy.
The merchant's eyes started from his head. "Forty gold talons on a meal?" he yelled. "Who could possible charge such an exorbitant price?"
Billy pointed at the bar, but the dwarf had found urgent business elsewhere.
"Arnold, grab the little bleeder and rip his beard off," snapped the merchant. "And save his wooden leg. It's going to come in useful." He thrust the book at Billy. "Take this and get lost."
Outside, Billy pulled the string off the book. The cover was damp, and when he opened it, several pages fluttered to the ground. Billy stared at them in horror, then gathered them up and pushed them back inside. "Book?" he cried. "Book, can you hear me?" A cold feeling seeped into Billy's guts. The merchant had killed it! Without a thought for his own safety, he tucked the book under his arm and ran for the wizard's house.