Robert Carter - The Language of Stones

He fetched the lady’s looking-glass and then tried the writing again. Now he could read it. But not quite, because although he could spell out the words, still they did not make any more sense than the words written on the cover. He read them aloud – they sounded magical. And when he looked back through the pictures, beside the eagle there was added the word feoreunn , beside the bee begier , and beside the wyvern – which was a man-eating beast of the air, a two-legged, winged dragon – was the word nathirfang.

Will mouthed them aloud for a while, then turned to look in the back of the book where the same small writing was:

To have the creature come, say,

‘Aillse, aillse, ______ comla na duil!’

To have the creature do thy bidding, say:

‘Aillse, aillse, ______ erchim archas ni! Teirisi! Taigu!’

‘They’re spells!’ Will whispered fiercely to himself. ‘And those gaps are where to put the true names.’

I shouldn’t be looking at this, he thought, suddenly mindful of the Wise Woman’s warnings about the respect that magic demanded. It seemed wrong to be stealing peeks at a book that was not his to look at, and even more wrong to be slyly acquiring spells, but now he had started reading it was hard to stop.

He began to commit the words to memory, and he had made a fair job of it before a sound outside alerted him. He had been so engrossed that he only just managed to scramble back to his own chamber before the housekeeper’s maid came past.

After the noonday meal Will took a piece of bread and honey away from the kitchen, and armed with his spells he set about catching a fly. As soon as one came in through the window to feed on the honey he shut it in the room and all afternoon, instead of practising his writing, he called out the words he had learned.

But it was not as easy as he imagined. There were many ways to pronounce what he had written down, and the fly took no notice of any of them. Also, the fly was not exactly like any of those pictured in the book. Was it a foulaman ? Or could it be a gleagh , or a crevar ? Lastly, he tried cuelan with no better success, but when he opened the door a big, fat bluebottle came in and began to buzz round his head.

He let out a yell of triumph. Wherever he went in the room the cuelan followed, flying round his head with the same solid determination that a moth flies about a candle flame. When he walked back and forth, the fly followed. When he stood still, it flew round him in a perfect circle.

‘I’ve done it!’ he said, enormously pleased with himself.

He lay down on his bed and watched the fly circling above his face. Then the fly landed on his nose. He tried to waft it away. But it dodged his hand.

‘That’s enough. You can go away now,’ he said.

But it would not go away. It had been called to him magically and nothing he said would persuade it to leave. He quickly tired of it, but it did not tire of him. It kept landing on his lips and bothering him as he tried to write, until finally he dived under the bedclothes to rid himself of it.

When he came out again, it was waiting for him. When he went down to supper it came too, and though three pieces of bread and honey were put before him, the fly took no notice of any of them. It wanted only to circle his head, and when it next landed on him he slapped himself hard on the mouth, threw a fit of temper and almost fell off his chair.

The cook stared at him oddly. He shrugged back at her and scampered off, the fly in pursuit. Lady Strange, annoyed by the fly’s attentions when she came near him, asked Will if he had forgotten to wash behind his ears. She set him an evening writing exercise and went away. Will hoped the fly would go too, but it did not.

As darkness fell there was no hope of concentrating on his studies. All evening the fly plagued him, and when the moon rose and every kind of daytime fly might reasonably be expected to go to its rest, this one continued to buzz. It seemed to Will that the only way to catch it would be to let it go where it so obviously wanted to go – into his mouth – then to swallow it whole.

He finally succeeded in killing it – he shot out a hand and slapped it against the wall then trod on it. But his savage joy was tempered with guilt. It was only a bluebottle, but that was beside the point. Working with naming magic could lead to unexpected trouble. He would have to learn a lot more about magic if he was ever going to do it right.

As Lammastide approached, Will planned his escape. It was an unsophisticated plan. Two weeks of obedience had slackened the vigilance of those who might otherwise have watched him with greater care, and when the courtyard next emptied he made a dash for the gate. He went straight down to the river and there he found the Wise Woman’s hovel, pitched as it was in the shade of a spreading willow tree.

‘Hello, Wise Woman!’ he cried as he came up.

She had a basket on her lap and was shelling peas into it, but she greeted him with a kind word and asked him in. He sat down on an upturned pail and said, ‘Wise Woman, will you answer me a question?’

‘If I can.’

‘Do you know a village called Leigh?’

‘Surely. I pass by it every third day.’

‘Do you know a girl who lives there by the name of Willow?’

The Wise Woman nodded thoughtfully. ‘That one is very pretty, is she not?’

‘I – I’d like you to take a message to her. If you wouldn’t mind, that is.’

‘Oh.’ She broke open another pod. ‘And why don’t you go yourself?’

Will knew the Wise Woman well enough to have anticipated that. ‘Because Leigh’s beyond the bounds of the Wychwoode, and I don’t want to break my word to Master Gwydion.’

The Wise Woman’s face was like cracked leather, but her eyes were pools. They seemed to see deep inside him. ‘That’s a fine sentiment when you’ve already broken faith to come here.’

Will looked down. ‘That wasn’t any promise made to Master Gwydion. It’s only Lord Strange’s rule.’

‘Does it matter? It’s your promise that loses its value when you break it.’

A powerful mixture of feelings welled up inside him. ‘But I must get a message to Willow.’

The Wise Woman watched him again in her quiet way. ‘What does your message say?’

‘I want to ask if she’ll meet me in the place above Grendon Mill where we first saw one another at noonday tomorrow. Please tell her how much I want her to come, and say I’ve got something important to show her.’

The Wise Woman laid her basket aside and hobbled to the doorway. ‘What do you want to show her? Let me see it.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Then I can’t take your message.’

He squirmed. ‘I want to show her some…feats.’

‘What sort of feats?’

‘Just some small magic. The sort you’ve told me about.’

She looked at him for a long while, then she shook her head. ‘Willand, the secrets of magic are not to be vouchsafed lightly. Magic is not a toy. And it is not for everyone to play with as they will. I have told the secrets to you only because Master Gwydion says you are very special.’

‘But Willow’s special too. If you’ve seen her, you’ll know she’s—’

‘I know she’s pretty.’

Will’s cheeks coloured. ‘Please, Wise Woman.’

‘Oh, I’ll take your message to her.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘But I’ll do it for my own reasons, not yours. You may not think so, but in my time I’ve known what it’s like to burn with youthful fires. I’ll do as you ask, but first you must promise not to teach the girl any lessons in magic, for as a famous inscription says “to be curious about that which is not your concern while you are still in ignorance of your own self, that is ridiculous”.’