88
Asking The Scribe’s Advice
“Maybe all is not lost, there is a person who might be able to help you,” interjected Salvas suddenly.
“He is known simply as „The
Scribe‟. I know where you can find him...if you‟re interested...” “Well, of course we are interested.” As they sat in the dilapidated light of the dusky dusty evening, Salvas explained a little more about the mysterious scribe. It turned out he used to be somewhat of a nomad, travelling up and down the silk route with his servants, learning ancient magic from far 89
flung corners of the world. He was widely regarded as a man of great wisdom who it was rumoured had great powers. According to locals he was currently living in an enormous tent a few hours walk from the city. “Surely it is worth trying,” the snake charmer concluded, shrugging his shoulders. “I don‟t know, it sounds a somewhat vague plan of action,” replied Arthur Canarthy in a rather patronising tone of voice, “but I suppose the clock is ticking. I can‟t think of what else we can do.” So, early the following morning, the four of them said goodbye to Salvas and his wife and trudged off to locate the mysterious scribe, using a roughly scrawled map that the snake charmer had drawn for them. Even though the day had only just begun, the sun was already beating down un-relentlessly and 90
they were none too confident about the logistics of making the sultan a robe from its beams. It was just before midday when the smuggler stopped, squinting at the horizon. “‟Ang on I can see somethin‟ in the distance,” exclaimed Ebenezer, “‟Ello...I think we‟ve just found this scribe. There‟s somethin‟ over there if I ain‟t much mistaken.” “You‟re right, it‟s a tent, come on everybody
not
proclaimed
Arthur
much
further
Canarthy,
his
now!” voice
notched up a level with fresh enthusiasm. The group picked up the pace, keen to get on with things. As they neared the large opulent tent it appeared to be deserted which immediately made alarm bells ring. “Er, hello there,” called out Arthur Canarthy tentatively. “I say, is anybody there?” 91
But
there
was
no
reply.
Silence
surrounded them, as they stood there wondering what to do next. “Maybe he doesn‟t live here anymore?” shrugged Albert. “Then why leave the tent? Let‟s „ave a butchers inside,” grunted Ebenezer Smythe, drawing back the flap over the entrance. “It‟s somewhat ill mannered to enter a strangers home without announcing ourselves properly,”
interrupted
Arthur
Canarthy,
looking most uncomfortable. “I mean it is hardly right to simply intrude when we are looking for this fellow to help us, he might be offended by such anti-social behaviour and that would get us nowhere.” “Stop bein‟ such a pompous ass!” retorted the smuggler, “let‟s get on wiv it.” 92
They entered the tent with a sense of wariness, hoping this wasn‟t another one of Madame Divitan‟s nasty tricks because they had sort of come to expect walking into such traps.
However, the tent appeared to be
unoccupied apart from the copious piles of books that were stacked up around the room on low tables, indeed it was a somewhat cluttered abode to say the least. Huge silk cushions were strewn across the floors and ornate lamps made from stained glass were intermittently placed over a large bright Persian carpet. By this point, the sun was at its strongest, pounding through the thick canvas of the tent. Suddenly there was the flicker of a shadow which caught Arthur Canarthy‟s eye. “I don‟t have a good feeling about this,” mumbled the children‟s guardian, looking 93
around nervously as he slicked down his thinning hair and loosened his cravat. “Maybe we should wait outside. If he catches us in here he‟s bound to be somewhat agitated.” At that precise moment there was a shuffling scuffling noise outside and as they turned towards the entrance they could see the dark shadow of something quite terrifying coming towards them. It seemed to be half human half something altogether different, for where the hands should have been were in fact what looked like huge claws or even worse and the head was colossal. “Wot the „ell!” started Ebenezer. “Quick! Hide! It‟s a monster!” shrieked Arthur Canarthy, his voice rising sharply with hysteria, “Let‟s get out of here before it eats us!” The children‟s guardian threw himself to 94
the sandy ground and desperately tried to crawl under the bottom of the tent. “What be the meanings of this?” exploded the scribe, his disturbing silhouette blocking the only way out. “How dares you to comes into my home! Are you here to robs me?” he continued, hobbling forward, holding some sort of curved sword in front of him. “Speaks or I kills you!” “No!
Please, you can see there are
children with us and they need your help,” whimpered Arthur Canarthy, as he stood up uneasily, his hands in the air and edged towards the others. “We just came to ask your advice - we mean you no malice Sir.” “Alright, I no kills you but no disrespects me to come
here without
summons and make me most uncalms.” 95
“I apologise most sincerely Sir but if we might just have a moment of your time.” The scribe slowly lowered his sword and moved forward to inspect the small group. As he got a little closer the children could see the scribe had the strangest hands they had ever seen, you see rather than fingers he had pencils, quills, pens and even a small pair of sewing scissors that jittered constantly with a jumpy strung-out energy. He was as old as old could be and looked like a bag of brittle bones with eyes that were sunken right back into his head and skin that was scraped around the shape of his skull giving him the appearance of a corpse that had just risen from the dead. The man‟s face was wilted and withered, like he had assumed the scars of many generations and his nose was gigantic like a vulture‟s beak. The scribe had a long 96
wispy white beard that trailed along the floor. He wore a long kaftan that floated around his bare feet and a large intricately patterned turban was wound around his head. Albert and Florrie looked at him dubiously, as he hobbled over to a low table, mumbling that they should take a seat. “So whats be the reason for to intrudes on my presence?” “Well, it‟s like this,” began Arthur Canarthy, attempting to explain their current predicament as concisely as possible, whilst the scribe seemingly forgot they were there as he burrowed through a chaos of books. “Um, Sir,” frowned the children‟s guardian. “Obviously we don‟t want to take up too much of your time when you are clearly busy but time is also of the essence for us so do you think you can help us?” 97
“Helps to you? In what ways?” “I was saying we need to make a robe for the sultan but it has to be made from sunbeams...I know it sounds rather ridiculous but if anybody can tell us how we can do this, we were informed it would be you,” prompted Arthur Canarthy, feeling somewhat foolish to say the least, as he nervously slicked his hand across his balding coiffure. “Not so ridiculous. Can be done but I not sure I wants to be of assistance with strangers. What in this arrangements for me?” “Um, I don‟t know, what do you want?” “Shoes,” replied the scribe. “I beg your pardon?” “Gives to me foot apparels and I borrows you the objects to facilitate your quest,” he nodded, pointing a bony finger at Arthur Canarthy‟s feet. 98