Becoming P.T. Lyfantod - 35
A serial fantasy novel
What follows is Part 35 of Becoming P.T. Lyfantod
If you missed Part 1, start there:
“I thought you said it was your mam’s sister in hospital?” Stuart whispered as I stepped back into line.
“Yeah…” I nodded, still trying to process my success. “He wasn’t listening.”
“A pen?” Tom scoffed. “A cabbage? This is going to be easier than I thought.”
“Jenkins?” Lightfoot said. “How about you?”
“Me?” Stuart squeaked.
“No time like the present.”
“This ought to be good,” Godwyn muttered.
“Go on, Stu,” Iain gave his shoulder a reassuring pat.
Stuart swallowed and stepped forward. His rucksack was still hidden beneath his jacket, which he presently unzipped. Lightfoot watched patiently as Stuart produced a black, hardcover book and handed it over. “It’s—signed… By the author.”
Rather than paging through it like any normal person would have done, Lightfoot held the book up his ear and closed his eyes. “Mmm…” He ran his fingertips over the cover before opening his eyes. “Tell us how you got it.”
Stuart glanced back. “Details!” I mouthed.
“I went out with P.T. and Iain Saturday. But I err—had trouble, going up to strangers. Eventually it got dark, and I went home. I realized I needed a plan.
“That night, I hardly slept. I couldn’t stop thinking about the trial. So I read from my encyclopedias instead, hoping for inspiration. I read entries on charisma, confidence games, persuasion, and rhetoric. All about getting people to do things… but none explaining how to do it. Sunday was a nightmare. I was exhausted. I couldn’t study. And no matter how I wracked my brain, no ideas came.
“My mam must’ve noticed something was wrong, because she asked me to join her volunteering at the nursing home; a… place for old people she goes to three times a week. She used to try to get me to come along, but I always refused because it creeped me out to see them, just waiting around for death…”
Stuart cleared his throat. “As soon as she said it, I knew I had to go, even though I still had no plan. Where else was I going to meet someone to convince? Mam couldn’t believe it when I agreed. On the ride over she kept giving me weird looks, asking if everything was all right at school. I said everything was fine, but I don’t think she believed me.
“The home smells like a hospital. Like bedsheets and disinfectant. But there’s something else, too. The smell of… old. I played checkers with a man who could only see from one eye. The other was milky and white and…” Stuart shivered. “While we played, I kept trying to think of a way to ask him for something, but mam was only a few feet away, and I knew if she heard she’d lose it.
“During our third game he fell asleep, and I wound up wandering the halls. I’d been walking for several minutes when I smelled freshly-baked chocolate chip biscuits. Stomach growling, I followed the smell to an open doorway. Inside, an old woman dozed in a wheelchair beside her bed. There was no sign of biscuits. I was just about to leave when her eyes opened. They were bright blue, and staring right at me.
“‘Oh!’ I jumped. ‘I didn’t mean to—’
“‘I wasn’t really sleeping,’ she said. ‘Come in.’ She pointed to a chair at a little writing desk where a candle was burning. ‘Followed your nose, have you?’
“I sat. ‘How did you know?’
“She rolled between me and the door. ‘Just a little trap I lay,’ she smiled wickedly. ‘To draw unsuspecting flies into my web.’
“I gulped, but she leaned forward and patted me on the knee. ‘Only joking, dear. It’s the candle. I love the smell of fresh biscuits, but they won’t let us anywhere near the kitchen. So I make do.’ She tilted her head. ‘It does attract a hungry spirit from time to time. I’m Gwen.’
“‘Stuart,’ I said, and we shook hands. Her grip was surprisingly strong.
“‘Visiting someone?’ she asked, and I told her no, I’d come with my mam, who volunteers. ‘Ah. Well I’m sorry if I’ve frightened you. And I’m even sorrier about the biscuits. Here.’ She bent down and opened the bottom desk drawer, revealing a pack of chocolate Hobnobs.
“I was going to refuse, but my stomach gurgled. ‘Maybe just one,’ I said. She took one herself and closed the drawer. ‘I wasn’t frightened, you know,’ I added. I knew she didn’t believe me.
“‘I quite like being frightened, myself,’ she replied.
“I frowned at her. ‘You do?’
“‘Oh sure,’ she held up her biscuit. ‘The right sort of frightened, anyhow.’
“‘What’s the right sort?’ I asked.
“‘There are plenty of unpleasant things to be frightened of. Losing someone you love. The uncertain future of the world. Diminishing control over your faculties.’ She gazed around her room, ‘Or your environment.’ I nodded, unsure what to say. ‘Witchcraft, on the other hand; mysterious disappearances, spirits… uncanny beings from out of time—’ Her smile returned as she popped the last of her biscuit into her mouth. ‘Those things I enjoy being frightened of very much.’
“‘Do you… have much experience with those things?’ I asked.
“‘Oh, not personally. My father, though… He was a farmer, up in Caerfyrddin. As a girl he told me stories of things he’d seen, out in the pastures at night. Things that would shock you. They left me with a lasting love of scary stories. Like these.’ She turned her chair to face the bookshelf behind her and took down a black book with gold lettering and a key on the spine, and handed it to me.
“‘The Three Impostors…’ I read. ‘Arthur Machen?’
“‘His real name was Arthur Llewellyn Jones,” she said. ‘He was a writer from the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. A good one. Keep you up all night, those stories will.’ She tapped the cover. ‘It’s supposed to be fiction. But after some of the things my father told me… I’m not so sure.’
“I shivered, wondering just what kind of stories were inside. That’s when I heard my mam calling. ‘Stuart—! Where are you?’
“‘That for you?’ Gwen asked, and I nodded. ‘Well, you don’t want to keep your mother waiting.’
“I started to hand the book back, but paused. ‘I don’t suppose…’ I could hardly look her in the eye, ‘you’d let me keep it?’ Her eyebrows rose in surprise, and her mouth narrowed. I nearly shoved the book at her and ran.
“‘I’ve had that book for half a century,’ she said, and I felt terrible. ‘It was given to me by Arthur Machen himself.’ I started to push it back into her hands, but she stopped me. ‘But I’d be willing to part with it on one condition.’
“‘What is it?’ I asked.
“‘That you come back and visit me sometime,’ she said. ‘So we can talk about it.’
“‘I—okay,’ I nodded. ‘Sure.’ My mam was calling again.
“‘You’d better go,’ she said. I nearly tripped over my chair climbing out of it.
“‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Thank you!’ And I ran off, hiding the book in the back of my trousers before my mam could see it. And, look—” Stuart flipped the book open, still in Lightfoot’s hands, to the title page. Near the bottom was a signature. ‘To Gwen,’ it said, followed by a big, angular A, then some squiggles, and a swooping stroke before machen, written entirely in lowercase.
Stuart looked up at Lightfoot. “Does that… count? I mean I know I didn’t trick her, or anything, but—”
“You did wonderfully,” Lightfoot handed Stuart back his book, smiling. “Your Gwen valued this tome enough to keep it half her life. You persuaded her to part with it by showing her kindness. She was moved by your open heart. And that will serve you better any false charms—if you can hold onto it in this cruel, deceitful world.”
The back of Stuart’s neck turned pink. “Oh—thank you.” He shuffled back into line.
“Well done, Stu!” Iain gave him a friendly shake. Stuart beamed.
“Mr. Lightfoot,” Merry stepped forward. “Would it be all right if I went next?”
