the front. It read simply “Sylas” in a hand that he recognised: the strange oriental hand that had painted the sign of the Shop of Things. His excitement grew and he tore it open.
Inside was a single slightly yellowed piece of paper that had been folded in half. It was not a letter as he expected, but a single paragraph. The writing was so distinctive and flamboyant that at first Sylas thought it was yet another language or code, but, to his surprise, it was written in English. Although the rain appeared to have blotted some of the letters, it was perfectly readable. He read it aloud to himself.
“They came from the cool of the sand-scented temples: from the long dark of the coiling passages and the oily flicker of many-columned halls. They rose as leaders of men in that ancient land, men of words and vision whose mystery brought hope to the squalor-born.. But while the people lifted their eyes upon the gentle countenance of these blessed men, they saw not the cool and dark of their hearts, nor the oily flicker behind their eyes.”
He gave a low whistle. What did that mean?
He read it over again, taking his time to pronounce and understand each word, but when he reached the end of the passage, he was just as confused. The piece assumed that he would understand who “they” were and what the “ancient land” was, but no matter how much he racked his memory, he could think of nothing. Even if he could guess at the real meaning, he had no idea how it would help him to understand the runes. He sighed and ran his hand through his hair – this wasn’t going to be easy.
He picked up the Samarok and closed his eyes, trying to clear his mind. Not wanting to be clouded by thoughts of his mother, he pictured Mr Zhi himself, standing behind his crooked old counter in the Shop of Things, winking and stroking his beard to a point.
He turned to the title page, blank except for three lines of runes a third of the way from the top. It was clearly an inscription or dedication of some sort, as it was too long to be the title. Sylas allowed his eyes to pass slowly along the lines, taking in the intricacies of the runes. Each had its own form, its own unique shape and line, which was sometimes complex in its own right, but – even more wonderfully – also related to the runes around it. Within a word, each separate character was interlaced with two others, sharing its space with the curves or inflections of the symbols on either side, so that a rune rarely looked the same twice. The collection of characters formed a tangle of dashes, strokes, arcs and dots that ought, by any logic, to look crowded or haphazard, but instead fitted together with astonishing grace. Sylas’s art teacher had once talked about the great calligraphers of the Far East who could create writing of sublime beauty and meaning, but he had never dreamed of anything as beautiful as this.
But it still didn’t mean anything.
He yawned as he stared at yet another page, now difficult to see in the fading light. He widened his eyes to fight back the tiredness and glanced out of the window. The sun had nearly set behind some clouds, plunging the churchyard into near-darkness, and rain was once again clattering against the windowpane.
He was about to turn back to the Samarok when he thought he saw a movement in the churchyard. He paused, wiped his bleary eyes, then swept his hand across the glass to remove the condensation. The streaks of water distorted the light, stretching the lines of the darkening church. The few passing cars cast beams of yellow and red light on to the ruined walls and the overhanging branches of trees. Sylas looked for some moments, but there was nothing: just rain and trees swaying in the wind.
“Deluded,” he muttered under his breath.
Then he saw another movement.
He leaned forward and wiped the window dry with the sleeve of his sweater, his eyes trained on one particular arched window in the old church.
There, beneath a large overhang of ivy, something was creeping through the undergrowth.
Sylas shrank back into the shadows.
A gargantuan black hound emerged from under the ivy, walking under the archway towards the end of the church.
It was truly massive, the points of its shoulders standing proud of the rest of its dark figure, rolling as it moved lithely through the undergrowth. The head was hidden in the shadows, hanging low beneath the matted mane of its neck. The sloping back gave way to powerful haunches that stood lower than the shoulders, giving it an ugly, predatory profile.
Sylas was transfixed. He wanted to retreat into his room, but something made him stay.
The beast stopped.
For a moment it was entirely motionless, but slowly its shoulders braced and its thick neck rose. Its huge head emerged from the darkness until Sylas could see its crumpled brow and long canine snout that seemed scarred and disfigured. Beneath, its gaping jaws lolled open, revealing a cruel mass of ragged teeth.
Without warning, the beast’s powerful neck swung sharply and it looked directly up at his window.
Its small eyes seemed to catch the twilight and they burned in the shadows. The nose twitched, sniffing the polluted air. Sylas pushed himself as far back on the window seat as he could, hoping that the shadows would hide him, but their eyes seemed to meet. The rest of the world faded and he was filled with a new, creeping terror.
“This is a life-giving journey. It is a bitter-sweet elixir that restores my spirit, strengthens my heart and, most of all, opens my eyes.”
SYLAS GRIPPED THE EDGE of the seat, willing himself to climb down into his room, but his limbs were frozen. The pale yellow eyes of the hound penetrated deep inside him, calmly peeling away the layers until they saw weakness and loneliness, until they glared coldly at a boy’s thoughts of his mother.
“Sylas!”
It was Tobias Tate’s grating voice, coming through the trapdoor.
“Sylas! Come down!”
Sylas glanced at his watch. Five past seven – he was late.
He glanced back out of the window in time to see the beast drop its head and resume its stooped prowl along the ruined remains of the aisle, passing quickly out of sight.
“Come here AT ONCE!”
Sylas peered down into the churchyard until he was sure that the hound was gone, then sighed, heaved himself off his seat and walked over to his trapdoor.
He found his uncle standing in the corridor, hands on his hips, peering at him as if he was an account that would not balance.
“Well?” he squawked, his voice echoing down the passageway. “Where’ve you been?”
“Sorry I’m late,” said Sylas dismissively – he was in no mood for another lecture from his uncle. “I saw something really strange from my window... something in the churchy—”
“Daydreaming, I knew it!” growled his uncle. ”Well, I have no interest in your nonsense. And there’s no time for dinner now – you can daydream about that!”
“Fine!” sighed Sylas, pushing past his uncle into the flat.
Tobias Tate watched him go and frowned, seemingly a little disappointed to have had the wind taken from his sails.
Dinnertime was spent sifting, trawling and rummaging through endless mountains of paper. What made this task especially infuriating was that everything was already in the right place, filed properly into the many piles about the office. But, as an accountant of great care and attention, Tobias Tate had to be convinced of this. Sylas would make helpful observations and suggestions while being chastised, corrected and mocked; a torture that only came to an end when his uncle had dissected and exploded every sensible suggestion put to him, and Sylas had been duly reminded of his dull wits, poor instincts and low birth.
On this particular evening Sylas found this task more frustrating