#Turner Hemsgrove

[talesoftattonwiltswoe]

Tate and The Magic Book

The door to the bookbindery slammed open. A sheet of dust jumped on the nearest shelves before slowly resettling on the rows of aged books. Loud footsteps stormed in, but the shopkeeper remained unalarmed. He raised his crinkled eyes from the tome that nearly swallowed him and gave a knowing, perhaps amused, look at the waist-high pile of leather with legs that scurried over to the counter.

“ ‘Liveries! ‘Liveries for Tern! Sorry, Misser Tern, sir.” The pounds of leather sheets plopped on the counter. Turner Hemsgrove cast a critical eye on the leathers and then peered over them, seeing exactly what he expected: a gap-toothed boy no older than 6, with a mop of flaxen hair ruffled by wind and plump cheeks red from running, balancing on his feet into his best curtsey.

“It’s Mister Hemsgrove. And tell Har I send my regards.” The man quipped, eloquence in every syllable, his frizzed hair meticulously combed into a relentless bun. He gave the boy a tight-lipped grin and settled back in his seat, tipping his chin back as he resumed reading. “Tell him to deliver these himself next time. You’ve no business running around in this heat, Tate.”

The boys chubby fingers wrapped around the edge of the counter, pulling himself as tall as he could. He mimicked the shopkeeper by tilting his chin back, his big black eyes peering around to take in the sights.

“N’cle Har’s got a bum leg!” The boy chipped with a small hop, like it was the most exciting news in the world. Turner frowned.

“He has a bad leg. And that’s still no excuse.”

“ E’cuse.” He murmured under his breath with furrowed brows, “E’cuse.” The boy frowned at Tern in earnest. “Wa’s tha’ mean?”

“An excuse is something someone says to avoid doing something.”

“Like bringin’ leathers???”

“Precisely.”

“But I like me bringin’ leathers! You got- you got me muffins, red berry muffins!”

“I gave you muffins, once, but you’ve no business eating sweets with your cheeks all red.” He shut the book with a sigh and rose, his worn boots shuffling over the floor, “Aye, let me get you some water.”

“Aye, misser, sir!” Tate chirped, and when the man rose and shuffled into the next room, the boy slipped behind the counter and ambled onto the wooden stool. The book on the table felt as big as he was. He examined the cover with dark eyes, wide with wonder. The mahogany leather wove together so exquisitely around the cream pressed paper. Was that what Mister Turner did with the leathers he delivered? Mister Turner was a king, then, no, one of the wizards he heard about! He was so great.

Tate tucked his hands into his knees and swung his legs, looking around the store. The dark wood made the already small shop feel cramped, but the windows flooded the shelves with light in golden slits. The tiny boots that reach his scraped knees clicked each time they hit the stool. Tate hummed, but stopped suddenly. The closed book was really fascinating all of a sudden. Tatton’s manners and personal set of morals reprimanded him. It wasn’t his book to touch. But… He threw his head to the side in thought and his mop of hair fell over his face. One peek couldn’t hurt. Maybe it had pictures. He liked pictures.

He slid his fingers under the cover and carefully cracked it open. He let out a ‘waaaaaa,’ as he examined the cream paper etched with the most beautiful script he’d ever seen. Tate didn’t know how to read, so all he saw were strange symbols. But… these were very strange symbols. Dragons of ink spiraled on the page in mesmerizing patterns and when his eyes traced the lines he felt something fluttering in his chest, something soaring, something triumphant. He was a kite flying in the wind, left to soar on the highest winds to far, far distant lands. He had never felt so strangely, inexplicably… free. His heart sped up in excitement and he almost ripped the page when he turned it. But when he looked at these lines, he felt really sad all of a sudden. An aching, hollow sadness knawed in his chest, a grief he had never felt and was too young to comprehend. The kite was suddenly cut and had fallen, farther, farther down, slowly sinking in deep and filthy waters. Something dark and twisted lurked beneath it, reaching towards it….

Tears started pricking his eyes and next thing Tatton knew, he was bawling and Turner was towering over him with a scowl of confusion. The man slammed the book closed and slid it away from Tate, “You don’t touch things without askin,’ ya hear?“ The man bellowed, his eloquence lost in his anger. But his anger was replaced with pity when he saw the boy whimpering, his dark eyes glassy and red.

“Thas’ a… thas’ a sad book!” Tate wailed, balling his fists, “A real, real sad b-b-book!”

Turner’s alarm morphed into confusion, “How do you know that?”

Poor Tate however, was inconsolable and would give no answers. Well, at least until Turner gave him a couple of his wife’s famed red-berry muffins. When the boy was finally quiet, the shopkeeper took a seat across from him, watching him carefully,

“What made you cry, boy?”

Tate, finally quiet, looked down and swung his legs on the stool, “Tha’ book.” He mumbled, “It maked me sad. I’m sorries for peekin’.”

“You shouldn’t have looked at it, but never mind that. How? How did you know it was sad?“

“I jus’ saw it and fel’ sad.”

“But how? Could you read that script? Did you understa-“

“I wanna see i’ ‘gain.” Tate interrupted, and when he looked up at the man his eyes flamed with determination.

Turner’s confusion multiplied, but now he gave an amused laugh. “I thought it was a sad book? It made you cry, why would you want to see it again? You want more muffins from me, is that it?”

“Ye, muffins… No,” Tate shook his head fiercely, “Tha’ book. S’not all sad. Is really��� ‘appy too. More ‘appy than eatin’ red berry muffins! Like flyin’, like whoosh! and shoo! Like birbs o’er trees!!!” He threw his arms in the air and grinned, red jam all over his cheeks, his eyes sparkling. “Wha’ book’s it?”

Turner stayed stoic, quiet and contemplative. He scratched his beard and frowned, “It’s a magic book. A very, very magic book.” Tate’s dark eyes glittered, but the shopkeeper raised his hand as if to shut down the boy’s hopes, “It’s a dangerous and serious book, at least, from what I’ve deciphered from it.” Turner cracked the book open once more and eyed the script within with furrowed brows, “Even I don’t understand it all. It’s not for children. It’s not for most people, really.”

“Why nah’?”

“Most townsfolk here in Bree don’t believe what it says. They say it’s folly. Just myths and legends. What a person can’t appreciate, they can’t understand. Such knowledge is wasted on them, understand?”

Tate pouted and shook his head, his flaxen hair bouncing on his shoulders.

The shopkeeper sighed, realizing indeed, Tate was just a boy. He pulled the book closer to himself, though Tate's eyes were glued to the pages, “Even if I’d let you read it, you’d need to learn the script, then learn the words, and only after that, then you’d realize just how incredibly depressing the whole story is and give up reading it. No, it’s not for you.”

“Tha’s a- a e’cuse!” Tate's brows furrowed angrily, and the man couldn’t help but laugh, which only made Tate more annoyed. “I can wead, look, t’is par’s sad. T’is par’s ‘appy.” Tate refuted, nearly tipping over his stool as he reached and pointed at different sections of the script, “An’ t’is par’ maked me mad.”

Turner examined the sections stoically and sure enough, Tate was attaching the correct emotions to the correct sections, without knowing their meaning. Perhaps it was part of the magic of Sindarin, this ability to transfer emotion without filtering it through analysis or thought. Maybe it’s effects were more pronounced on children, who had more sensitivity to magic, or perhaps just stronger imagination. Still, it was a mystery that would slowly burn in Turner until he understood it. He scrutinized the boy, who in turn, stared at him with an intensity that could have burned holes in his eyes.

“I wanna see tha’ book, Misser- no, Mister, sir. I brings you…” Tatton blurred out, undaunted, “Boots! Shiny boots! An a…” He furrowed his brows, concentrating hard on the word, “Doscoun’, no… discount. The wor’s discount.” He overemphasized the ‘t’ and his teeth looked more gapped when he did.

Turner glanced at his own boots, horribly frayed and worn through the soles. The offer was clearly tempting. He scratched his beard in thought, but after a moment he shook his head. “It’s too much for you, Tate. Maybe when you’re older. Now get back home to Har and Bessa before it gets dark.” The man took the book and tucked it under his arm before disappearing through the curtain to the back, his voice vanishing with him. “Stories can be dangerous, you know?”

But when Tate trotted back home, wiping the jam off his cheeks with his sleeve, all he remembered Mister Turner saying was, “Maybe.” Tatton lifted his chin and stomped down the dirt road with stone-serious determination. He’d see that book again. He had too. It was too magical to ignore and something about it felt extremely important to him, like a quest weighed on his shoulders until he read it. Perhaps the hope of ‘maybe’ was even more dangerous than that book was.