The Windvale Sprites Read Online Free PDF Page B

approached the trunk that was sitting solidly where it had been left two centuries before. Taking the silver key from his pocket he pushed it into the padlock and turned it once. But rather than the clunk of a latch opening, it made the ratchet sound of a clock being wound. A mechanical click sounded from somewhere inside the lid of the trunk and then a low whirring began. Asa waited, the whirring faded and then stopped. Silence. He tried to lift the lid but it still wouldn’t budge. He took the key again, thought, here goes, and began to wind. Immediately he could hear things starting to happen inside and after ten or twelve turns the key would turn no further. Deep within the box musical notes began to faintly chime a ghostly tune and a shiver ran up Asa’s spine. The tune came to an end and as the last chord hung in the air there was a dull clunk-click; the trunk seemed to sigh, like someone loosening their belt after a big dinner, and the lid slowly raised a couple of inches.
    In the streetlight’s glare he could see that the sheer volume of papers in the trunk had pushed the lid up when the lock was released and a few loose leaves slipped silently to the floor. The smell of the paper was almost overwhelming. The same dust-and-old-paper smell that you’ll find in any library but so concentrated he could almost taste it. If you squeezed the chest you could probably extract pure essential oil-of-library.
    There was not enough light to read by so Asa took out the torch he had brought and turned it on. Suddenly the entrance was flooded with light and he hurriedly clapped a hand over the beam. He sat in silence for a while and raised his head enough to peak out of the window. The street outside was deserted and so, allowing just a sliver of light to escape between his fingers, he tentatively examined a page.
    The handwriting was spidery, scratched into the paper in a manic frenzy with blots and splatters around every word like a cloud of gnats. Asa studied it closely but couldn’t make out a single word. It wasn’t that it was illegible but it seemed to be written in a different alphabet. He spent a few minutes trying to decipher the scribbles before noticing that most of the sentences started with a full stop. It was written backwards! He looked around for a reflective surface but the only thing was the window out on to the street. He ducked down low and crawled over to the double doors. Then, squatting awkwardly, he tried raising himself just enough to see the reflection of the page in the window but this didn’t work as it was too dark. After a few further experiments Asa found if he shone the torchlight through the paper from underneath he could just make out the backwards writing. Try as he might he could not stop wild shadows dancing on the walls whenever he moved the torch and so, with an armful of papers and ledgers to sift through, he crawled back into the wooden pedestal, where the light would be hidden, and set to work.
    Most of the pages were written on both sides, which made it confusing as he skimmed through the documents for anything of interest.
    The pages seemed to be in no particular order, starting halfway through a sentence with no headings or titles, and the writings just appeared to be the ramblings of a madman:
    … this 16th day of August did receive from Mr Weighbury the sum of 8d. for a pot-hook and a peck of prunes. The latter, he said, were to calm his bilious winds whereupon I offered him my bladderwort and arum tonic. But, I fear Mr Weighbury must have been drunk for no sooner had he swallowed a beaker or two but he came violently ill and began writhing on the floor in a most embarrassing fashion.
     
     
I sent him on his way having charged him a ha’penny for the medicine.
    *
     
… only product of which was a foulsmelling grease, which I have yet to find a use for.
    *
     
… pound for pound apples are worth the same as horses …
     
     

… and flung the entire pudding, in its bowl,