The Council of Ten

Chapter 23 - The Story (Lena Foscari)

Chapter Twenty-Three – The Story (Lena Foscari)

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It was the day after we’d heard the poem and I’d left Marco’s house and set off to my own. But as I passed through the square I paused and thought I ought to take care of some business first. After all, there was no sense in going home and coming back the way I came. So instead of taking the road to my house I veered off down a side street until I came to an old wooden door. I stared at the brass knocker before tapping it, thinking how long it had been since my last visit. As I waited for an answer I thought about my childhood and the many hours I’d spent at this address. I sighed, about to turn away when the door swung open and I was faced with an old man, eyes twinkling behind his silver rimmed spectacles.

“Ah, Lena, what a pleasant surprise. It has been far too long, please, come in.” The old storyteller beckoned to me and retreated into his house. I followed suit, wiping my feet carefully on the doormat.

“It’s lovely to see you and yes, I did intend on coming sooner but things have just been so...busy.” I didn’t think I should mention much about my dealings with the murders, it was perhaps a little too much to take in, even for a storyteller who dealt with the unimaginable every day. “You’re not in the square today?”

“I was planning on going a little later, I was there yesterday morning.” He replied, sitting down in his old armchair. I perched on the end of the couch and crossed one leg over the other.

"I have a question Signore," I paused, "about a book."

"Ah, books I have plenty and stories, well, I know far too many for my own good," the storyteller chuckled. "Ask away, my girl."

I shifted uneasily "it’s about an enchanted book."

The old man seemed to freeze but his eyes were wide a curious, then he seemed to snap out of his trance and blink. "One moment," he got up and walked over to one of the many bookcases that lined the room and pulled out an old, battered notebook. "I think I told you, a long time ago, I used to own something that I now believe was magical." He fingered the fraying corner of the binding "there are very few books like that in existence, or at least, very few we know about and have access to." The storyteller opened the book and I leaned forward, only to be met by a page full of scribbles that made no sense to me at all.

"I made notes on the story I read," said the man sadly, turning the pages "I hoped to pass it on to others but once the book left my possession, it took its secrets with it." I stared at the pages, amazed how strong the spell must have been. "Perhaps I remember fragments of it and tell them in stories to children, but after so many years, I have no idea which stories are coming from my head, which are true and, if any, are from the book I once owned." He snapped the book shut and laid it on the table "so, as you can see, I have little experience in this field. The books themselves have tricked me."

"It’s a shame, really," I said and couldn’t help wondering if we had possessed the same book. Who knows? Perhaps I’d know once I’d read it. At the mere thought of discovering those secrets I bristled with anticipation. "Do you think the stories in the books can change? Could they tailor themselves to the reader?"

"Why, of course! That’s why they were so popular at one point. If you were to buy an enchanted book, a good one, it would show you a story that you’d definitely enjoy."

"Do you suppose people still make them today? How powerful would an enchanter need to be?"

The storyteller scratched his head "I couldn’t say, Lena, but the art of making them was supposedly lost centuries ago. If the craft was rediscovered, people would more than likely resume buying them. All that stuff and nonsense about them being dangerous - forgotten! That’s how good they were." He drummed his fingers on the side of his arm chair for a moment "as for power, well, a novice could probably enchant his own notes to be easier to use and, when more experienced, perhaps an alternating story. But the power needed to make one tailored to the reader, any reader, with alternating tales and personalisation, well," the man shook his head "that is almost unimaginable."