The Book of Trials || ONC 2019

Chapter Two

I slept in my wooden chair that night, though it hardly counted as sleep. I'd sat for hours attempting rest, but with every creak of the floorboard or shift of the wind I was alert again. The only time I'd managed to doze off was when I lit the fireplace and curled up on the rug, my knife in its sheath by my side. It didn't last long, though. I would wake with a start, putting an end to the nightmare I'd had. I was filled with questions and I found myself wide awake until the sun peeked over the horizon.

That morning, a Saturday, I inventoried my whole house and discovered that nothing was gone or even moved at all from when I had seen it last. Everything was completely unaffected except for the book, which still lay on the desk in my room. I wondered somewhere in the back of my mind if my desk was charred now. I didn't want to have to sand it.

My chair creaked as I fell down into it, and I felt that awful paranoia itching at me again. What was the book? Why was it left here? What would I do with it?

Finally, I groaned and raked my fingers through the tangles in my hair. I would take it to town—no, if there was anyone who would know what this meant, it was Emrita Saravani.

Emrita was somewhat of a spinster. She lived alone near the edge of town in a tiny abode with no neighbors and a patch of trees directly in front of her doorstep. Most were led to believe she had a line of work, but no one had ever seen her associate herself with any given livelihood. She stayed inside a good amount of the day, only leaving to buy necessities from town, and probably slept during the night. My use of "probably" is because no one actually ever saw her after dusk, which only served to feed the nasty rumors from the group of old knitters next to Mr. Hebel's shop. Most of them I chose not to believe, others were not so easy to ignore.

One of these rumors involved witchcraft.

The chair creaked again as I stood and double-checked that my knife was still at my hip, then I made my way to my bedroom.

There, like the rest of the house, was exactly as I had left it, minus the leather book that still sat on the desk. There were no signs of last night's incident.

I crossed the floor slowly, my feet making small scuffs in the morning silence, and extended a frustratingly shaky hand toward the desk. The sweat on my palm made the knife I was holding hard to grip.

I poked the edge of the book with the knife.

Nothing happened.

The knife prodded tentatively against the edges of the binding, filling my head with more questions before the last ones could even be answered. Still no response in any form.

My face hardened. I knew last night wasn't a fluke. Books didn't just decide to explode. Little girls didn't make a habit of whispering directly into people's minds. At least not without magic, which was precisely why I was taking it to Emrita. The problem was getting it into my possession without killing myself.

I sheathed the dagger and took another step closer, then I thrust my hand out and swept the book to the floor in one fell swing. It landed with a heavy thunk, its cover open and the pages fluttering chaotically, then the paper settled and the book lay open on the floor, motionless.

I crouched down next to it and squinted at the pages with pursed lips.

There was no writing. No print. No handwriting. No ink whatsoever.

Then I did it again. I found myself touching the book without a single second of consideration. I flipped through the pages, fingering at the binding with my other hand all the while scowling profusely at the empty pages that met me. Nothing! Absolutely nothing! Why would it be empty?