The Sphere of Septimus Read online

  VANCOUVER LONDON

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  Tradewind Books

  www.tradewindbooks.com

  Text © 2014 by Simon Rose

  Cover illustration © 2014 by Kim La Fave

  Map © 2014 Shed Simas

  Cover design by Elisa Gutiérrez

  Book design by Jacqueline Wang

  Published as an ebook in 2016

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior written permission of the publisher or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from Access Copyright, The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency, 1 Yonge Street, Suite 800, Toronto, Ontario M5E 1E5

  The right of Simon Rose to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.

  Cataloguing-in-Publication Data for this book

  is available from The British Library.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Rose, Simon, 1961-, author

  The sphere of Septimus / Simon Rose.

  ISBN 978-1-896580-75-3 (bound)

  ISBN 978-1-926890-50-0 (ebook)

  I. Title.

  PS8585.O7335S64 2014 jC813’.6 C2014-904501-8

  This book is dedicated to my father and to

  the enduring power of childhood memories

  to inspire the imagination.

  —S.R.

  The publisher wishes to thank

  Dierdre Salisbury, Ria Nishikawara and Alice Fleerackers

  for their editorial help with the book.

  Tradewind Books thanks the Governments of Canada and British Columbia for the financial support they have extended through the Canada Book Fund, Livres Canada Books, the Canada Council for the Arts, the British Columbia Arts Council, Creative BC and the British Columbia Book Publishing Tax Credit program.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Septimus Severus Trinket

  Chapter Two

  Ivy Cottage

  Chapter Three

  Middle Wogglehole

  Chapter Four

  The Mystic Triangle

  Chapter Five

  Dreaming in Duplicate

  Chapter Six

  The Workshop

  Chapter Seven

  Septimus’ Secret

  Chapter Eight

  The Malkonor Strikes

  Chapter Nine

  Reunion

  Chapter Ten

  The Brotherhood of the Fallen

  Chapter Eleven

  Visions

  Chapter Twelve

  Survivors

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Power of the Sphere

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Perilous Path

  Chapter Fifteen

  Into the Citadel

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Price of Power

  Chapter Seventeen

  Full Circle

  Chapter One

  Septimus Severus Trinket

  The train stopped at the station. The sun was shining brightly, and Eric was relieved to see that it had stopped raining. He picked up his bag and followed the other passengers off. Everyone greeted loved ones and walked toward waiting cars and taxis, but there was no one there to meet Eric. So he put in his earphones to listen to some music and leaned against a wall to wait.

  The train station emptied, except for a woman working at the kiosk and a man sweeping the floor.

  Suddenly someone rushed in and bumped into Eric.

  “Hey!” Eric snapped. “Watch where you’re going!”

  “Oh my! I do apologize,” said the man. “Most sincerely, I’m so sorry. It’s just that I had to dash over here. Family business, don’t you know, most inconvenient. I was only recently informed I was to meet my son Eric and . . .”

  The man looked down at Eric. “Why, it must be you!” He reached out and shook his hand energetically. “I’m your father, Septimus.”

  Eric barely recognized him. “Oh—hi, Dad.”

  “How perfectly splendid, most agreeable. Forgive me for not recognizing you. My, how you’ve grown!”

  Eric hadn’t seen his father in eight years, not since he was five years old. Septimus was in his late forties. He had a thick greying beard, which desperately needed trimming, and was wearing an old-fashioned motorcycle helmet. Goggles rested on his forehead. He was wearing a drab grey blazer, which was missing several buttons and had leather patches sewn over the elbows. Dangling from his blazer pocket was a gold watch chain, and bright-red socks peeked out from beneath the legs of his dark-green trousers. His shoes were scuffed and obviously hadn’t been cleaned for a long time.

  “Septimus Severus Trinket, at your service,” he said with a broad smile and a quick bow. Then he took out his pocket watch, glanced at the time, and stuffed it back into his blazer pocket. “Well, best be off, I suppose.” He picked up Eric’s bag. “We can’t stand around here all day, can we?”

  Septimus led Eric to a battered old motorcycle with a rusty sidecar. He pulled a collection of keys from his pocket and gestured to Eric to hop in. “Don’t worry about Toby.”

  “Toby?”

  “Toby,” Septimus echoed. A black sheepdog with a small patch of white hair on its chest was sprawled across the seat. It stared at Eric. “Don’t fret, he won’t bite. There should be just enough room for both of you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Certainly,” Septimus replied.

  Eric reluctantly hoisted himself into the seat, slipping in behind the dog, who growled menacingly, as he squeezed onto the floor of the sidecar.

  “Hold on to your bag,” Septimus said, lifting it onto Eric’s lap. “And put this on.” He handed Eric a crash helmet and kick-started the motorcycle. The engine roared to life.

  Eric was thrown back into his seat as they pulled away.

  They whisked past a medieval church topped by a tall twisted spire. The busy streets soon gave way to the twisting lanes of the Derbyshire countryside. Cows and sheep grazed contentedly in green fields bordered by stone walls and hedgerows. After they passed a sign that read Middle Wogglehole—5 miles, they went over a bridge supported by four huge pillars, towering above a river that flowed through a deep wooded ravine. Perched on a hill in the distance were the ruins of a castle, with a single short tower and crumbling stone walls. Suddenly, the sky was obscured by thick trees that arched over the road; it was like travelling through a dark tunnel.

  When they reemerged into the sunlight, they passed a second sign, which read Middle Wogglehole—founded 1014 AD.

  They sped past a church with a tall square tower. Just beyond it was a wide circle of grass and flower beds, at the centre of which stood a stone column covered with intricate carvings and topped with a Celtic cross.

  All the houses in Middle Wogglehole were virtually identical, with stone walls and grey slate roofs. Some had been converted into shops. On the corner was a small post office with a red letterbox outside. Septimus tooted the motorcycle’s horn and waved at some women chatting o
n the narrow sidewalk. They waved back. At the other end of the street was the Dog and Duck pub,

  a whitewashed building with a colourful sign hanging over its entrance, and across the street was a car repair shop, with two old-fashioned gas pumps in front of its double doors. A bald man in blue coveralls leaned under the open hood of a small red car.

  Just beyond the pub, Septimus turned the motorcycle up a narrow lane, bounded by overgrown hedges. The motorcycle came to a halt at a gate with peeling white paint. A dilapidated sign reading Ivy Cottage hung precariously from a rusty nail on the gatepost. The white plaster walls and chimney were covered in ivy. The front of the cottage had two windows with pointed arches at the top and royal-blue wooden shutters at their sides. The front door was also painted royal blue and had a small circular window at eye level. Two large clay pots overflowing with flowers stood on either side of the front doorstep.

  Septimus stepped off the motorcycle and removed his helmet and goggles. Toby leapt from the sidecar, slipped through the bars of the gate and raced to the cottage door.

  “Marigold,” Septimus muttered as he smoothed down his thick greying hair.

  “Pardon?” said Eric as he took off his helmet and laid it on the seat.

  “Marigold,” Septimus repeated. “I mean, Mrs. Pierce. She runs the post office and village shop. Her late husband was a major in the army, you know. She tends the garden for me. I’m always so busy. She shouldn’t have closed the gate. I left it open so we could drive straight in.”

  With a sigh, Septimus heaved the gate to one side. Eric climbed out of the sidecar and grabbed his bag.

  “Come along. Let’s get you settled in. I’ll put the motorbike away later.”

  As they walked along the path to the cottage, Eric saw a streak of light shoot across the sky.

  A comet? In the middle of the day?

  Chapter Two

  Ivy Cottage

  Septimus opened the cottage door and they stepped inside. A battered old hat and a torn jacket were hanging on a hook on the wall. The low ceiling of the living room was painted white and criss-crossed by dark wooden beams. Rickety-looking stairs led to an upper storey. Something resembling a long-handled metal detector leaned against the stairs. Eric put his bag down next to it.

  “Looks like there’s a package in the greenhouse,” Septimus said, peering out the kitchen window. “I’ll go get it.”

  Eric waited by the back door while Septimus collected a small parcel from a wooden shelf just inside the greenhouse. The rear garden of the cottage had a lawn, a few flower beds and an overgrown hedge. Next to the greenhouse was a whitewashed stone building, with double doors on the front and a smaller door on the side. A narrow path of stone slabs led up to it from the cottage.

  “The postman always leaves packages in the greenhouse,” Septimus explained, walking back. “They’re too big to fit through the letter slot on the front door.”

  “Is that another house?” Eric asked, pointing to the whitewashed building.

  “Oh no, that’s my workshop. I like to tinker with things, machinery and whatnot, you know. Nothing too complicated. It’s a bit of a mess in there. There’s dangerous equipment around. I don’t want you getting hurt, so don’t go in there, please. Your mother will be very upset with me if anything happens to you.”

  “Sure,” said Eric with a shrug.

  “Tell you what, why don’t I show you up to your room? Follow me.”

  Eric followed his father through the kitchen and up the narrow staircase, picking his bag up on the way. At the top of the stairs, Septimus stepped through a low doorway. “This is your room.”

  It was tiny and sparsely furnished. Apart from the bed, there was a dresser, a bedside table with a small green lamp and a mirror in a wooden frame.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to it,” said Septimus, pulling the drapes open. “It’s a little chilly, don’t you think? Why don’t I go down and light a nice fire? Sort out your things, then come downstairs.” Septimus backed out of the room, bumping his head on the door frame as he left.

  Eric unzipped his bag and unpacked. The room was strangely cold for July, so he slipped on a sweatshirt and walked over to the window. The room overlooked the rear garden. Ivy Cottage was built on a hill, and in the distance Eric could see the bridge where they’d crossed the river that snaked through the ravine. The workshop clung precariously to the edge of a rocky cliff that dropped away sharply. Septimus was pushing his old motorcycle into the workshop.

  Eric scarcely knew his father. His parents had separated when he was very young, and Eric lived in London with his mother.

  Eric shivered again and decided to go downstairs. In the sitting room, a fire was already crackling. He stood close to it to warm up. A grandfather clock stood ticking by the room’s only window. Eric looked around the room. There was a very full bookcase and a worn armchair on the opposite side of the fireplace. A wicker rack filled with newspapers and magazines stood at the edge of the hearth. Eric didn’t see a computer, TV or even a radio anywhere.

  A strange-looking object lay on top of a glass cabinet. It looked like an egg whisk, but attached to one end was a small black plastic box with a dial. Wires of all colours protruded from it. An empty pocket-watch case sat beside it, its parts strewn around haphazardly. Eric picked up a crumpled piece of paper, but he couldn’t make out what the handwritten notes, symbols and numbers meant.

  On the mantle were lots of photographs in silver frames of landscapes or coastal scenes. One photograph depicted a younger Septimus and Eric’s mother at a seaside resort.

  “I hope you’re settling in,” said Septimus. He was carrying a small tray. “I brought you a cheese sandwich and a glass of warm milk.”

  Septimus set the tray down on the copper-topped coffee table in front of the couch.

  “Thanks,” said Eric, sitting down.

  “Oh my!” Septimus exclaimed, glancing over at the top of the nearby cabinet. “I didn’t realize I’d left that stuff lying around.” He quickly scooped up the pieces of the pocket watch, grabbed the odd-looking whisk and shoved everything into his blazer pockets.

  “Just a little something I’ve been working on. Yes, that’s it. Well, I suppose I should leave you in peace. I do have a few things to do in the workshop. Help yourself to anything in the fridge.”

  Septimus shuffled out of the room, muttering to himself.

  The sandwich didn’t look very appetizing, but tasted better than Eric had expected. After he drank the warm milk, he curled up on the couch. Flames danced in the fireplace.

  Half-asleep, Eric thought he saw a face appear in the fire. Then a blue-green flame jumped out and turned into a tiny human shape. Its solid black eyes scanned the room, its head tilting to one side as it looked at Eric.

  I must be dreaming.

  The figure then leapt onto the arm of the couch, reached out and touched Eric’s wrist.

  Eric stirred, opening his eyes wide, and the figure disappeared back into the fire.

  Chapter Three

  Middle Wogglehole

  Eric awoke on the couch the next morning with a blanket over him. Sunlight poured into the room. He winced in pain and noticed a burn mark on his right wrist.

  Eric followed the smell of bacon wafting in from the kitchen. Septimus stood in front of the stove, whistling. He was wearing a gaudy red, green and yellow plaid apron.

  “Oh!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t see you there, Eric. Good morning. I trust you slept well? I didn’t have the heart to wake you last night. You must be exhausted from your journey. A long train ride like that would wear anyone out.” Septimus pointed at Eric’s wrist. “Looks like you got a cinder burn from the fireplace. I’ve had those before.”

  “Yeah, can I have some ice?”

  “Oh, of course,” Septimus said, taking the ice tray from the freezer. He cracked the tray on the edge of
the counter and handed a cube to Eric.

  “Thanks. That bacon smells good. I’m hungry.”

  “It’s almost noon,” Septimus said, scooping up the bacon and sliding it onto a plate. “I’ve scrambled some eggs, and there’s a veritable mountain of toast.”

  At that moment, two slices of bread popped out of the toaster beside the kettle. Septimus caught them in mid-air and began to wave them back and forth, as if conducting an orchestra.

  “Fastest way to cool them down,” he said with a smile.

  Eric sat down at the table and buttered some toast.

  “By the way, your mother called. She wanted to make sure you’d arrived safely.”

  Septimus took off the apron and hung it up. Just then, a shrill voice called out from the back garden. “Anyone home?”

  “Marigold,” said Septimus under his breath, rolling his eyes.

  The door opened and a woman stepped into the kitchen. She was wearing a colourful flower-print dress and a floppy wide-brimmed hat.

  “Good morning!” she cried. “You must be Eric.”

  She extended her hand to him. Mrs. Pierce was wearing very strong perfume.

  “Beautiful day, isn’t it? I’m Marigold Pierce. I’m so pleased to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you too,” replied Eric, shaking her hand.

  “I see he’s looking after you,” said Mrs. Pierce. “I can’t remember the last time he had guests.”

  “Yes, yes,” Septimus sputtered. “Very good, very good. Thank you, Mrs. Pierce.”

  Mrs. Pierce gave him a broad smile.

  “I’ll go and see to the flowers then,” she said. “Nice to meet you, Eric.”

  She picked up a small watering can from beside the sink and went out into the garden.

  “Is she your girlfriend?” Eric asked between bites of bacon and eggs.

  Septimus blushed. “Oh, er, she’s, well . . . hmnn . . .”

  Eric chuckled. “I think I’ll go and explore the village a little,” he said, wiping his face with a napkin.

  “Good idea,” said Septimus, nodding his head. “Fresh air and all that, eh? I’m afraid there aren’t any children around. This place is mostly just for retired people now, living a quiet life.”