Marek - Chapter 1

In the village of Chipden-on-Blaen a boy named Marek stood with his elbows rested on the high wooden counter, dusty like the many bookshelves surrounding him, and his head mournfully cradled in his hands. He stood watching the line of sunlight on the shop floor gradually, gradually move towards him.

The fact that there was sunlight at all in his fathers’ shop was a rare treat, having to break its way through the many small, dirty, dusty panes of the one shop window not yet broken and boarded up, was a true accomplishment of nature.

But today of all days was a crime as far as Marek was concerned. Today was the first day of the festival of Hoben.

Marek’s father had gone and would be there right now. His grandfather, uncle and cousin Harold would be there also, with his mother, aunt, grandmother and the two ladies from the Tannery next door helping out in the kitchen for the day. It was a crime.

“We’ve got to keep the shop open Marek.” His father had said. “Not everyone’s going to be there are they. Someone might just come by the shop, you never know. And you know we need the business.” His father added, in his stern way, as he pulled the small, crooked, wooden door shut behind him, making the tiny bell above it tinkle delicately.

Marek had made no reply, no argument nor any retorts, despite the many he could think of. He simply stood where he stood now, watched his father speak and then leave, for he knew the real reason he was being left behind to mind the bookshop.

Who would be passing on today of all days and think, ah, I know what book I need to buy, and not be able to come back another day. What local villagesfolk would need a specific book that they had in stock, on this particular day. What traveller from near or far would be concerned with one of the local shops, which were open dam near every day of the year, on this specific day. No one was going to want to buy a copy of ‘A history of the rebellions of Eastern Cleffsgrove’, or ‘Twenty fantastic fairy tales of the forgotten age’.

Besides, Marek thought, eyes gently following the clouds of dust flowing in the sunlight, at least half the other shops in village were closed, and of the other half, most were run by half-wits, or drunks, as far as Marek was concerned.

Take Mr. Smithson the blacksmith, five doors down, hadn’t done a decent job in months, just sat in the corner of his workshop, bottle in hand, shouting at whoever came in. Most now went across the river to that young guy Hec, with his funny beard. Even the kids that usually bothered Mr. Smithson, by seeing who could get closest without getting hit, weren’t bothering him today. Or old Yarrow Broadflex, who had that makeshift fruit stall opposite the Inn, and always took exactly the same amount of fruit off the boats each week, regardless of his business.

The Grain Barn would be empty of course. Mrs. Haybury and her daughter Hazel would be out on the common just like everybody else, Father, Uncle Tom and Harold, who would probably be trying to show off to Hazel with his funny jokes that Uncle Toms’ friends always told him. Marek could see Hazel in his mind, laughing at Harold, but laughing a little too loud, and Harold would blush and Hazel would say she had to go and go running off towards the foot of the hill, where the kitchens would be, to help her mother and the rest of them with the food.

“Listen lad, I’m sure we’d all rather be elsewhere, but if you don’t mind, I’m in a tad of a hurry.”

Marek’s heart seemed to miss a beat. He jumped, both his elbows sliding together on the slippery wooden counter top with a knock, and his right knee flew up and whacked the underside of the counter.

“Arhh! Oh, sorry sir. Err… sorry… what did you want?” Marek groaned, holding onto his knee.

The old man stood before him and laughed, lightly. “Never mind, never mind, nurse your knee boy.”

Marek eyed him whilst rubbing his knee.

The old man stood tall, a worn, but warm smile cracking through a worn, wrinkly face and long beard tied in an unfamiliar fashion with a small red toggle, as if it was a ponytail. Marek couldn’t see the hair on his head, as he was hooded, but he’d seen plenty of the old men who lived round here and had a long beard and they tended for long hair on their head as well. But this old man looked more youthful than most he knew, he carried no staff or stick for one thing, and he wore dark green denim trousers, similar to the ones Marek was wearing, but thicker and dirtier. About the only thing normal about him appeared to be his travelling cloak, which, even then he was wearing, despite the warm weather, was a deep midnight blue and ran from his hood to his ankles, fastened around his waist by a piece of thin silver rope.

“When you’re quite ready boy, I need to find a book, and as I mentioned earlier I am in a bit of a rush.” The old man said, speaking in a quiet, but reassuring, dry voice.

Marek smiled, and, slightly embarrassed, stopped rubbing his knee and stood up straight. “Sorry sir.” He said. “What book is it you require?”

The old man mentioned an obscure book regarding a traveller from many years ago, known for his exploration of the South Eastern Coast.

A few minutes of fishing around and Marek managed to dig it out. “Ah, here it is.” He said, triumphantly. “Under a whole box of ‘The adventures of Sir Wilfred of Trule, Esquire’"

The old man mumbled unapprovingly, but took the old, battered book with a smile none the less. “Ah, yes, gosh, I’d say this one’s seen a few owners.” He said, running his fingers over the frayed bound leather cover and spine and then flicking through the brown pages, checking all were present. Seeming satisfied he looked up and said “Splendid, splendid dear boy, and how much would you like for this delightful old book?”

Marek quoted the price his father always said to start with on the old second hand books and the old man paid it straight away and with a fresh gold piece with the Emperial seal as well. Marek had to go into the back to make the change and when he reappeared the old man stood where he’d left him, smiling and clutching to his chest his new purchase.

Marek smiled and handed over his change, expecting the old man to thank him, turn and leave.

He did not.

“Incidentally dear boy, what reason is it that a young man such as yourself is stuck in this wonderful old bookshop and not at the festival of Hoben?”

Marek scowled, irritated at being reminded. “S’not like I don’t wanna be there.” He grumbled. “But someone’s gotta stay haven’t they.”

“Ah, yes, yes, I see.” The old man replied.

“Suppose that’s why you’re here then?” Marek asked, eying the strangers’ appearance once more.

“Yes, that’s right. I am a foreign traveller, who is here solely for the purpose of your village’s rather excellent festival of Hoben, to celebrate the re-emergence of the spring of Eridian at the head of the river Blaen up in the White Tree forest, and all its affiliations with witchcraft and wizardry of course.” He paused. “As a matter of fact, I …”

“Huh." Marek interrupted. "It’s alright for some, ain't it. Here I am, stuck here, dying to be out there, and then there’s you, talking like that about it.”

The old man didn’t seem irritated about being interrupted and merely smiled patiently.

“You know why I’m really stuck here don’t you?” Marek continued. “It’s because of my father. He knows, knows what I really want, more than anything else in the world is to be a wizard, and do magick.” Marek added, with an excited glance at the many, many books that surrounded him.

The old man laughed his slow, gentle laugh and nodded, seemingly understanding.

“And my father doesn’t want me to be one, says it’s not proper, says I gotta take over the bookshop and that them wizarding folk can’t be trusted anyway.”

“Really… how very nice.” The old man said, still chuckling.

Marek seemed to snap out of his rant and, slightly irritated, found the old man still standing before him and still not showing any signs of making to leave. “You never said what you were doing here, at the festival, anyway.” He said.

“No, I didn’t, did I?” Was the reply Marek got.

The old man then turned to leave, crossing the small shop floor space and opening the door, pausing to glance up, smiling at the tinkling bell, before Marek spoke again.

“Or what you do. Well?”

The old man halted, one foot in and one foot out of the doorway. His eyes twinkled. “My dear boy, I would have thought that would have been obvious to you bookkeeper. I am a wizard.”

Author's Note

This is a novel I'm currently working through. I'm most of the way through writing it but have only really edited these few chapters.
I really need as much constructive criticism as possible, so if you're able please give some feedback. Things in particular are the overall story, the plot so far and what you think of the characters. Does it feel right?
Any feedback much appreciated.
Thanks:-)

Reviews

It sounds good so far, noticed a typo near the start. and i think a punctuation error. but the characters show their personality nicely. I've been attempting to write without so much dialogue and parts that are hard to follow but eh, it's pretty tough for me. two thumbs up.