Arc 0: Interlude - The Oldest Book

book /bʊk/

a written or printed work consisting of pages glued or sewn together along one side and bound in covers.

Another week passed and news of Lauren Cherith’s suicide made it to the mouths and ears of the townspeople, branching into more rumours and gossip over the true matter. However, this time, the rumours remained as they were, just rumours, never to reach the hand of the myth and legend who granted wishes, for his hand dealt a greater deal. The Hanged Man had been freed from his vines — and with him, the enigmatic boy known as Zachary Ashworth.

The writing, the fantasy, the magic, and even Neverland, it was all true.

The Hanged Man, despite being mythical and powerful, did not possess the freedom he always wished for due to being tied by his form. It was the irony of his existence, and so with his newfound contract that required his presence beside his master at almost all times, he took the human facade of one ‘Charles Orwell’ who claimed to be an inspector investigating cases here and there — an elaborate excuse to roam about as he pleased without suspicion.

As for Zachary Ashworth, he was happy. He was finally able to crush the shackles that bound him.

“You’d make Lucifer shiver in fear,” the Hanged Man, now going by Charles Orwell or simply Orwell, told him once.

And indeed there was nothing to disprove that statement. It was he who agreed to the Hanged Man’s contract that night in the hospital and, not shortly after, orchestrated the “wish” that would end the watchmen’s lives and start a new string of paranormal rumours.

Zachary just provided the people with what they really love: Stories.

With a pen and book in his hand ready to write, his wishes had become the Hanged Man’s own to command. His disappearance, his return, and even the girl’s mental degradation leading to her suicide were all part of his grand scenario.

Zachary Ashworth had become an author. But still, there were many great things ahead of him; mysteries that he had yet to explore.

For now, a bright-coloured world approached the horizon.

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“The Oldest Book, you say?” Zachary asked.

Shortly after the contract had been fulfilled and with the boy now indulging himself within the matters of the so-called fantasy, Orwell told Zachary of a mystical book; a long-lost book that spoke of the secrets of the world. Of course, it sounded pretty much as every made-up legend would, but unlike anyone with a sane mind, Zachary listened intently. He believed there was something there, after all, with a tree-like creature that could shapeshift itself into a human at his side, an all-powerful book of knowledge would not be so far-fetched.

“Yes yes, it’s the oldest book there is, from before even the time of our old friend Gilgamesh. Many, authors especially, embarked on quests hoping to acquire the knowledge of all beginning but none ever came close to a glimpse of victory.” Orwell said, “I dare not look for it as I am what I am, but you, my dear author of both worlds, I believe you can find it.”

“Why should I ever care about that?” Zachary asked. His words might have signalled disinterest but truth to be told, he was inclined on learning more of the book but an inkling spoke of Orwell hiding something for him. Even with a contract binding his soul to his, he was still clouded with a glimmer of doubt and pessimism. “What’s in it for me?”

“Everything,” said Orwell.

And so, they searched.

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“I may not hold the full knowledge of its history, but I know enough to desire it as much as everyone else,” Orwell smiled, “And you should be the same. My dear author.”

Their search had brought them within the walls of the mansion that belonged to Zachary’s family. Its vast collection meant the oldest book could’ve been hiding in plain sight all along. After all, it held value only in the eyes of those who knew its truth, the authors, so to the average person, none would bat an eye if it ever crossed their path.

And in their endless search, they came across a particular path in the mansion. It appeared rather battered, untouched even, the cobwebs grew as the spiders took shelter and roamed about as they pleased.

Seeing that hallway puzzled not only Orwell but Zachary himself as well, for how it remained in such a sorry state with dozens of maids running about in the mansion was something neither of them knew. However, what they knew for a fact was that something of an unruly nature lurked deep within. It was at moments like these that Zachary would take a step back and leave, never to turn his back around to it for he desired to be left in peace. But now, his desire was much aligned with Orwell’s, and if anything were to erupt, he had his trusty book in his grasp.

Unlike most authors, as Orwell would claim, Zachary was what would the people of Neverland would consider a “halfmibet,” one that possessed the innate skills for Authority but not fully, in short, he was half-blood: a human, and whatever transcendent humans those authors were. It was quite a baffling revelation in Zachary’s mind but he kept his reaction to a minimum. Rather than praise God for descending upon him this grand twist of fate in his favour, he quietly embraced what he had in hand.

Now, being a halfmibet meant he could not perform his writing however he pleased and that was why he was tied to the pen and paper. Though at first glance it might seem as if he’s simply itching random words and scribbles all over the paper, those words were of a magical nature, they were the very same words he used his commands with, for his skills were nothing more than that of a low novice’s.

His connection with Orwell was all he had for power.

「All of it…」

With nothing to hinder his path, he pushed the door to the only room he could find in the place. A loud creak emitted from the door as it heavily scratched against the floor to open. It was painfully prevalent how dilapidated this place had become.

Closely shuttered and damp, the room was unfamiliar. Only a small line of that afternoon light seeped in from under the curtains, enough to bring the dust particles into sight, offering a strangely captivating scene. As their eyes slowly adapted to the dark, they began to see the room a bit clearer than before. The first thing to notice in that room was the giant shelf of books in the centre.

It was bizarre for a room like this all the way on the other side of the mansion, let alone be closed off for who knew how long considering all the dust it had gathered over time. Zachary has never wandered this far into the mansion before. He had always stuck to just the right side of the mansion where his room was.

There was no doubt this was the old library of the mansion in the past. But why it remained with its antiquities, they hadn’t the faintest idea.

Not too far from the shuttered windows on the right was what looked like a 19th century piano, seemingly too old to the extent that its age was starting to show, even in this dimly lit room.

Zachary wiped a bit of dust off with his finger. He doubted it still worked. And just as he thought, no matter how many times or how hard he pressed the keys, there was just no response. Lifting off the cover for more inspection, he noticed most of the hammers were either missing or completely broken.

However, that wasn’t the only thing inside.

There was a small note on top of the soundboard. It looked torn and barely held itself together as Zachary held it in his hand.

“Piano’s not working anymore due to Gaston’s antics last night.

Told him a thousand times not to write here but he never learns.

I am sure it is unfortunate for you, dear.

Perhaps you can call that girl you and your sister always talk with to fix it. She might be a child, but I heard she knew plenty about the piano from Aphra. I am quite confident she would be up to the task. Her mother was a songstress, after all.

Do update me once you find a solution.

- Mother Teresa”

The writer’s name did not ring any bells; he could only narrow his eyes in wonderment. He knew the names of everyone here in the house, yet none of the names in this note clicked with him.

Barely anyone wrote notes in this day and age. There was a possibility this could have belonged to one of his ancestors. Knowing that the piano never got fixed somehow brought a feeling of sorrow. The old residents of the mansion, his ancestors most likely, must have had quite the colourful life considering they had time to think of such luxuries, unlike the present family, where all they knew was drinking tea and keeping to themselves despite their failure of an attempt to connect with each other.

For a moment he thought of his mother on the balcony that one time and shivered at the memory of her face again. He shook his head to forget.

He started to wonder.

If this “Mother Teresa” really wanted someone to read this note, perhaps she could have thought twice before placing it inside the piano where not the naked eye could simply see.

Something seemed odd… felt odd.

He tilted his head toward the direction of the windows.

There was nothing there.

He felt he had seen something in the corner of his eyes: a black mass or figure just standing there beside the window. But there could never be something of the sort. Reading too many books might have gotten to his head and imagination. His mind was most likely playing tricks with him for being in a dark abandoned room — which would be a clear, reoccurring scenario for horror scenes in books.

“So this is the famed Nightingale’s library, I presume?” Orwell said. He followed around Zachary at the front, eying whatever small monument caught his attention like a child wandering into a museum. Though his manner and actions spoke to that of a simple man, his words took another turn entirely. “Truly astonishing how this is where good ol’ Rohan kicked the bucket. He was a good fellow, I knew of him back in the day but we never crossed paths even in this form of mine.”

“What are you talking about?” Zachary sneered.

“Why! Would look at that,” Orwell let out a chuckle, “The boy doesn’t know of his own heritage. I’m speaking of none other than Rohan Nightingale, the very first patriarch of your very own family. An old “undying” miscreant, he was told to be, living till the age of just Eleventy-One. Surely you didn’t think you had the potential to be enlightened by pure chance. You are special, my dear author, in more ways than one, you are special.”

Orwell thoroughly spoke of Zachary’s family, and it only left him wide-eyed and slightly amused at how a mythical creature knew far better of his family than he ever did.

Still, his doubtful gaze never escaped Orwell’s. “If you expect me to believe your fairy tale nonsense then you might need to be re-educated.”

“Oh, you and I both know that I spoke of no rubbish, Zacharus of the Ashworth kin,” Orwell spoke nonchalantly, “Son of the slothful Fredwick Ashworth and Emilia Nightingale, second cousin to the lustrous Aurora Nightingale, grandson of the prideful Steppen Nightingale, and great-great-grandson to the ravenous Rohan Nightingale. I could list the whole tree and beyond if you so pleased. It was not a charade when I spoke of your speciality, your talent for Authority is one thing, but your heritage is another.”

“Of course,” he said in a solemn tone. As much as he wanted to believe, there were still doubts in his mind, even when matters had taken a rather bizarre turn. In truth, he was much more interested in how Orwell spoke of his ancestors than his ancestors themselves. “And those titles. Ravenous. Slothful. Do they also have some mystical meaning?”

“Why, these belong to no other than the Royals, of course.”

“The Royals?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Yes yes,” Orwell said. He rested his hands on Zachary’s shoulders and turned him in the direction of a wall.

On that wall were three paintings grouped beside each other, one was that of two sisters (one standing with a prideful gaze and the other sitting on a chair with a blindfold), the second painting was all but a frame as the entire picture was torn out, but the third one was the one that caught the most attention from the two onlookers. It depicted a man, carrying a nicely-shaped moustache on his face, sitting on a rather grand chair with an elegant pose and a striking gaze, and behind him were six men and women standing together, bearing the same murderous gaze as the man’s. That painting was nothing more than an illustration of a band of crooks rather than a family.

The Hanged Man smiled, “The Royals of Vice!”