The Quickening of Tom Turnpike (The Talltrees Trilogy) by W. E. Mann Page B

their
spines with angular Latin abbreviations.  I struggled to believe that these
texts, if indeed they weren’t just blocks of wood, had ever been meant for
reading.
    “Freddie,”
I warned, “get away from the window!”
    Freddie
had been gazing out in the direction of the Swimming Pool, apparently not
realising that he might be seen by any of the Seniors who were now beginning to
return from their swim.  Freddie stepped aside and began to nose around the
room with intent.
    He
opened the door on the right hand side of the room.
    “Look,”
he said, beckoning me over from where I had been admiring the immense
hardbacks.  The door led directly to a cast iron staircase which spiralled
upwards into total darkness.
    “Where
do you think it goes?” I asked.
    “Not
sure,” he said, calculating which rooms might be above us on the Second Floor. 
“I guess it might end up in Mr. Wilbraham’s flat.”
    Well,
I thought, that would certainly rule this out as an escape route.  If we were
to emerge unannounced into his dining room, interrupting dinner with his
sparrow-like wife, from a room in which we were not meant to have been, there
would be hell to pay.  Probably the cane, expulsion, criminal records, and a
one-way pass to the Eastern Front.  It really didn’t bear thinking about.
    “Hey
look!” said Freddie, walking towards the lectern.
    Upon
it was a very tatty looking book which had been left hanging open listlessly
like a gormless man’s jaw.  In contrast to the stately volumes enthroned in the
bookcases around the room, this book, if it could be called a book, clearly did
not belong here.  It was a ragged sheaf of papers of differing dimensions held
loosely together with strips of tired leather.
    “Someone’s
been reading this recently,” Freddie said.  “See, there are fingerprints in the
dust on this book-stand thing.  But what does all this say?  It’s not Latin, is
it?” said Freddie.
    I
looked over the two pages that were on display.  I didn’t dare to turn the
pages for fear of tearing them or dislodging them from their flimsy binding.
    “I
don’t think so,” I replied.  “Looks like a load of gobbledegook to me.”
    The
text was written in scrawling manuscript.  What Mr. English would say was neat,
but not exemplary.  The ink had faded with age and was further obscured by the
dust that had ingrained itself into the paper.
    It
was written in an unfamiliar language.  Most of the
letters were recognisable, but some of the words contained additional,
strange-looking characters, like ɣ , ɔ , ɖ and ŋ, which gave the text a
magical, hieroglyphic look .
    The
middle of the right-hand page set out what looked like an extract from my
mother’s ration-book with numbers at the ends of each line of words.  The top
of the left-hand page had a roughly drawn diagram, showing a number of circles,
some outlined, some filled in, connected by arrows. 
    “This
looks like a picture of the solar system,” said Freddie, staring at the
arrangement of arrows and circles.  “Do you think that this language might just
be English or German, but in some kind of code?”
    I
was just about to tell Freddie that I had no idea, when we both heard a click. 
Someone had opened the bookcase-door.
    I
froze, all of a sudden engulfed by panic.  I could see the stiff doorhandle
moving.  Freddie grabbed my arm, wrenching me from my paralysis, and we tiptoed
as quickly as we could through the door that led to the cast-iron staircase,
leaving it as it had been, slightly ajar.  We waited behind it, hearts racing. 
The slightest sound, I thought, and we would be learning a great deal more
about human sacrifice.
    The
door from the Library eventually opened and we heard hushed voices speaking
sharply. 
    “...I
still find it hard to believe that you, of all people, would entertain such a
dangerous plan.”  This must have been Doctor Boateng:  He had a deep, but soft,
grainy voice and he seemed to place stress