Nenad Pavlovic
When Elpizo Napaneolasosta, the fifth-century Syracusan alchemist, mystic, magus and pioneer fungus whisperer, on his death bed (well, death-stool, with one wobbly leg), put the protective glyphs on his Definitive Book of All Spells and Magics (in the further text referred only as The Book), he made certain that such an item of immense power and danger could never, ever fall into the wrong hands (or prehensile feet).
And it had almost worked.
The problem with his wards, that would eventually lead to a series of bizarre and/or catastrophic events in 21st-century London, was the logic of his intentions. Namely, what Elpizo had in mind, while scribing the runes of power, was that no being (human or other) of evil desires, bent on world domination and such, could ever get a hold of the tome: The Book was completely undetectable and uninteresting to anyone who wasn’t a total goody-goody-two-sandals. And no amount of scrying into crystal balls, mystic ponds, goat innards, and beans with sausage, could give him the precognition and warning of one Tim Cranshaw, a person who would be described by all as mild-mannered and nice. And dull. And a bit daft. And “Mr. Bean’s weirder cousin.”
And that was his folly.
Tim Cranshaw was exactly as people described him. He was an accountant, a loner, and a nice, if somewhat plain, but at the same time curious person. Tim lived a very beige-and-gray life, one of routines and enjoyable repetitions, where every item and every action had its time and place. That being said, Tim wasn’t completely satisfied with his life. It wasn’t that he wanted more, in fact, he wanted the same, only quicker and more efficient. When he opened the curious leather-bound tome in the bookstore he occasionally frequented, he didn’t believe at first what the magical self-translating letters were telling him, but he was willing to give it a go.
“Well, this better be better than that yoga nonsense,” he said, rubbing his palms over the weathered parchment in his tiny apartment.
“Let’s see, I should start with the basics. Waking up! That’s it! My phone alarm is rubbish. There’s got to be something better than that somewhere in here…”
The next day, at precisely 6 AM, an otherworldly wail echoed from the small apartment in Acacia Street No. 9. The tenants of the building, as well as the surrounding blocks, ran outside stark-naked, gibbering and foaming at the mouth, gnashing their teeth and spewing the gospels of the elder gods of the pan-dimensional void. All except Tim, who slept through it, only to wake up at 10 AM, very late for work and feeling very miffed.
“Well, that was bollocks. Hmm, as late as I am, I might as well call in sick and see if there’s anything actually useful in this book. Ah, tea! Let’s see… There’s got to be a way to save on gas…”
It took three fire brigades exactly seven days to put out the fire at Acacia No. 9. The chief fire officer stated for the evening news that he never saw anything like it, as if the fire itself had a mind and will of his own. Neither he, nor Tim, nor anyone else on Earth ever found out that, on that very same day, a funeral was put together in the Elemental Plane of Fire for the Grand Duke Frr’fshhh’whoosh, who died a heroic death by the hand of “a water hydra” after being summoned to the Prime Planes, to fight for the cause of one “Earl Gray.”
It all worked out well for Tim, though. The insurance agency failed to find any noticeable cause of the fire, and he received full premiums and compensations. To his surprise and joy, his book of magic also survived unscathed.
“Fire is a good servant, but a nasty bugger. I’ll make my own tea from now on. Let’s see if I can find something more practical and less hazardous.”
“Traffic is always a bother,” Tim exclaimed, “this is something I can do without! Teleport! A teleportation spell is what I need! But I need to be smart about it, I can’t just appear out of thin air in front of my boss and colleagues… No, I need a safe spot,” he concluded wisely.
Tim learned three things on that day: 1. That some of the staff at the office used the facilities even outside break time. 2. That his colleague, Jabeer, was a homosexual. 3. That he secretly fancied Tim. While somewhat flattered by the third discovery, Tim was most satisfied by the fact that it got him out of explaining why or how he appeared in the man’s bathroom stall, even though it took quite a lot of explaining that the feeling wasn’t mutual.
“Right, teleport is out. But what about the job itself, eh? There’s got to be a way to make that easier,” he mused, flipping through the pages of his magic book. “Numbers! Numbers are simple! Math is the universal principle of reality. Nothing could go wrong with that!”
Unbeknown to even the top economists of the world, the equations that Tim punched into his computer that day was what brought about the great stock market crash of 2025, causing the suicides of at least eleven Wall Street brokers, and bringing the best economic year of the century for the UK.
“Lunch!” Tim grumbled, trying to be optimistic. “I couldn’t possibly mess up with that! What could go wrong with summoning a nice, simple sandwich?”
He kept that thought in his head as he, smiling, and avoiding the disgusted and accusing looks of the people in the rec room, crunched on a mewling body of a newly-hatched meew-bga, sandwiched between two bread slices, which, unbeknown to all, was a most popular delicacy in nearly all of the Outer Realms.
“I got it from that Korean place down the street,” he lied through his blood-stained teeth, trying not to vomit. Luckily for Tim, he avoided any stomach troubles and got away only with a warning about racist comments from his superiors.
“You know what,” he said to himself, in the confines of his apartment, “maybe this book isn’t such a hot deal after all. It caused me nothing but trouble so far. I think I’m gonna get rid of it. But how? Oh, I know,” a realization dawned on him, “I’ll give it to the nicest person I know. Someone who could really make use of it!”
That day, Tim gave The Book to his only real friend, Milosh.
The next day, all the world’s rivers turned to Slivovitz.
Nenad Pavlovic is a Serbian-born Norwegian writer, mostly of SF, fantasy, horror and humor. He has published numerous stories throughout the Balkans, and some abroad (Jersey Devil Press, Piker Press, Schlock!, Lovecraftiana, Kaidankai, Dark Horses, Underside Stories, Savage Planets, and more). His latest novel, Salvation on Peril Island, published under a pen-name Nash Knight, is currently available on Amazon.
Featured photo by Jeremy Bishop (Pexels)
