The Kindling of Norwich

A short story in progress: Pt. 1

It was a small thing, by all comparisons.

Small like a pebble stuck in your shoe. Small like a seed buried in the cold dirt. Small like a spark against dry kindling. But it often is the smallest of things that turn out to be the biggest…

The people of Norwich would have sworn adamantly that there was no such thing as magic.

They were far too grown up and educated to be fooled by such a childish ploy. They had commutes and deadlines, appointments and taxes, classes and books. Ah, books... you must know that not all books are written the same nor have the same effect. Many of the ones resting on their wooden shelves, with all the well-calculated information they had to offer, did nothing more than close off their minds; like metal doors shutting out the sun in the name of progress.

But there was that occasional rare book, ragged and worn by the hands of time and love, passed down with care like a secret or a diamond — held tightly until it was safe in another’s hands. That kind of book was a dangerous thing to have lying around for to read. For if someone dared stumble upon it, they would find it near impossible to return to any sense of decency. Indeed, it would gnaw at all sense of reasonableness until one was driven to the edge of madness itself.

At least that was what their friends and family members reported after. But it is not always a bad thing to be called mad in a world that has long lost its sense of wonder.

And on a cold, midwinter day in January, the people of Norwich would come to find out that there was more to this world than what they had been told in their books and classes. Yes, far more than what they were told, but for some, no more than what they had secretly longed for and hoped to be true.

Alden sat with his back pressed against the scarred wooden bench as his professor waved his hands sporadically against the blackboard. The wisdom of Socrates and Aristotle stretched across the top half in bright yellow chalk as he scribbled his own personal musings below in faint blue. Philosophy at Cambridge was not for the faint of heart, at least not when Mr. Cudworth was teaching. In his own words, it was not a successful lecture unless his students left with a figurative nosebleed from engaging in thought at such dizzying heights. And on most days, that was the observable evidence as student after student exited the lecture hall with a blended look of perplexity and curiosity.

Mr. Cudworth was not at all your average professor, though on the outside he certainly looked the part. He had a large head of wispy white hair with a few rogue strands, a leathery face that was outlined by a pair of oddly bent black spectacles and an aged body that was draped with the customary black robes, one size too large. Yet those who paid close enough attention knew this was all just a disguise, a mere facade for something much more wild and unpredictable underneath.

There were a few students who were not so easily fooled by the appearance, Alden being the most keen. Over time he began to pick up on the subtle shifts in the professor’s voice and the glinted spark in his sage green eyes when he looked out through the window near his desk. It was as if he was recalling a long lost memory, pulling up some archaic wisdom from a dreadfully deep well. It was obvious to Alden that Mr. Cudworth knew something that he was working very hard to restrain and keep in. But his strength was fading with age and time, the dam began to crack, and Alden was determined to catch every drop of gold that slowly trickled forth.